Also Targaryens:

synopsis: aegon seeks you out after aerion terrifies him in his chambers

note: based off Egg’s retelling in episode 4

You were preparing for bed when the Red Keep finally transformed from a cage into a reprieve.

Candles burned low around your chamber, their flames bending and straightening with each faint draft that crept through the ancient stone.

Shadows clung to the walls like listening things. Your silk sleeping gown whispered when you moved, soft as down, pale as milk, a small luxury considering the wealth of your house.

Here, within these walls, the noise of the realm felt far away. No murmured alliances, no marriage bargains weighed in gold and blood, no talk of wars not yet begun. Only you, the hush and the distant certainty of guards standing watch outside your door, silent as statues.

You sat at your vanity, its dark wood worked with coiling dragons and the three-headed sigil of your house, slowly unpinning your hair. Just as you were taking out the last braid — having dismissed your handmaidens, the door burst open.

“Aegon?”

Your brother stumbled inside as if chased. Candlelight caught on the wet tracks down his cheeks, on the way his hands curled into the fabric of his nightclothes like a drowning boy clutching at reeds.

He was barefoot in his sleep attire, breath uneven, his face pale beneath the silver-gold of his hair. He looked petrified and unruly.

“Egg?” You were on your feet at once, crossing the room, your voice already softening even as fear sharpened your thoughts.

You gathered him to you before he could speak. He pressed his face into your gown and stood there, utterly still. Not sobbing, not shaking. Just hiding, as if your skirts were walls thick enough to keep the world out.

“Sweetling,” you murmured, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other warm between his shoulders. “What’s the matter?”

At your quiet urging, you guided him to the chaise by the hearth. You commanded the guards to leave you. They withdrew and closed the door, sealing you back into candlelight.

You sat beside him and rubbed slow circles along his back, feeling the fragile rise and fall of his breath. You knew this silence. Aegon always needed time—time to order his thoughts, to make himself brave enough to speak them aloud.

“He—he…” The words caught fast in his throat, as if something unseen had reached out to still his tongue. You waited.

“It’s all right, Egg,” you encouraged and assured him at the same time, and meant it even as dread settled in your chest like cold lead.

He swallowed hard. When he looked at you, his eyes were too old for his face, filled with a knowing no child should harbor. “Aerion,” he said at last. “He came into my chambers and he…” His gaze dropped, shame flickering there, though none of this was his to carry. “He held a knife between my legs. He said he’d make me into a sister for him to marry. He was jesting, I suppose.”

The word jesting rang false the moment it left his mouth. Your hand stilled on his back. Heat surged up your spine, sharp and blinding.

Aerion — cruel typical Aerion, beautiful and half-mad with his belief that he was a dragon in human form. You knew his temper, his games, his hunger to prove himself greater than all others, his need to terrorize those smaller than him. He had never turned that venom on you. Never dared. But Aegon was younger. Quieter. Easier to corner. Gods be good.

“That was no jest,” you said softly, though iron edged every syllable. “He had no right. None. I will speak to Father.”

Maekar would listen—wouldn’t he? A king must hear such things. A father must.

Egg shook his head. “It won’t help,” he whispered. “He won’t believe you nor me. He never does.”

For a moment you said nothing. The horrifying certainty sitting like a rock in your gut. You knew the child was right. The candles hissed. Somewhere far below, the castle shifted, stone settling upon stone like an old beast resettling its bones.

You drew him closer then, pressing his head beneath your chin, letting your fingers comb gently through his hair until his breathing slowed. You could not promise him safety—not truly. The Red Keep was full of knives that never touched the hand. But you could give him this.

“Sleep here tonight,” you told him quietly. “You’re not alone. Not while I’m here. Aerion won’t hurt you here and if he tries-” you began. “I’ll command the guards to go for father or Valar.”

He nodded, small and uncertain, still tense in your arms, as if expecting the door to burst open again. You held him anyway, rocking him just enough to soothe, just enough to remind him that warmth could still exist inside stone walls and dragon shadows.

Long after the candles burned lower, Aegon’s grip on your gown loosened, you two laid together and as sleep enveloped you he never fully let go.

©padmespetal 2025 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

if the mockingbird don’t sing, or the ring don’t shine, i’mma break that little birdie’s neck.

warnings: fluff drabble, brief violence mention, brief smut, pregnancy/birth, children unnamed except for Maegor for your imaginative pleasure

a/n: everyone on this app is depressed after Baelor’s oopsie so here’s this. haunting daeron in his dreams angst will make up for this

pairing: romantic aerion targaryen x targaryen cousin reader / father baelor targaryen x daughter reader / brother valarr targaryen x sister reader

summary: she wouldn't let her father fall, she wouldn't let anyone she loved fall in honor even if she would herself perish

warning: english is not my first languaage, arrange marriage, violence, injury

Part ll. Part lll.

She was born into thunder.

The storm that broke over King’s Landing the night she and her twin came screaming into the world rattled the shutters of the Red Keep and sent servants scrambling with candles guttering in their hands. The midwives would later claim the rain ceased the moment she drew breath, though no one could say whether that was truth or fancy.

She grew beneath her father’s steady shadow.

Baelor Targaryen was not a man given to softness in public. He was measured, deliberate, iron-bound in honor. But in private chambers, when courtiers were dismissed and armor set aside, he would sit with his daughter and listen as if her every word were a matter of state.

She adored him.

Not with the distant reverence courtiers showed, but with a fierce, luminous devotion. She watched the way he weighed justice, how he heard petitions without impatience, how he never forgot a name once spoken to him. She tried, always, to be worthy of that gaze.

Her twin, Valarr, was her other heart. They trained together, studied together, quarreled and reconciled before the sun set. When she returned bruised from sparring, Valarr would scold her recklessness while cleaning her wounds with careful hands. When he faltered under the pressure of expectation, she would clasp his shoulders and remind him that their father believed in him without reservation.

She rode like she meant to outrun the horizon. She fought because she loved the feel of strength earned. She embroidered dragons in crimson silk and played the harp with gentle precision. She slipped coins to the hungry and remembered the names of washerwomen and fishmongers.

The smallfolk loved her because she saw them. She remembered names. She knelt in the mud beside children. She gave freely—not in spectacle, but in habit.

If Baelor was the realm’s unbending spear, she was its open hand.

She alone could soothe Aerion.

After the death of his mother, when the boy’s grief turned sharp and cruel, when servants trembled and even knights avoided his gaze, she would sit beside him in the godswood and let him speak of dragons and fire and destiny. She did not flinch when his words grew fevered. She did not rebuke him when he called himself brighter than the sun. She would only say, softly, “Even the brightest flame needs air, cousin.”

For a time, that was enough.

It was whispered for years that prince Maekar pressed their father ceaselessly. That a union between Baelor’s beloved daughter and Maekar’s tempestuous son would bind the branches of House Targaryen tighter than steel. At last, worn thin by counsel and politics and perhaps by hope that marriage might tame what affection could not, Baelor agreed.

She accepted without protest.

She would be the balm. She would be the bridge. She would endure.

Ashford Castle was older than the tourney fields that sprawled beyond its walls. Its stones were thick and cool, its towers rounded by wind and years. The royal family was housed within its keep, banners of the dragon hanging beside the sigil of House Ashford, crimson apples bright against gold.

She liked the sound of the castle at night—the muffled crackle of hearthfires, distant laughter from the kitchens, the steady rhythm of guards’ boots along the corridors. It felt almost like home.

Almost.

She had ridden hard that morning, as she always did before a tourney day, letting her horse stretch across the dew-silvered fields beyond the castle walls. Riding cleared her thoughts. It reminded her that she was not only a princess, not only a betrothed pawn in political designs. She was flesh and breath and strength.

She returned flushed and wind-tangled, only to be met by whispers.

The whispers became words.

Aerion had broken the puppeteer’s fingers.

The council chamber within the castle keep was thick-walled and high-ceilinged, narrow windows letting in blades of afternoon light. Lords stood in clusters, their faces uneasy. At the head of the long table, Baelor stood tall, composed as ever.

And already there—already burning—was Aerion.

He paced before the gathered men like a caged beast.

“She made mock of dragons,” he was saying when she entered. “A painted puppet flapping cloth wings while peasants laughed.”

“She was performing for coin,” Baelor said evenly. “As smallfolk do.”

“She mocked our blood.”

“She played a story,” princess countered. “Stories are not treason.”

Aerion turned as she stepped forward.

“You defend her too?” he demanded.

“I defend what is right.”

“She insulted our blood.”

“She entertained,” she answered evenly. “And you shattered her hands for it.”

“She is smallfolk.”

“She is a woman,” she said sharply. “A woman who must earn her bread.”

“She dared make a dragon a puppet.”

“And you dared make a prince a monster.”

The words fell heavy.

A muscle jumped in Aerion’s jaw. “Mind yourself.”

“I do,” she replied, stepping closer. “Do you?”

The chamber held its breath.

Silence fell, heavy and dangerous.

“Trial of seven!” Aerion thundered. “Let the gods judge.”

Even as the words left his mouth, she felt dread bloom like poison in her veins.

Seven against seven. Mounted with lances. Then steel until one side yielded or perished.

Baelor’s jaw tightened. He did not look at her when he agreed that the law must be upheld.

But she saw the weight settle on his shoulders.

Night fell heavy over Ashford Castle.

The royal family was housed in chambers within the keep—rooms lined with tapestries, thick rugs underfoot, hearths burning low. The scent of beeswax and old stone hung in the air.

She meant only to seek her father.

Instead, as she approached the solar assigned to him, she heard voices through the half-closed door.

Valarr’s voice was strained. “You cannot mean to fight.”

“I do,” Baelor replied quietly.

“You are Hand of the King.”

“I am also a knight. And a prince.”

“You have not ridden in a charge for years. The armor—”

“I will wear yours.”

“It will not fit.”

“I will make it fit.”

She pressed her hand against the cool stone wall, breath shallow.

Ill-fitting armor could twist under impact. A lance strike at full gallop would find every weakness. She imagined it the thunder of hooves, the crash of wood, her father thrown violently from the saddle because straps were too loose, because plates shifted a fraction too far.

“No,” she whispered to herself.

Inside, Baelor’s voice softened. “You are my son, Valarr. I would not have you risk yourself for your cousin’s pride.”

“And I would not have you risk yourself at all,” Valarr replied, his voice breaking slightly.

She closed her eyes.

He would go.

He would die if the gods were unkind.

And it would be because she had failed to temper Aerion’s fire.

She did not sleep.

Instead, she sought out her little helper Egg, whose loyalty to her was as fierce as his boyish heart.

When she told him her plan, his face went pale.

“He will never forgive you,” Egg whispered.

“He will,” she said, though her voice trembled. “If he lives to.”

The herbs were mild—she knew enough from maesters’ lessons to measure carefully. Crushed finely, dissolved fully, tasteless in wine.

But the act of preparing them felt like treason.

She carried the flagon herself to her father’s chambers.

Inside, the hearth burned low. Baelor had shed his formal doublet, wearing only a simple tunic. Valarr sat across from him, a half-smile on his lips as they spoke of childhood mischief.

“Come,” Baelor said warmly. “Sit with us.”

Valarr smiled faintly. “You missed supper.”

“I was not hungry,” she replied.

She poured the wine carefully, praying her hands did not betray her.

They spoke of childhood that night.

Baelor recounted how she had once tried to climb into the Dragonpit to see the skulls up close and declared she would ride one someday. Valarr teased her about falling into the fishpond at seven. She laughed with them, feeling each memory cut deeper because she knew what she was about to do.

“Father,” she said softly, “do you ever regret… fighting?”

Baelor studied her. “Regret? No. I regret necessity. I regret that men make such choices required.”

“And if one day,” she pressed gently, “someone you loved chose to stand in your place?”

His brow furrowed. “I would forbid it.”

Valarr nodded fiercely. “You would.”

She swallowed.

They drank.

Her father’s voice grew slower. Valarr blinked heavily.

“You look tired,” she said, forcing calm.

“Long day,” Baelor murmured.

Valarr tried to stand and nearly stumbled.

Guilt hit her like a physical blow.

She rose quickly, steadying him, guiding him gently to his chamber. When he lay down, she brushed hair from his brow the way she had done since childhood.

“I am sorry,” she whispered.

She returned to Baelor last.

He was half-asleep in his chair.

“My brave girl,” he murmured faintly, not fully aware. “Whatever comes, remember—you are the best of us.”

Her breath broke.

She knelt before him, pressing her forehead against his hand.

“I learned from you,” she whispered.

When he slept fully, she wept silently.

Before dawn, she dressed in plain armor taken from the armory within Ashford Castle. She checked every buckle twice. She wrapped linen beneath her plates to soften impact. She bound her hair tightly, tucking it beneath a helm unmarked by sigil.

Each strap tightened felt like a farewell.

When she stepped onto the field, mounted among Duncan’s seven, the smallfolk cheered as they always did for spectacle.

They did not know.

Across the field, Aerion shone like living flame.

The horns sounded.

Seven lances lowered.

The thunder of hooves shook Ashford Meadow.

Her first charge shattered wood against steel. The second nearly unhorsed her. The third ended when her uncle met her head-on.

His lance struck her breastplate squarely.

She flew from the saddle.

The world spun sky and grass and sky again before she crashed hard, air blasted from her lungs. Pain seared up her spine. She rolled, barely avoiding trampling hooves.

She rose, drawing sword as mounted knights fell and the melee began.

Steel screamed.

A blade cut deep into her thigh. A shield smashed her ribs; something cracked audibly. She fought through it, blood soaking into her greaves.

Then Maekar found her again.

His mace descended like judgment.

The first blow crushed her shield. The second broke her guard and struck her shoulder, dislocating it with sickening force. She screamed despite herself.

“Yield!” he commanded.

She spat blood inside her helm.

The third blow shattered part of her helm and split the metal, cutting deep into her scalp. Blood flooded her vision.

The fourth struck her side where her armor had shifted from the fall. She felt ribs give way.

She dropped to both knees.

Across the field, Aerion saw her helm crack. Saw silver hair spill free.

“No,” he breathed, horror swallowing pride whole. “No, no—”

“I YIELD!” he roared, voice breaking.

Silence tore across the meadow.

She pulled her broken helm free.

Blood poured down her face, into her eyes, from her mouth where teeth had cut her lip. One eye was swelling shut. Her arm hung useless at her side.

The smallfolk screamed.

“The princess!” someone cried.

Wails rose like a funeral dirge.

Maekar staggered backward, ripping off his helm, face stricken. “Gods…”

Aerion stumbled toward her, pale, shaking, hands outstretched but afraid to touch.

At the edge of the field, Baelor burst through the crowd.

He saw her.

He dropped to his knees in the dirt, gathering her broken body into his arms.

“My girl!” he shouted, voice cracking across the field. “My beautiful girl!”

Blood soaked into his tunic.

“Maesters!” he roared. “MAESTERS!”

Valarr fell beside them, hands trembling as he pressed against her crushed side, tears streaming unchecked.

“You should have let me,” he choked on his tears. “You should have let me.”

Baelor looked up at Maekar, fury raw and uncontained.

“You struck her!” he shouted, voice shaking. “You struck my child!”

Maekar stood stricken, horror etched deep.

Aerion fell to his knees in the grass, staring at the blood on his hands where he had tried to steady her.

She tried to speak.

Blood bubbled at her lips.

Baelor cradled her head carefully, pressing his brow to hers as he had when she was small.

“Stay with me,” he begged hoarsely. “Stay with me, my brave girl. Do not leave me.”

Around them, the smallfolk wept openly. Some cursed Aerion. Some cursed the dragons. Many knelt in prayer.

Ashford Meadow, moments before roaring with glory, now echoed with grief.

And in the center of it all, Baelor Breakspear held his gravely wounded daughter, rocking her gently as if she were once more the little girl who had clutched his fingers in the halls of the Red Keep his beloved child who had loved him enough to betray him, and loved him enough to bleed in his stead.

THE END

...... or is it?????

Hiiii I hope you enjoyed my little story and if you read until now you have my gratitude and I wish you a cold pillow tonight.