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Aemond Targaryen x Sister!reader (OFC)

Word count: 9.4k

Minor: Aegon II Targaryen x sister! Reader, one sided Jacaerys x reader

Summary:

They were born in the same hour, under the same banners, two halves of one soul.

Aela was the bright one — laughing, adored, always turning toward someone else.

Aemond was the other. Quiet. Watching. Waiting.

He spent years shaping her into his perfect reflection: the same colors, the same tongue, the same careful obedience. He took her laughter, her friendships, her future, and finally her body. She told herself there was nothing left for him to destroy.

She was wrong.

WARNINGS DEAD DOVE: Dark oneshot. Aemond Targaryen / Original Female Character (his twin). This is a heavy, possessive, obsessive story that follows the twins from childhood into young adulthood. It contains long-term grooming, emotional manipulation, blackmail, severe power imbalance, twincest, verbal degradation, physical control, non-con/dub-con, rough sex, virginity taking, and a major character death. Aemond is controlling, jealous, and increasingly extreme in his claim over his twin. The tone is bleak and there is no comfort or redemption. Please read the tags carefully and do not interact if any of this is triggering or if you are under 18.!!!!!!!!!

MINORS DNI 18+ only

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They were born in the same hour, under the same red-and-gold banners, in the same chamber that still smelled of blood and milk and the sharp green of the queen’s fear. The maesters said Aemond came first by the width of a hand. Aela followed with a soft, indignant cry, as if the world had already disappointed her.

Alicent held them both once, briefly, then handed them to wet nurses and never quite learned the difference in their cries.

By the time they could walk, the court had already decided who they were.

Aela was the bright one. The charming one. The one who laughed too loudly in the corridors and made the Kingsguard smile despite themselves. Her silver-gold hair grew thick and heavy, falling past her waist in waves that caught every torchlight. Her eyes were pale lilac, almost washed out in certain light, and her mouth was soft and full even as a child. She was tall for a girl, elegant in the way young fillies are elegant before they learn to be careful. When she claimed Silverwing at eight, the old queen’s dragon settling under her small hands with a low, thrumming acceptance, the court sighed as if something inevitable had finally happened.

Aemond was the other one.

Serious. Quiet. Always a half-step behind. He studied longer, trained harder, spoke less. He watched everything with those sharp, pale eyes and never seemed to find the joke. When the other children ran shrieking through the godswood, Aemond walked the edges with a book under his arm or a wooden sword over his shoulder. He wanted, with a desperate, unspoken intensity, to be wanted back.

He believed twins were supposed to be the same soul split in two.

Aela did not.

***

The first time he said it out loud, they were six.

They sat on the low wall above the training yard, legs swinging.

Below them Aegon was failing spectacularly at hitting a target while Ser Criston pretended not to notice.

“When we are grown,” Aemond said, voice careful, “we will marry. Like the old kings. Like Aegon and his sisters.”

Aela turned her head and looked at him the way she looked at boring lessons.

“I want to marry Aegon,” she said simply.

Aemond’s face did something small and tight. “He is our brother.”

“So are you.”

“We are twins.”

“So?”

He had no answer for that. He only sat there, jaw working, while Aela swung her legs harder and started humming under her breath.

He tried again every few months. Sometimes with gifts,a smooth black stone from the shore, a feather from a rare bird, a page of High Valyrian he had copied himself Sometimes with silence that he expected her to fill. She never did. She would take the gift, say thank you in the bright, careless way she said everything, and then wander off to find Aegon or Helaena or whichever nephew or cousin. was in the Red Keep that week.

He began to trail after her more often. Not close enough to be invited. Just close enough to hear her laugh.

***

She was adored.

It was impossible not to notice. Courtiers paused when she passed. Ladies of the court brushed her long hair with their fingers and called her “little silver queen” even though the title belonged to someone else. Silverwing’s presence only sharpened it. The dragon was old, vast, and strangely gentle with her; when Aela walked the yard with the silver beast shadowing her, people stepped aside without being told.

Aegon loved her best of all the siblings. He would let her climb into his lap when they were small, would steal lemon cakes for her, would let her braid his hair into ridiculous shapes and only complain a little. When she announced, at ten, that she intended to marry him when they were grown, Aegon only grinned that lazy, golden grin and said, “Of course you will. Who else would have me?”

Aemond heard it. He was standing in the doorway of the solar, forgotten as usual. Something cold and precise settled behind his remaining hope.

He began to watch her more carefully after that.

***

The Pink Dread happened when they were nine.

Aegon had the idea. Jace and Luke helped paint the thing in the stables, giggling so hard they nearly dropped the brushes. They smeared white and gold across its bristled back until it looked like a grotesque, snorting parody of a dragon.

Then they waited until Aemond was alone in the dragonpit, staring up at the high ledges where the real dragons slept, and called him.

“Aemond! Come see! We found you one!”

Aela was with them. She had been walking with Luke, telling him some story about Silverwing that made the younger boy’s eyes go wide. When Aegon hissed the plan, she only raised one eyebrow and followed.

She did not paint the pig.

She did not stop them either.

Aemond heard the call and felt the familiar twist of apprehension in his stomach. They always wanted to bully him. The jokes, the names, the way Aegon’s laughter always came at his expense. He almost stayed where he was, staring up at the empty ledges. But the hope of a dragon—any dragon—was stronger than the fear. He came running, hope already bright and terrible on his face.

He saw the creature in the torchlight, saw the clumsy wings they had tied to its sides, and for one perfect second he believed them. His whole body leaned forward.

Then the pig squealed.

Aegon howled with laughter. “Look at him! Look at the little dragonless bookworm! He thought it was real!”

Jace doubled over. Luke tried to look solemn and failed.

“Dragonless!” Aegon crowed, pointing. “Soft little mouse! Did you really think we’d found you a dragon, crybaby? You’re never getting one. You’ll be the only Targaryen left walking while the rest of us fly!”

And Aela—Aela put her hand over her mouth and laughed too. Soft, almost reluctant, but still a laugh.

Aemond’s face emptied.

He did not cry. He never cried where they could see. He only turned and walked out of the pit with his shoulders locked, wooden practice sword still in his hand. Behind him the Pink Dread kept screaming and Aegon’s voice followed him, still calling names—“Dragonless! Mouse! Soft boy!”—while the others laughed, and Aela’s laughter faded into something quieter, almost uncomfortable.

She did not go after him.

Later that night she found him in the library, hunched over a history of the Conquest as if the words could burn the humiliation out of him.

“It was only a joke,” she said.

He did not look up. “You laughed.”

“Everyone laughed.”

“You are my twin.”

She had no answer for that either. She only stood there a moment longer, then left him to the books.

***

The night everything changed, they were 12.

Laena Velaryon was dead. The court had traveled to Driftmark for the funeral. Vhagar waited on the beach like a mountain that breathe. Aemond went to her in the dark.

Aela learned of it only when the shouting started.

She was in the hall, Jace, Rhaena, Luke, and Baela came running, faces white, voices high with panic. Aemond had claimed Vhagar. There had been a fight.

Blood. An eye.

She ran.

She found him in a side chamber, Alicent’s hands already bloody, maesters moving around him like crows. Half his face was a ruin of red. The socket where his right eye had been was a dark, wet hole. He was shaking, but his remaining eye was bright with something that was not pain.

When he saw Aela he tried to straighten.

“I have a dragon,” he said, voice cracked and triumphant. “The largest. Larger than Silverwing. Larger than anyone’s.”

Aela stared at the empty socket and felt something cold open in her chest.

“Your eye,” she whispered.

“A fair exchange.”

She wanted to touch him. She also wanted to run. The smell of blood and the raw meat of his face made her stomach turn. Behind her she could hear Luke crying, Jace’s voice rising in defense, Rhaenyra’s fury already gathering like a storm.

Aela stayed only long enough to see the last thread being stitched into his flesh. Then she left the chamber and went looking for Jace and Luke, because their faces were still the ones she knew how to look at without flinching.

Aemond noticed.

He always noticed.

***

The boy who returned to King’s Landing was not the same one who had left.

He wore the sapphire like a challenge. He wore black more often. He trained until his hands bled and then trained longer. Vhagar’s presence changed the air around him; people stepped aside now the way they once had for Aela alone. The dragon was ancient and vast and half-mad with age, and Aemond rode her as if he had been born for it.

He began to look at Aela differently.

Not like a sister who had never quite chosen him.

Like something that belonged to him by right of blood and birth and the twinship he still refused to release.

The first time he ordered matching clothes, she thought it was a joke.

They were twelve. A tourney day. Alicent had commissioned new garments in the green of her house. Aemond arrived at Aela’s chambers with a seamstress and a bolt of deep forest silk.

“We will wear the same,” he said.

Aela laughed. “Absolutely not.”

He did not laugh with her. He only looked at her with that single pale eye until the laughter died in her throat.

“We are twins,” he said, quiet. “We should match.”

She refused. He waited. The next morning her usual gown was gone from her wardrobe. In its place hung a new one cut in soft, feminine lines—full skirts, a fitted bodice, the same deep forest silk as the doublet and cloak Aemond now wore. The embroidery along the neckline and cuffs was identical to his. Same color. Same material. Same fine silver-and-green threadwork.

When she tried to wear something else, the servants would not meet her eyes. Alicent, when Aela complained, only pressed her lips together and said, “Your brother has been through enough.”

The matching became a quiet, ongoing campaign after that.

Sometimes it was only the same dark embroidery along the edges of her sleeves and the cuffs of his tunic. Sometimes full sets of riding clothes cut from the same bolt of fabric—her in a tailored riding gown with a split skirt, him in leather and wool—always the same color, the same weight of cloth, the same subtle patterns stitched at the hems.

Aela fought it less each year. Fighting only made the servants nervous and Alicent’s mouth thinner. Easier to wear the clothes. Easier to let Aemond walk half a step behind her in the corridors and pretend the court did not notice the way his remaining eye tracked every movement of her hands, her mouth, the long fall of her hair, or the way the two of them now looked like deliberate counterparts whenever they appeared together.

***

By the time they were fifteen the betrothal was announced.

Aegon to Helaena. Unity of blood. The future of the realm.

Aela stood in the gallery and did not clap. Aemond stood beside her in the same black-and-green silk she wore, and watched the way her lilac eyes stayed fixed on their brother’s golden head. He catalogued the exact moment her jaw tightened. He said nothing.

He waited.

The night he finally saw it for himself the Keep was thick with late-summer heat. Aegon had been drinking since the midday meal. Helaena had retired early with one of her soft, strange headaches. Most of the royal apartments were quiet.

Aemond had gone looking for Aela under the thin excuse of returning a Valyrian grammar she had left in the library. He found her instead in the shadowed alcove behind the heavy tapestry of the Field of Fire.

Aegon’s mouth was on hers. One of his hands already under the silk of her bodice, the other tangled in the thick silver-gold of her hair, tilting her head back so he could mouth at the line of her throat. She was laughing softly against his lips—the same bright, careless sound she had always made when the world pleased her.

Something cold and precise settled behind Aemond’s remaining eye.

He stood very still in the dark and watched until Aegon’s hand slid lower. The familiar sound of her laughter wrapped around their brother the way it had never once been given to him. Rage moved through him like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Jealousy followed, quiet and absolute.

Then he turned and walked away without a sound.

He waited until the following evening.

Aela was alone in her chambers, brushing out the long length of her hair by the open window. The night air smelled of the Blackwater and distant cookfires. She did not hear him enter. He closed the door himself and turned the key with a soft, deliberate click.

She looked up only when the latch settled.

“Aemond.” Her voice was light, already half a dismissal. “I was about to—”

He crossed the room in measured strides. There was no wasted motion in the way he caught her by the upper arm and pulled her from the chair. The brush struck the floorboards. He turned her with the same controlled force and drove her back against the carved bedpost, one hand already buried deep in her hair, wrenching her head back until her throat was bared and her lilac eyes had no choice but to meet his.

“Do not speak,” he said, voice low and even.

Her hands came up against his chest. He only tightened his grip until her eyes watered. His other hand closed around her jaw, fingers pressing into the soft hinge with deliberate pressure, forcing her face up to his.

“I saw you last night,” he said quietly. “Behind the Field of Fire tapestry. His hand beneath your bodice. His mouth on your throat. You were laughing for him the way you have always laughed for him. Never for me.”

“Aemond—”

He gave her hair a sharp pull. “I told you not to speak.”

He leaned in until the cold sapphire of his eye filled her vision.

“Aegon is to marry Helaena. And still you let him put his hands on you in the dark like a common whore.” His thumb rested against the corner of her lip. “Tell me, sister. Did you already give him your maidenhead? Did you spread your legs for him and let him take what should have been mine? Or were you still pretending at virtue while you opened your mouth for him?”

Aela’s breath came fast against his palm. She tried to turn her face; his grip only tightened.

“You let our brother use you while I stood in the shadows and watched.” His voice remained quiet, almost conversational. “I could go to Otto this hour and tell him every detail. How long it has been happening. How willing you were. Mother would send you to the silent sisters. Helaena would never look at you again without remembering what you gave her future husband.”

“You cannot—”

He released her jaw only long enough to catch both her wrists and pin them hard above her head against the bedpost. His body pressed fully against hers, controlled and unyielding.

“I can,” he said. “I have Vhagar. I have the truth. And I have you.” He lowered his mouth near her ear. “Refuse me, and I will take you to the dragonpit myself. I will make you stand before her while I tell her exactly what you have done. Vhagar listens to me. I will not command her to burn you. I will only ask her to decide. And you will stand there while she does.”

Her pulse hammered under his fingers.

“Aemond—”

“Say you understand.”

When she remained silent he tightened his grip in her hair until a sharp sound broke from her throat.

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

He held her there a moment longer, studying the tears at the corners of her eyes and the way her body had gone still beneath his. Then he released her wrists and stepped back just far enough for her to breathe. His hand remained in her hair a second longer before he let it fall.

“You will go to him tonight,” he said. “You will end it cleanly. If he asks why, you will say nothing of me. If I hear you have returned to him, I will not warn you again. I will take you to Vhagar. And then I will go to Grandsire.”

He released her completely. The sudden absence of his hands left her swaying against the bedpost.

“Dress yourself,” he said. “You look as though you have already been ruined.”

He unlocked the door and left without another word

***

She ended it the same night.

Aegon accepted it with the easy, careless shrug he gave most things that no longer amused him. He had looked at her for a long moment, then laughed under his breath and reached for the wine.

“As you like,” he said. “But do come back if you’re ever in need of some fun.”

He did not try to stop her when she left.

The wedding came three moons later.

Aela stood in the gallery in a gown of deep forest green silk that matched the embroidery on Aemond’s tunic exactly, and watched her brother take Helaena’s hand before gods and court. The sept was full of green and gold and the heavy scent of incense. Helaena looked pale and distant, eyes somewhere else entirely. Aegon looked faintly bored until the vows were done, after which he grinned that golden, lazy grin and kissed his new wife with more performance than feeling.

Aela felt something quiet and hollow open beneath her ribs.

She did not cry. She only watched, hands folded tightly in front of her, while Aemond stood half a step behind her left shoulder, close enough that the heat of him reached her through the silk. When the ceremony ended and the court began to move toward the feast, his fingers brushed the small of her back—light, proprietary—and steered her forward with him.

***

She was sixteen now.

The change had not come all at once. It had settled over her in layers, each one quieter and heavier than the last, until the girl who had once laughed too loudly in the corridors and stolen lemon cakes with Aegon felt like someone she only half-remembered.

Aemond’s control had grown severe.

The matching colors remained. That much had never changed. But the gowns themselves had begun to shift. Where once the cuts had been proper—full skirts, modest necklines, the dignified lines expected of a princess—they now clung.

The bodices were cut lower, the fabric drawn tight beneath her breasts so that the weight of them was impossible to ignore. The waists were taken in until the difference between the fullness above and the narrow span below became something the court could not help but notice.

Aemond selected the bolts of silk himself. He stood in her chambers while the seamstresses pinned and measured, watching with that single pale eye as the cloth was fitted to her body. When she protested the first time, he had only looked at her until the words died in her throat.

“You will wear what I choose,” he said. “We match. That is the point.”

He touched her more now.

Sometimes the touches were almost careful—fingers lingering at the nape of her neck when he adjusted a collar, a hand settling at her waist as he guided her through a corridor, the brush of his knuckles along the side of her breast when he reached past her for a book. Suggestive. Claiming. Always just long enough that she could not pretend it had been accidental. Other times, when she hesitated or argued or simply looked at him with too much of the old resistance in her eyes, the touches turned sharp. A grip on her upper arm hard enough to leave fingerprints. A hand fisted in her hair to force her face up to his. Once, when she had tried to leave a lesson early, he had caught her wrist and twisted until the bones ground together and a broken sound escaped her.

“You will listen,” he had said, very quietly. “Or I will make you listen.”

The High Valyrian lessons lasted hours.

He sat across from her in the library or in his own solar, a text open between them, and required her to recite conjugations, translations, and long passages of history until her voice grew hoarse. If she stumbled, he made her begin again. If her attention drifted—toward the window, toward the thought of Dragonstone, toward the memory of Luke’s laugh or Jace’s steady presence—he would reach across the table and catch her chin, forcing her eyes back to the page.

“Again,” he would say. “Properly this time. You are a Targaryen. You will speak the tongue of our house as though it were the only one you were ever meant to know.”

She learned. She had no choice.

He required her to carry herself like a princess of the blood. Chin lifted. Shoulders back. Steps measured. No more running through the corridors. No more laughing too loudly. No more seeking out the company of servants or lesser cousins for the simple comfort of easy conversation.

When she forgot herself and spoke too freely at table, or smiled too widely at some passing knight, Aemond’s hand would find her knee beneath the cloth and press until the warning was clear.

“You represent more than yourself now,” he told her one evening as he walked her back to her chambers. “You represent me. You will behave accordingly.”

The weapons practice began not long after the wedding.

He took her to a private yard in the early mornings, before most of the court was awake, and placed a light training blade in her hands.

The first days left her palms blistered and her shoulders aching. He corrected her stance with impersonal precision—adjusting her feet with the toe of his boot, gripping her wrists to change the angle of her grip, standing behind her with his chest against her back so he could guide the motion of her arms. When she flagged, he made her continue. When she complained, he only looked at her.

“You will learn to defend what is yours,” he said. “And what is mine. A Targaryen princess does not wait to be rescued. She does not need to.”

The bow came later. He stood behind her again, adjusting her elbow, his breath warm against her temple as he murmured corrections. His hands settled at her waist to steady her. Sometimes they stayed there longer than necessary. Sometimes his thumbs stroked once, deliberately, along the lower curve of her ribs before he stepped away and told her to loose the arrow.

She improved. She hated that she improved.

And always, always, there were the lectures about bastards.

He would begin them without warning—over supper, during a ride, while she was still flushed and breathing hard from blade work. His voice remained calm, almost scholarly, as he spoke of the danger of baseborn blood, of the way it diluted the purity of the dragon, of the chaos that followed when men of uncertain parentage were given power they had not been born to hold. He never named Jace or Luke. He did not have to. Every word was shaped to cut toward Dragonstone, toward the boys she still missed with a quiet, persistent ache, toward the years she had spent laughing with them and treating them as true kin.

“Blood is not a matter of affection,” Aemond said one afternoon as they walked the length of the godswood.

The leaves stirred overhead. His hand rested at the small of her back, possessive and light. “It is a matter of truth. A bastard may smile and call himself your brother. He may even believe it. But the realm will never forget what he is. And neither should you.”

Aela said nothing. She had learned that silence was safer.

***

He was making her into an extension of himself.

The matching colors. The shared lessons. The way he required her presence at his side during court functions, during meals, during the long evenings when he read and she was expected to sit nearby with her own book open whether she wished to or not. He spoke of their twinship the way other men spoke of destiny—inevitable, sacred, already decided. When she looked at him with something like despair, he only studied her face as though cataloguing the expression for later correction.

“You were always meant to stand with me,” he told her once, late, when the candles had burned low and the Keep was quiet around them. His fingers traced the edge of her jaw, then lower, following the line of her throat to the place where her pulse beat too quickly. “Aegon was a distraction. The Strong boys were a distraction. This—” his thumb pressed lightly over the hollow of her throat “—is what remains. You and I. As it should have been from the beginning.”

She did not pull away. There was nowhere left to go.

At night she lay awake and thought of Dragonstone. Of Jace’s serious eyes and Luke’s bright, careless grin. By the way the sea air had smelled when they were children and the world had still felt wide enough to run through.

She thought of Aegon’s wedding smile and the hollow place it had left behind. She thought of the girl she had been at twelve, at fourteen, at fifteen—before the clothes began to cling, before the lessons stretched into hours, before her twin’s hands had learned the exact pressure that made her still.

Aemond was patient.

He did not need to rush.

He had already taken the pieces of her that mattered and begun arranging them into the shape he wanted. A princess who spoke High Valyrian without accent. Who moved with measured grace. Who could hold a blade and loose an arrow and stand at his side in matching silk that left little of her body to the imagination. Who understood—because he had told her, again and again—that bastards were a poison in the blood of the realm, and that her place was not among them.

He was grooming her to be his perfect twisted twin bride.

And every day, in a hundred small and deliberate ways, she felt herself becoming it.

***

The ships arrived on a grey morning, the Blackwater the color of old steel beneath a low sky.

Aela stood on the balcony outside her chambers in a gown of deep black silk shot through with emerald, the bodice cut low enough that the heavy curve of her breasts was impossible to ignore, the waist drawn so tight the span of it could be circled by two hands. The skirt fell in clean, severe lines that moved only when she did. Aemond had chosen the fabric himself three days earlier. He had stood in her solar while the seamstresses pinned and adjusted, his single eye tracking every alteration until the dress sat on her body exactly as he wished.

She was eighteen now.

The girl who had once run laughing through the corridors with lemon cakes in her fists no longer existed. In her place stood the perfect mirror of her twin: tall, silver-gold hair worn in the same loose style he favored, lilac eyes trained to remain calm, posture faultless, voice measured.

She could recite the lineages of Old Valyria without pause. She could put an arrow through a moving target at sixty paces. She could hold a blade for an hour without her arm trembling.

Aemond stood beside her on the balcony, close enough that the back of his hand brushed hers.

“You will remain at my side,” he said quietly. “You will be gracious. You will not linger with the Strong boys. You will not give Daemon the satisfaction of your attention longer than courtesy demands.”

“Yes, Aemond.”

He glanced down at her. The corner of his mouth almost softened. Almost.

“Good.”

Below them the courtyard filled with the green-and-black of the Hightower household and the red-and-black of the arriving party. Rhaenyra came first, heavier than Aela remembered, face drawn with the strain of travel and the knowledge of what waited inside the Red Keep. Daemon walked half a step behind her, silver hair longer, expression already edged with that familiar, lazy menace.

Then the children.

Jacaerys had grown into his shoulders. The softness of boyhood had burned away, leaving a lean, handsome seriousnes. Lucerys was still smaller, still carrying that slightly nervous set to his mouth, but his eyes were sharper. Baela and Rhaena moved like their father’s daughters—proud, watchful, already assessing the court that had never wanted them.

Aemond’s hand settled at the small of Aela’s back, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind her he was there.

“Remember what you are,” he murmured.

She did.

***

The first hours were all formal distance and carefully measured courtesy.

Otto received them in the throne room with words that said welcome and eyes that calculated every possible threat. Alicent stood at his side in green, smile brittle. Aegon lounged near the wall with a cup already in hand, looking as though the entire reunion were a personal inconvenience. Helaena hovered close to her children—Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, solemn little twins with their mother’s pale hair—while Maelor slept against a nurse’s shoulder.

Aela felt Aemond’s attention like a second skin. When Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on her a moment too long, taking in the revealing cut of the black-and-green gown, the way she stood half a step behind her twin, Aemond’s fingers tightened at her waist.

Daemon noticed her as well.

She felt the weight of his stare during the formal greetings, the way his eyes moved over the low neckline, the narrow waist, the obedient stillness she had been trained into. A faint, unpleasant smile touched his mouth. Aemond saw it. The muscle in his jaw jumped once, then went still.

Later, in the quieter chaos of the outer yard while servants settled the visitors into their chambers, Aela found herself near Baela and Rhaena. Aemond had been drawn into conversation with Otto and Ser Criston; for a brief span his attention was not directly on her.

Baela looked her over with open curiosity.

“You look different,” she said. Not unkindly. “Older.”

“So do you.” Aela kept her voice light, the practiced princess tone Aemond had drilled into her. “Dragonstone agrees with you both.”

Rhaena’s gaze was softer, more searching. “We heard you had become quite the court lady. High Valyrian, the blade, the bow. Aemond’s influence, I expect.”

Aela’s smile did not reach her eyes. “We are twins. It is only natural we share certain… disciplines.”

Baela snorted under her breath. “Disciplines. Is that what they’re calling it.”

Before Aela could answer, a familiar voice cut in.

“Aela.”

Jacaerys had approached with Lucerys half a step behind him. Up close the change in Jace was even more striking—taller, the line of his jaw clean, eyes the same dark seriousness she remembered but tempered by something steadier. Lucerys still had the softer face of the boy who had once listened wide-eyed to her stories about Silverwing, though the years had put a careful watchfulness in him.

Aela felt the old ache of missing them rise sharp and sudden.

“Jace. Luke.” She inclined her head, every movement measured. “It is good to see you both well.”

Jace’s gaze flicked once to the gown, to the way it displayed her, then back to her face. Something complicated moved behind his eyes. “You look… well.”

“I am.”

Lucerys offered a small, tentative smile. “We used to think you’d come to Dragonstone one day. For a visit, at least.”

“Plans change,” Aela said gently.

From across the yard Aemond’s attention found her again. She felt it like a hand closing around the back of her neck. She took a polite half-step back from the boys.

“I should return to my brother,” she said. “The day is long yet.”

Jace’s mouth tightened, but he only nodded. Lucerys looked as though he wanted to say more and thought better of it.

Aemond was already moving toward her. When he reached her side his hand settled at her elbow, fingers pressing into the soft underside of her arm hard enough to promise later correction.

“You were told not to linger,” he said under his breath, so only she could hear.

“I was courteous. Nothing more.”

His grip tightened until she felt the warning in her bones. “See that it remains nothing more.”

***

The feast that night began under a weight of old grievances and thinner smiles.

The great hall had been arranged to force proximity. Greens and blacks seated in careful alternation. Aela sat between Aemond and Helaena, the black-and-green silk of her gown a deliberate echo of the tunic her twin wore. Across the table Jace and Lucerys sat with Baela and Rhaena. Daemon lounged like a cat that had already decided which throats it might open. Rhaenyra’s face was composed, but the tension around her eyes never fully eased.

Aegon drank steadily and made no effort to hide his boredom. Once he caught Aela’s eye and lifted his cup in a private, mocking toast, mouth curving as though they still shared some private joke. She looked away.

Conversation at first was brittle. Polite inquiries about the journey. Careful remarks about the health of the King. Aemond spoke only when directly addressed, his voice cool and precise. Whenever Lucerys’s name entered the air, Aela felt the faint shift in her twin’s posture, the old, cold hatred that had never left him since the night he lost his eye.

Then Viserys was brought in.

The King was a ruin of the man he had been—wasted, masked, every breath a visible effort—yet when he spoke the hall fell into something like true quiet. His words were labored, but they carried the weight of a man who knew he was dying and still hoped, foolishly, for peace among his blood. He spoke of love. Of legacy. Of the family he still wanted them to be.

Something in the hall loosened after that.

Not fully. Never fully. But enough that the edges of conversation softened. Baela asked Helaena about her children and received a gentle, slightly dreamy answer. Rhaena spoke with Alicent in low tones about the journey. Even Aegon managed a stretch of nearly civil talk with Jace before the wine pulled him sideways again.

Aela found herself drawn into quieter conversation with Baela and Rhaena once more as the courses changed. They spoke of Dragonstone, of the younger children, of the way the sea looked at dusk. For a little while Aela could almost pretend the years of Aemond’s careful remaking had not happened—that she was still the girl who had once sat on the low wall above the training yard and spoken of marrying Aegon without understanding what any of it would cost.

She noticed, more than once, the way Jace’s gaze returned to her. Not hungry the way Daemon’s had been. Something closer to recognition, and regret.

***

The toasts began near the end of the meal.

It was Alicent who first raised her cup in a careful, formal gesture toward the betrothals that had already been arranged between the branches of the family. Jacaerys to Baela. Lucerys to Rhaena. The words were spoken with the brittle brightness of a woman determined to present unity even while the ground beneath it cracked.

Aela felt a genuine, uncomplicated warmth rise in her chest.

She looked across the table at Luke and Jace, at the girls who would stand beside them, and for a moment the old affection she had never quite managed to kill stirred fully. She was happy for them. Truly. Whatever else Aemond had taken from her, he had not yet managed to strip that.

She lifted her own cup when the others did, and when Lucerys’s eyes met hers she allowed herself a real smile—small, but real.

Aemond noticed.

His hand found her thigh beneath the cover of the tablecloth and gripped hard enough that her breath caught. The message was clear. She smoothed her expression at once.

Then Helaena stood.

The hall quieted out of something like surprised respect. Helaena’s voice was soft, slightly dreamy, the way it always was when her mind was half elsewhere, but the words were clear and carried a tragic little humor that made several people shift in their seats.

“They’ll be married soon,” she said, glancing toward Baela and Rhaena. “It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

A brief, uncertain ripple of laughter moved through the hall. Cups were raised. Aegon snorted into his wine. Alicent’s smile looked carved from wood.

Aela sat very still.

The words settled over her like a cold hand. Mostly he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.

She looked at her brother—her once-beloved Aegon—slouched in his chair with wine on his mouth and a bored, half-lidded gaze, the same man who had once put his hands on her in dark corners and later shrugged her ending of it with the careless remark that there were plenty of whores in the world. She looked at Helaena, gentle and strange and enduring exactly that life.

And then she felt the solid, unyielding presence of Aemond at her side—the twin who had spent years reshaping her into his reflection. Who never ignored her. Who watched. Who corrected. Who owned.

A sharp, private jealousy cut through her.

She would have rather kept the whoring, careless husband who mostly ignored her and only reached for her when the wine was in him than the controlling, exacting twin who now owned every hour of her day. The thought was treasonous. Dangerous. She buried it at once, the way she had learned to bury everything Aemond did not permit.

But it remained, quiet and bitter, beneath the perfect composure of her face.

Aemond’s hand was still on her thigh. His thumb moved once, slow and deliberate, in a gesture that was neither comfort nor warning but simple possession.

Across the table Lucerys was smiling at something Baela had said. Jace’s handsome face was turned toward Rhaenyra in quiet conversation. Daemon watched the greens with the faint, predatory interest of a man already deciding how the board might be cleared.

Aela lifted her cup with the rest of them and drank.

The wine tasted like nothing at all.

***

Viserys was taken from the hall not long after the toasts.

The moment the doors closed behind the King’s litter, the fragile warmth he had forced into the room began to thin. Servants moved quietly along the walls. Cups were refilled. The conversation fractured back into smaller, more careful groups.

Aela drank.

She had already had more than she usually allowed herself. The wine sat warm and loose in her blood, softening the edges of everything. For the first time in years the hall did not feel like a place she had to survive. People were smiling. Baela was laughing at something Rhaena had said. Even Aegon looked almost pleasant in the low light. The temporary peace made her reckless.

Aemond was not at ease.

He sat rigid beside her, the untouched wine in his cup catching the candlelight. His single eye was fixed across the table on Lucerys with a focus so absolute it felt like a blade laid against skin. Lucerys noticed. The younger boy’s shoulders drew in; his mouth tightened with a mixture of discomfort and rising annoyance. He tried to keep his attention on Rhaena, but every few moments his gaze flicked back, as if he could feel the weight of that stare.

Aela caught Lucerys’s eye and gave him the smallest, softest look of understanding she could manage. A silent I know. He blinked, surprised, then offered the ghost of a grateful nod before looking away.

Aemond did not miss the exchange. The muscle in his jaw flexed once.

Jacaerys rose from his seat a short while later and came around the table. He stopped a polite distance from Aela and inclined his head.

“Would you dance with me?” he asked. His voice was steady, courteous, but there was something careful in it. “It has been a long time.”

Aela felt the wine make the decision for her.

“Yes,” she said.

Aemond’s hand, which had been resting on the table near her wrist, went very still.

She rose. Jace offered his arm. She took it.

They moved into the open space where a few other pairs had already begun to turn to the musicians’ slower tune. Jace’s hand settled lightly at her waist. His other held hers with proper distance. Up close he smelled of clean wool and the faint salt of the sea still clinging to him from the journey.

“You look lovely,” he said quietly, after a few turns. “Different. But lovely.”

Aela’s mouth curved before she could stop it. “You have grown dashing.”

“And you have grown… refined.” He glanced once toward the high table, then back to her face. “I am glad to see you, Aela. Truly.”

The words landed softly. For a moment she let herself simply be the girl who had once sat on walls and told stories to a younger Luke and argued with a serious Jace about nothing that mattered. The years of matching silk and High Valyrian drills and careful silences fell away just far enough that she could breathe.

She did not see Aemond stand.

She only heard the sudden, sharp crack of both his hands striking the table hard enough to make several cups jump and conversation die in ragged pieces.

Every head turned.

Aemond was on his feet, the sapphire of his eye catching the light like a cold star. He lifted his cup with deliberate slowness.

“Final tribute,” he said, voice carrying cleanly through the hall. “To the health of my nephews. Jace… Luke… and Joffrey.” A thin, razor smile. “Each of them handsome, wise… Strong. Let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Then the hall erupted.

Chairs scraped. Voices rose. Lucerys had gone white. Jacaerys’s hand left Aela’s waist at once, his whole body turning toward the high table. Daemon was already half out of his seat, expression dark with promise. Rhaenyra’s face was a mask of controlled fury. Alicent looked as though she had been struck. Aegon laughed once, short and mean, and kept drinking.

Aela’s stomach dropped.

“Aemond,” she said, low and urgent, already moving back toward him. “Aemond, stop. We should leave.”

He did not look at her. His eye was still locked on Lucerys with pure, undiluted hatred.

She reached him and closed her fingers around his forearm. “Please. Not here.”

For a moment she thought he would ignore her entirely. Then his hand shot out and closed around her upper arm hard enough to bruise. He turned without a word and pulled her with him, away from the rising chaos of the hall, past startled servants and the first shouts of accusation.

***

The corridor outside was dimmer, quieter, the sounds of the feast muffled by heavy doors.

The moment they were alone far enough that no one could see, Aemond stopped.

He turned on her so fast she barely had time to draw breath. One hand tangled brutally in her hair and yanked her head back; the other kept its crushing grip on her arm. He dragged her the remaining distance to his chambers without speaking, the only sounds their footsteps and the sharp, pained breaths she could not quite swallow.

The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame.

Aemond did not release her hair. He used the grip to shove her forward into the center of the chamber, then spun her to face him. The force of it made her stumble; only his fist in her silver-gold strands kept her upright. Candlelight caught the sapphire of his eye and turned it into something sharp and inhuman.

“You danced with him.”

The words came out low, almost soft, but there was nothing soft in the way he said them. His breathing was controlled, but the control was visibly cracking at the edges. Rage lived in every line of his body.

“You smiled at him. You let that bastard put his hands on you in front of the entire court.” He gave her hair a vicious yank, forcing her head further back until her throat was fully exposed. “After everything. After what they did. After what he did.”

Aela’s hands came up instinctively, fingers trying to ease the pull at her scalp. “Aemond—”

“Do not speak my name like that.” His free hand shot up and closed around her jaw, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “How dare you. How dare you speak to them. How dare you look at Lucerys with anything but contempt after he took my eye. And then you stand there and let Jacaerys Strong put his hands on my twin as though he had any right.”

He leaned in until his face was inches from hers. The cold fury in his remaining eye was worse than shouting.

“Was it not enough to disgrace yourself with one betrothed man?” His voice dropped into something quieter and far more dangerous. “You let Aegon use you like a whore while he was promised to Helaena. That was not enough for you? You are so wanton, so desperate to spread your legs, that now you turn to a betrothed bastard? Jacaerys is promised to Baela. Or did that slip your mind while you were smiling up at him like a common cunt in heat?”

“I do not see him that way,” Aela said, the words coming out strained from the pressure of his hand on her jaw. “It was only a dance. He is—”

“He is nothing.” Aemond’s grip tightened until she made a small, involuntary sound. “He is a Strong bastard wearing a name that does not belong to him. And you—my blood, my twin—stood in his arms and let him tell you that you looked lovely.”

He released her jaw only to shove her backward. The backs of her knees hit the edge of his bed and she sat down hard. Aemond followed, looming over her, both hands now braced on either side of her hips, caging her in.

“You belong to me,” he said, each word precise and absolute. “Not to Aegon. Not to the Strong boys. Not to anyone who looks at you and thinks they may have a piece of what is mine. You wear my colors. You speak the tongue I taught you. You carry a blade because I decided you would. Every part of you that matters has been shaped by my hand.”

Aemond did not ask permission.

He dragged her the rest of the way onto the bed by the fistful of silver-gold hair, the same hair he had once watched Aegon bury his hands in behind a tapestry, the same hair he had ordered dressed to match his own for years. She landed hard on her back. His mouth claimed hers at once—ruthless, open, more possession than kiss. He bit her lower lip until he tasted copper, then forced his tongue past her teeth as though he meant to erase every laugh she had ever given anyone else.

Aela made a broken sound against him. The wine from the feast still moved warm and useless in her blood. She could still feel the ghost of Jace’s hand at her waist, the brief, dangerous softness of being looked at like a person instead of a reflection. That softness had cost her this.

“You were made for this,” Aemond said against her mouth, voice low and precise even as his breathing roughened. “Same hour. Same blood. I waited while you chased Aegon. I waited while you smiled at Strong bastards. I shaped every part of you that mattered, and still you needed the lesson.”

His free hand shoved her skirts up without care for the fine black-and-green silk he himself had chosen. Fabric tore. Cool air touched the insides of her thighs. He settled between them with the full weight of his body, already hard, already certain. She felt the thick heat of him against her bare cunt and tried, too late, to close her legs.

He forced them wider with his knees.

The memory of the blackmail rose sharp and useless: the night he had pinned her to the bedpost and made her end things with Aegon, the threat of Vhagar, the way he had called her whore for the first time. She had thought that was the worst of it. She had been wrong.

“Aemond—”

He ignored the protest. One hand kept its merciless grip in her hair; the other guided the blunt head of his cock to her entrance. He did not prepare her. He did not ease the way. He pushed in with one long, unrelenting thrust that tore through her maidenhead in a single burning stroke and buried him to the hilt.

Aela’s cry was sharp and startled.

The pain was immediate and deep—a raw, splitting stretch that forced tears to the corners of her eyes. Her body clenched helplessly around the intrusion, trying to reject what it could not stop. For a moment all she could feel was the violation of it, the final, physical proof that every year of matching clothes and forced lessons and quiet threats had been leading here. She was no longer only his in name and color and obedience. She was his in the most irreversible way left.

Aemond held himself there, fully seated, hips pressed flush to hers, and watched her face with cold, avid attention while she trembled.

“There,” he breathed. “Now no one else will ever have you. Not Aegon. Not that Strong bastard you let put his hands on you tonight. This cunt is mine.”

He began to move.

The rhythm was brutal from the first stroke—deep, punishing thrusts that drove her up the bed and forced the air from her lungs in broken gasps. Each one dragged against the torn place inside her. The pain stayed bright and constant, but beneath it something worse began to build: heat, pressure, a shameful spark of pleasure that grew every time he ground deep. She hated it. She hated that her body, trained for so long to yield to him in every other way, was now yielding in this one too.

She tried to twist away. His fist in her hair yanked her back into place so he could look her in the eye while he fucked the resistance out of her.

“Say it,” he ordered, never slowing. “Say you are mine.”

“I—” The word fractured as he snapped his hips particularly hard. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. “I am yours.”

“Again.”

“I am yours.”

He kissed her once more, filthy and claiming, then put his mouth to her ear. His voice stayed controlled, almost conversational, even as he fucked her with short, vicious strokes that made the bedframe knock against the wall.

“My twin. My blood. My wife in every way that matters. You will call me husband while I ruin this tight little cunt.” Another deep thrust. “Say it.”

The word was insidious. They were not married, not even betrothed, but in his mind sharing a womb sealed their faith as husband and wife.

The pain had blurred into something darker and hotter. Every time he bottomed out, a spark of reluctant pleasure licked up her spine. Her thighs started to shake. Her hips gave a small, traitorous roll to meet him. The knowledge of what that meant—that even now, even like this, some part of her was answering him—hurt almost as much as the stretch.

“Husband,” she whispered.

“Louder.”

“Husband—”

Aemond made a low sound of satisfaction and drove into her harder. One hand left her hair to wrench the bodice of her gown down, freeing her breasts so he could grip one roughly, thumb scraping over the peaked nipple until she whimpered. The same breasts he had ordered the seamstresses to display. The same body he had spent years reshaping into his ideal.

“If you want a bastard so badly,” he said, voice fraying only slightly at the edges, “I will give you one. I will fill this cunt until it takes. You will swell with my child, not some baseborn pretender’s. Do you understand me?”

She was past coherent answers. The years of control, the dance with Jace, the toast, the way Lucerys had looked at her with residual kindness—all of it collapsed into the single, overwhelming fact of Aemond inside her, claiming the last piece she had left to give. Every deep stroke dragged a broken sound from her throat. Her legs had come up around his hips without her permission. The wet, filthy noise of him fucking her open filled the chamber.

“Look at me.” When her dazed lilac eyes met his, he held the gaze and fucked her with short, punishing thrusts meant to break them both. “Come on your husband’s cock. Now.”

The command, the stretch, the relentless pressure—everything crested at once. Aela’s back arched. A raw, startled cry tore from her as the orgasm ripped through her, her cunt clenching and fluttering helplessly around him. The pleasure was sharp and unwanted and complete. It felt like another kind of surrender.

The tight, rhythmic pulses pulled Aemond over the edge with her. He buried himself to the root and came with a low, guttural sound, spilling deep inside her in thick, pulsing waves while he held her pinned and open beneath him.

For several long moments the only sound was their breathing.

Aemond did not pull out. He stayed buried in her, one hand still tangled in her hair, the other braced beside her head, and looked down at her flushed, tear-streaked face with something cold and deeply satisfied.

The pain between her legs throbbed in time with her heartbeat. His seed was already leaking out around him, warm and final. Somewhere under the shock and the shame and the fading sparks of forced pleasure, Aela understood that the girl who had once laughed too loudly in the corridors was gone completely now.

“My twin,my wife, my reflection” he said quietly. “In every way.”

This time she did not argue.

There was nothing left to argue with.

Aemond stayed inside her until his breathing slowed. When he finally pulled out, seed spilled warm down her thigh. He looked at it with quiet satisfaction, then told her to clean herself and go.

***

In the days that followed, Aela told herself this was the end.

He had taken her name, her voice, her friendships, her body, the last scraps of the girl she had been. There was nothing left for him to break. She was already his in every way that mattered.

She almost believed it.

Three months later the news came at dusk.

Lucerys was dead.

Vhagar had swallowed him and his dragon over the black waters of Shipbreaker Bay. Nothing remained to bury.

Aela stood alone in the corridor outside the council chamber and listened to Aemond’s voice—calm, measured, almost bored—answering questions about the “unfortunate accident.” The same voice that had made her call him husband while he tore through her. The same voice that had spent years teaching her to hate the very boys she had once loved.

Something inside her folded in on itself with a soft, irreversible finality.

She had thought the night in his bed was the worst he could do.

She had thought there was nothing left to take.

She had been wrong.

The last living piece of her childhood—the quiet, stubborn tenderness she had still carried for the boy who once listened wide-eyed to her stories—died in that corridor without a sound.

Aela turned and walked away, face perfectly smooth, hands empty at her sides.

There was nothing left.

No one captures him the way u do

On my knees fr

18+ only Minors DNI

Current Fandoms & Characters I Write For:

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

• Aerion Targaryen

• Daeron Targaryen

• Valarr Targaryen

• Lyonel Baratheon

• Bloodraven (Brynden Rivers)

• Shiera Seastar

House of the Dragon

• Gwayne Hightower

• Aegon II Targaryen

• Aemond Targaryen

• Ormund Hightower

• Rhaena Targaryen (Daemon’s daughter)

• Laena Velaryon

• Helaena Targaryen

• Alicent Hightower

• Cregan Stark

Game of Thrones

• Viserys III Targaryen

• Daenerys Targaryen (crossovers or Viserys III / Jon pairings only)

• Sansa Stark (Jonsa, Viserys, or crossover pairings only)

• Cersei Lannister (also will do Cersei x Ned lol)

• Jaime Lannister

I primarily write OFC / Reader × character pairings.

For Sansa, Cersei, Daenerys, Rhaena, and Helaena, I’m also open to writing them with characters from their own timeline or across timelines (examples: Sansa × Valarr × Aerion, Daenerys × Aerion, Helaena × Daeron the Drunken, etc.).

Themes I write:

Targcest • dead dove • dark smut • hard kinks • humiliation/degradation heavy • violence

(I can do fluffy too.)

NO MODERN AU!!!!!!

AERION Targaryen X COUSIN!Reader , Valarr x Sister!Reader , minor Daeron x Cousin! Reader

Summary: In the shadow of the Red Keep, young Balella Targaryen’s rare silver-pink coloring and mismatched eyes draw the dangerous attention of her cousin, Prince Aerion Brightflame. Consumed by jealousy and an obsessive desire for a sister-wife of pure Valyrian blood, Aerion becomes fixated on claiming Balella for himself, resenting the close bond she shares with her brothers, Valarr and Matarys. As his obsession deepens, Aerion will stop at nothing to possess the one thing he believes should have been his, even if it means tearing apart his own family.

Warning: This is a dark and disturbing story that contains themes of obsession, psychological manipulation, emotional and physical abuse, incestuous desires, and possessive behavior. It also features heavy sexism, classism, and colorism, particularly through Aerion’s perspective. This fic is Targcest-heavy. Future chapters will include Aerion/Reader, Valarr/Reader, and minor Daeron/Reader and Matarys/Reader pairings. Please note that Rhae Targaryen will not exist in this story. Reader discretion is strongly advised. 18 + only. Minors DNI.

The afternoon light in the godswood fractured through the canopy in narrow, trembling shaft, each one turning drifting pollen into tiny floating stars. Balella Targaryen had spent the morning tying rose-quartz ribbons to the lower branches, declaring them the banners of long-dead dragonlords. Now those ribbons stirred like living things, brushing against her as she ran.

She was seven, small and bright as a dwarf star. Her long hair was silver at its heart, but soft pink columns ran through it like scattered rose petals, subtle streaks that caught the sun and shimmered whenever she moved. When she turned her head the colors shifted, silver and pink flashing together like moonlight on water.

One eye was the palest lilac, delicate as the first light before dawn. The other was the softest pink, the shade of the lightning bolt on her mother’s house sigil. Together they made her color something rare and ethereal, old Valyria and Dondarrion storm-light braided into one small girl.

Jena Dondarrion was fiercely proud of her daughter’s looks, though she would never say it aloud. For years the whispers had followed Baelor’s line like smoke—too plain, lacking the true color of the dragon. Baelor himself carried dark hair, and the quiet blame had always fallen on Jena, the Stormlander mother who had failed to give the realm the bright Valyrian beauty it expected. Maekar’s children shone with the old fire while Baelor’s had been measured and found wanting. Balella’s birth had changed that. Her silver-pink tress, her mismatched lilac and pink eyes, these were living proof that the dragon blood still ran true in their line, made only more otherworldly by Jena’s own blood. Jena guarded that truth like a secret victory.

“Catch me if you can granny Vhaegar!” Balella sang out, skirts clutched high as she wove between the saplings. Her laughter rang bright and clear.

Valarr, eleven and already lanky and dashing and still growing into his height, charged after her with a low, playful growl. Matarys, nine and still full of boyhood awkwardness, followed close behind until a trailing rose-quartz ribbon brushed his cheek like a teasing kiss from the wind. Laughter burst from him mid-stride, bright and startled, and he nearly tumbled headlong into the grass

Valarr caught her first. His arms swept around her small frame and lifted her clean off the ground as though she weighed no more than a ribbon on the breeze. He spun her once, twice, and thrice more .Balella’s delighted laughter spilled over the garden, bright and trusting, as her mismatched lilac and pink eyes squeezed shut with pure joy.

Help meeee! Caraxes!” she cried out between bright giggles, still spinning in her brother’s arms. “Caraxes, save me from the old granny dragon!”

Matarys immediately dropped to all fours in the grass, puffing out his cheeks and letting out the loudest, most dramatic roar a nine-year-old could manage. “Roooaaar! I am Caraxes!” he bellowed, crawling forward with exaggerated menace. “The Blood Wyrm has come! I’ll bite Vhagar’s tail off!”

Balella shrieked with laughter, kicking her legs as Valarr spun her faster. “Quickly Caraxes! She’s going to eat me!”

Matarys “breathed fire” by blowing a raspberry and lunged at Valarr’s legs, pretending to snap at his brother’s boots. “Let the princess go, old hag! Or I’ll burn your whiskers!”

Valarr laughed and lifted Balella higher, playing along. “You’ll have to fight me for her, Blood Wyrm!”

After some roars and dodging attacks from “Caraxes” Valarr finally set her gently back on the grass, all three of them breathless with laughter. “Toll time, little Bella,” he said, voice warm with affection. “A song in the old tongue.”

“The one about the dragon and the storm!” Matarys demanded at once, still on his hands and knees, refusing to break character as Caraxes just yet.

Balella straightened her skirts with a grave ceremony, then lifted her chin and sang. Her voice was small but perfectly clear, the High Valyrian words floating upward like smoke from a gentle fire. Valarr clapped along. Matarys attempted to stomp in time (still roaring occasionally as Caraxes) and promptly tripped over his own feet, sending the three of them collapsing into the sun-warmed grass in a heap of giggles and tangled ribbons.

The children’s laughter carried on the wind like silver bells, bringing joy to almost everyone who heard it — except for one dragon hiding in the shadows of the colonnade. Aerion Targaryen stood very still between the carved stone pillars, sharp-boned and silver-haired at eleven. His violet eyes tracked Balella with cold intensity. He could not look away.

She was everything his branch of the family lacked — a female dragon. Valarr and Matarys had been given a sister worth keeping in the bloodline, a girl they could one day wed to bind power and dragon fire closer to their own hands. Aerion had no such treasure. Well he had Daella, but she was useless and brown haired, He also had three brothers, and each one was a disappointment he despised. Daeron, already a drunken fool at fourteen, weak and pathetic. Aemon, so useless their father is considering sending him off to the citadel. And that little shit Aegon, a troublemaker who ran around causing chaos with no regard for the dignity of their name. None of them could give him what Valarr and Matarys possessed so easily, a sister whose beauty and blood could strengthen their line for generations. The unfairness of it burned in his chest like dragonfire.

Matarys and Valarr were undeserving of such a prize. They were plain and ordinary, their blood too weak and common to ever preserve the delicate balance of Valyrian beauty that made their sister so perfect. If either of them ever claimed her, they would only dilute her rare coloring until nothing extraordinary remained. She might as well marry a fucking commoner. At least then the insult to her blood would be honest.

And now here these two brown-haired boys were, pretending to be dragons. Vhagar, of all things, a relic of old Valyria, as if they had any right to play at such glory.

From the shaded stone colonnade, Aerion stepped forward and made his way towards his cousins, not being able to stand their mockery any longer.

Balella noticed him first. She turned toward him with a bright smile like pure sunlight and called out cheerfully, “Cousin! Would you like to play dragons with us?”

Valarr and Matarys stopped laughing at once. Their faces shifted, suddenly wary as they looked at their cousin. Their sister did not spend much time with Aerion and did not know his true nature. But Valarr and Matarys knew Aerion’s temperament well, they all trained together in the yard, and they had seen the cruelty that lurked beneath his polished surface.

Too many times Aerion had gone too far during spars, striking harder than necessary, twisting arms until bones nearly snapped, or smiling when someone cried out in pain. They had learned to be cautious around him.

Valarr immediately stepped in front of Balella, using his body as a barrier between their cruel cousin and his beloved sister. “Aerion,” he said coolly, or as coolly as an eleven-year-old boy playing protector could manage.

Aerion’s gaze slid to Valarr. A hideous sneer twisted his face as he stared the boy down, completely ignoring Matarys as if he didn’t exist.

“Prince Valarr,” he chimed, the title dripping with mockery. His eyes then shifted to Balella, softening into something false and fond. “And Princess Bella,” he said, deliberately using the pet name her brothers called her.

Balella, unaware of the tension crackling between her brother and cousin, slipped around Valarr and walked straight up to Aerion. She stood before him with the same bright, trusting smile and asked again, “Would you like to play dragons and lords with us?”

Aerion lowered himself until he was eye-level with her, his violet gaze locking onto hers with unsettling focus. Slowly, he reached out and took a strand of her hair between his fingers, letting it slide across his skin before closing his grip around it. He could feel Valarr’s furious stare burning into the hand that touched his sister.

“Oh? And are you going to be the prettiest dragon?” he teased, releasing the strand with a light flick of his fingers.

Her cheeks flushed pink at the words, and somehow her smile only grew more dazzling. “Of course, cousin! I’m going to be Morning the pink dragon— like my hair! Valarr is going to be Vhagar because he’s the biggest, and Matarys is going to be Caraxes — smaller but brave!”

Aerion’s smile remained, but it no longer reached his eyes. He studied her for a moment longer, then straightened to his full height. He brought a hand to his chin, silver brows furrowing in a perfect imitation of thoughtful consideration.

“Hmm… morning is a lovely match for you, my princess,” he said smoothly. “However, Vhagar and Caraxes…” He let the sentence hang for a beat, his gaze flicking briefly to Valarr and Matarys with the faintest trace of amusement. “Those dragons are ancient. They come from Old Valyria itself. They were born in fire and conquest, long before our blood became so…. modern .”

Valarr’s jaw tightened. Matarys had gone very still beside him.

Aerion continued, his tone light and almost helpful. “Of course, there’s nothing wrong with dreaming big. But sometimes it’s wiser to choose dragons that better suit one’s own coloring and heritage. Something a little less… contrasting. Sheepstealer, perhaps. Or one that Aegon the Younger claimed. Modest creatures.”

The words were delivered with perfect politeness, but the insult underneath was unmistakable.

Valarr’s face had gone pale with fury. Matarys looked like he might be sick from the tension. Even Balella’s bright smile wavered slightly, though she still didn’t fully grasp the cruelty hidden beneath her cousin’s polished words. However, she did know that Sheepstealer had been ridden by a dragonseed and not a trueborn Targaryen, and that Aegon the Younger’s dragon had been the last dragon, a pathetic, diminished shadow of what dragons once were. Why would her cousin compare her brothers to those dragons?

That slight was not lost on Valarr.

He stepped forward, moving in front of both his sister and brother until he stood directly before Aerion. Though he was not as skilled in combat as the shorter boy , Valarr did not back down. His voice was steady, though his hands were clenched at his sides.

“And what dragon would you be, cousin?” he asked coldly. “Syrax? The spoilt and useless dragon of Maegor with teats.”

For a split second, the garden went completely silent.

Then laughter erupted.

Balella clapped both hands over her mouth, but bright giggles still spilled out between her fingers. Matarys, emboldened by his older brother, pointed at Aerion and jeered, “He’s the steer for Maegor with teats!!”

More laughter followed, mostly from the ridiculousness of the way Matarys said “teats” like it was the funniest thing in the world. The reasoning behind the laughter didn’t matter to Aerion. His ears had gone bright red. Being compared to a wretched woman had struck something deep and ugly in him. His jaw tightened, and the false politeness finally cracked.

How dare these dull lizards mock him? He was Aerion Brightflame the true dragon! And how dare the she-dragon laugh at him too?

Without another word, Aerion turned on his heel and strode toward the weirwood sapling where Balella had spent the morning tying her beloved pink ribbons. One by one, he began ripping them down — tearing the delicate fabric from the branches with sharp, vicious tugs. The ribbons fluttered to the grass like wounded birds.

Balella’s bright smile vanished.

“No!” she cried, her voice cracking. “Those are mine! Stop it!”

She ran toward him, but Aerion kept tearing, his face twisted with cold satisfaction. One ribbon after another fell.

Balella screamed — a high, heartbroken sound that echoed through the garden.

Valarr and Matarys moved at the same time.

“Stop it!” Valarr shouted, lunging forward and grabbing Aerion’s arm. “Don’t touch her fucking ribbons!”

Matarys, small but furious, threw himself at Aerion’s leg, trying to pull him away from the tree. “Stop it, you shit!!”

Aerion shoved Valarr hard, sending the taller boy stumbling back. When Matarys clung to his leg, Aerion kicked out, knocking the weakling to the grass. Valarr recovered quickly and tackled Aerion around the waist. The two boys went down in a tangle of limbs, fists flying. Matarys scrambled up and jumped on Aerion’s back, pummeling him with small, angry fists.

Balella stood frozen for a moment, tears streaming down her face as she watched her ribbons being destroyed and her brothers fighting. Then she ran forward, trying to pull Matarys off Aerion before someone got hurt.

“Stop! Please stop!” she sobbed.

The sound of running feet and the sharp rustle of robes cut through the chaos.

“Enough!”

A stern voice cracked across the garden like a whip.

Septa Alysanne stood at the edge of the godswood, her face pale with shock and fury. Two younger novices hovered behind her, wide-eyed. The septa strode forward, her robes snapping around her ankles, and grabbed Valarr by the back of his tunic, hauling him off Aerion with surprising strength for her age.

“Stop this at once! All of you!”

She pulled Matarys off next, then rounded on Aerion, who was slowly getting to his feet, his silver hair disheveled and a red mark already blooming on his cheek. Balella had collapsed to her knees beside the ruined ribbons, crying quietly as she gathered the torn pieces in her small hands.

Septa Alysanne’s sharp gaze swept over the scene — the torn ribbons, the scuffed and grass-stained children, the tears on Balella’s face.

“What in the Seven’s name is going on here?” she demanded. Her voice was cold and authoritative. “Explain yourselves. Now.”

Aerion was the first to speak.

He straightened his tunic with trembling hands, his lower lip quivering. Tears welled in his violet eyes— real or feigned, it was impossible to tell — and he looked up at the septa with the perfect picture of wounded innocence.

“I… I only wanted to play with them, Septa,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Bella asked me to join their game. I thought… I thought it would be nice. But Valarr wouldn’t let me. He pushed me and called me names. When I tried to walk away, he and Matarys attacked me.” A single tear slipped down his cheek. “I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted to play.”

Septa Alysanne’s expression softened slightly as she looked at Aerion’s tear-streaked angelic face and the red mark on his cheek. She turned to Valarr, her mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

“Is this true, Prince Valarr?” she asked sharply. “Did you start this?”

Valarr’s face was indignant and snorted “He compared use to dragon seed—”

“Enough,” the septa snapped. “I did not ask for excuses. I asked if you struck first.”

Valarr fell silent, his jaw tight. Matarys looked down at his feet, his small shoulders hunched.

Septa Alysanne sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This behavior is unacceptable. You are children of the royal family. Fighting like common street urchins in the godswood? And over ribbons and games?” She shook her head. “I will be speaking to your fathers about this. All of you will return to your chambers immediately. There will be no more playing today.”

She turned to Balella, who was still kneeling on the grass, clutching her torn ribbons. Her voice softened just a fraction. “Come, princess. Let us get you cleaned up.”

Balella didn’t move. She just stared at the ruined ribbons in her hands, silent tears sliding down her cheeks.

Valarr walked over to her and gently helped her to her feet. He kept one arm around her shoulders as they began to walk away, Matarys falling into step on her other side. The three siblings moved slowly, speaking softly to one another in low, soothing voices. Valarr murmured something that made Balella nod and wipe her eyes. Matarys reached up and took her free hand, squeezing it tightly. Even from a distance, it was clear they were comforting one another.

Aerion stood alone beside the ruined weirwood sapling, watching them go. His violet eyes followed the small group with a cold, simmering hatred that made his hands tremble at his sides. They had each other — a bond he could never claim. No silver sister of his own blood to stand beside him, to defend him, or to one day take as his wife. He had nothing.

The humiliation burned hotter than his anger. With one last, venomous glance at the three retreating figures, Aerion turned sharply on his heel and stormed back into the Red Keep. His face was streaked with angry tears, his silver hair disheveled, and his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Servants and guards alike quickly stepped out of his path, sensing the dangerous mood radiating from the young prince as he made his way toward his mother’s chambers.

He threw open the doors to his mother’s chambers without knocking.

Dyanna Dayne lay propped against a mound of pillows, her face pale and drawn, her dark hair damp with sweat. Childbirth had taken a heavy toll on her this time; her breathing was shallow, and her hands trembled where they rested on the coverlet. A maester hovered nearby, but one sharp look from Aerion sent the man bowing and retreating from the room.

“Mother,” Aerion said, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

Dyanna turned her head slowly toward him, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. “Aerion… what is it? You should not—”

“How dare you?” he snarled, striding toward her bed. “How dare you give me nothing but useless siblings?”

Dyanna blinked, startled by the venom in his tone. “Aerion—”

“I want a sister!” he shouted, his voice cracking as fresh tears of fury spilled down his cheeks.

He slammed his hand against the bedpost, making the frame rattle. Dyanna flinched.

She looked at him with tired, pleading eyes and said softly, “But you already have a sister, Aerion. You have Daella.”

Aerion’s face twisted with disgust.

“Daella?” he spat, as if the name itself tasted foul. “That plain, brown-haired infant? She is no sister of mine. Not one that matters.. Not one with silver hair.”

His voice rose again, shaking with rage.

“Valarr and Matarys have one,” he spat, pacing like a caged animal. “A sister with silver-pink hair and eyes like dragonfire. They can keep her. They can marry her one day and bind their blood together the way it should be. And what do I have?” His voice rose to a near scream. “Nothing!

He whirled on her, eyes blazing.

Dyanna stared at him, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of shock, pain, and something close to fear. Her hand moved weakly to her still-swollen belly, as if shielding what remained inside her.

“Aerion…” she whispered, her voice thin. “I… I cannot simply will such a thing into being. The gods decide—”

Please…,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please, Mother… I need her. I need a a dragon. A real one. With silver hair. Like the others have. I can’t— I can’t be left with nothing.”

Tears spilled freely down his cheeks now. He bowed his head, pressing his forehead against her arm as his body trembled.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m sorry I yelled. I just… I can’t stand it. Please… please give me one. Just one.”

Dyanna stared down at her son, her dark eyes filled with exhaustion and sorrow. She could see it clearly now — the wild, flickering light behind his violet gaze. The same dangerous spark she had noticed more and more in recent years. Madness. Or something dangerously close to it.

But he was still her boy.

Dyanna slowly lifted her free hand and rested it on the back of Aerion’s head, stroking his silver hair the way she used to when he was small. Her fingers were cold and weak, her arm trembling from the effort.

“Shhh…” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Aerion… my fierce one…”

She was so tired. Childbirth had drained her more than she wanted to admit. Her body felt hollow, her limbs heavy as stone. Every breath cost her something. And still, she held him.

Aerion clung to her tighter, shaking.

Dyanna closed her eyes for a moment and When she spoke again, her voice was soft, but steady.

“For you my Brightflame,” she said quietly. “I will try.”

“I will try,” Dyanna repeated, her fingers continuing their weak, soothing motion through his hair. “If the gods are kind… perhaps they will give you what you desire.”

She did not have the heart to speak the full truth — that her body was already too frail to survive another birth, and that the maesters had warned her, in quiet and solemn voices, that she might not live through it. That knowledge sat heavy in her chest, but she kept it buried beneath layers of love and duty. She was his mother. And if this was what her dragon needed, then she would offer what little she had left.

Instead, she simply held him, pressing a trembling kiss to the top of his head.

“I will give you a pretty silver hair sister, my dragon,” she cooed.

Aerion went still for a moment. Then he slowly rose and pulled her into a tight embrace, burying his face against her shoulder.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you. I love you dearly”

Dyanna smiled weakly and leaned into the hug, her body barely able to return the pressure. For a brief moment, he was her sweet boy again.

But when Aerion pulled back, his expression made her flinch.

He looked down at her with a smile that was soft and almost loving — the same gentle curve of his lips he wore when he was pleased. Yet his violet eyes were unnervingly bright, feverish, and unblinking as they studied her pale, exhausted face. There was something hungry in that gaze. Something that did not match the tenderness of his smile.

His hands remained on her shoulders, holding her in place with quiet possessiveness.

“You must start now,” he said softly, almost sweetly.

Dyanna blinked, confused. “Aerion… I’ve only just given birth to Daella. I need time to—“

“No,” he interrupted, his voice still gentle, but firmer now. “You must start trying again as soon as possible. I’ll speak to Father tonight. He’ll understand.”

His smile never wavered, but his eyes darkened slightly as he leaned in closer.

“You said you would try mother,” he whined. “So try. For me.”

Dyanna said nothing. She simply closed her eyes as silent tears slipped down her cheeks, trembling in his arms while he held her.

Daeron the daring x Twin reader, Daeron Targaryen x reader

Chapter 2: Starlight

Chapter 1 can be found here: https://www.tumblr.com/drevbkkurwszvhnk/822034291032719361/the-kings-33rd-son-rework

Aged up characters: Daeron and his Twin are 19

Summary: He was supposed to let you go to Aemond. Instead, he’s stealing you away in the dead of night, promising to make you his wife in the Starry Sept before the sun rises. War has broken him, but not his claim on you. Betrothal be damned. If it takes striking a deal with Ormund Hightower to keep you, then so be it. Daeron Targaryen is done letting the realm decide who you belong to.

Word count: 2.5 lmk if you wanna be tagged for part 3

Aged up characters- Daeron and his Twin are 19

Rating: 18+ only minors DNI

Warnings: Incest, Dark Romance, Possessive Behavior, Obsession, War Trauma,

A/n: the happy ending lol, also Gwayne is not the father, but the father who stepped up.

He could not fight Aemond here.

Not in the heart of his own war camp, not with vhagar stalking above like a shadow of judgment, and not while his uncle’s hand still gripped your arm hard enough to bruise.

Aemond was already unraveling. Daeron had seen it clearly during their last council — in the way his brother’s voice had grown too quiet, too calm, and in the rumors that he had begun to dabble in dark magic. Most damning of all was what he had done to Aegon. The memory of it still turned Daeron’s stomach. And even now, Aemond’s hand lingered too long on the pommel of Blackfyre, as though he itched to draw it even in the presence of his own blood.

One spark in this fragile moment and Aemond might burn them both where they stood, heedless of witnesses, heedless even of the war itself. And if Daeron’s own men caught wind of his twin sister straddling him, flushed and marked by his pleasure, they might well turn their cloaks before the night was done. The realm would name it justice. The gods would name it sin. Either way, they would both be corpses before dawn. And he could never allow that to happen to you.

Daeron’s jaw tightened. The reckless, half-mad creature who had moments ago sworn to burn the realm for you receded, and in its place rose the cold, calculating prince who had survived this war thus far by knowing when to strike and when to vanish into shadow.

“Uncle,” he said at last, his voice low and rough as old velvet. “Close the flap.”

Gwayne did not move. His gaze flicked between the two of you, lingering on the stain upon Daeron’s breeches and the way his nephew’s hand still cradled the back of your neck with unmistakable possession.

“Close it,” Daeron repeated, quieter now, but with iron beneath the words. “Lest the entire host hear what you have stumbled upon.”

Gwayne’s mouth thinned to a bloodless line, but he reached back and dragged the heavy canvas shut. The roar of the camp faded to a muffled hum. Only the distant, bone-deep rumble of Vhagar remained.

For a long moment, none of them spoke.

Daeron’s thumb stroked once along the side of your throat, a gesture so gentle. When he addressed his uncle again, his voice had lost every trace of the angry possessive dragon.

“I cannot draw steel against him in this place,” he said. “Not with his dragon above us and half the realm’s eyes upon our backs. If I raise a hand to Aemond here, we are both dead before the sun rises—myself for treason and worse, and her for complicity in it. You know the truth of it as well as I.” His eyes, dark and steady, met Gwayne’s without flinching. “We must make for Oldtown. Tonight.”

Gwayne stared at him as though he had spoken in some foreign tongue. “Oldtown? You believe my cousin will open his gates to this… this depravity?”

Daeron did not flinch. His hand moved to your cheeks, his thumb softy stroking your soft skin . When he spoke, his voice was low, steady, and edged with a dangerous kind of certainty.

“Ormund wants me to become king.”

The words hung in the air between them like smoke from a slow-burning fire.

Gwayne’s face went slack with shock. For a moment he seemed unable to speak.

“You speak treason,” Gwayne said at last, his voice hoarse.

Daeron’s violet eyes were steady, though something dark and feverish burned beneath the calm. “He believes it will cement House Hightower as the true power in the realm. Aegon is a drunkard and a fool, and now a crippled unfit to rule. Aemond…” Daeron’s mouth twisted. “Aemond is unraveling by the day. The war has unmade him. Ormund sees it clearly. He has no faith in either of them.”

Gwayne stared at him for a long moment, the color draining from his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with disbelief and something closer to pain.

“You would truly do this?” he asked. “Turn against your own blood, plot with my cousin to steal the throne, and drag her into it with you?”

“I have no choice,” Daeron said, the words raw and shaking with barely leashed fury. “If we remain, he will see her defiled, broken, and put to the sword. Aemond’s mercy died long ago. You know what he did to Aegon. Do you truly believe he would show her any kindness?”

A choked sound escaped your throat.

Before either of them could speak again, you pulled yourself from Daeron’s arms and dropped to your knees on the hard-packed earth. The rough fabric of your dress pooled around you as you reached out and clutched the edge of Gwayne’s cloak with trembling hands. Tears spilled down your cheeks, hot and unchecked.

“Please, uncle,” you begged, voice breaking. “Let us go. I cannot bear to see Aemond kill Daeron. I love him. I love him truly.”

The words tumbled out between sobs, raw and unashamed. You bowed your head, shoulders shaking, still gripping Gwayne’s cloak desperately.

“I know what we have done is wrong,” you whispered through your tears. “I know it is a sin. But I cannot lose him. Not like this. Not to Aemond’s blade. Please… if you ever loved us at all, help us. Help him.”

Gwayne went utterly still.

For a long moment he simply stared down at you—his former ward, the girl he had raised as his own, now kneeling in the dirt with tears streaking her face and pleading for the life of her twin brother. The sight seemed to wound him deeper than any sword ever could.

Daeron made a low, pained sound behind you. He took a half-step forward as though to pull you back to your feet, but stopped himself. His hands curled into fists at his sides, violet eyes burning with a mixture of anguish and fierce, helpless love as he watched you beg for his life.

Please,” you whispered again, voice breaking completely. “Please, papa.”

The word struck Gwayne like a physical blow.

He flinched, his breath catching audibly. For a heartbeat he simply stared at you, his expression cracking wide open with grief and old, helpless love. That single word — papa — seemed to undo whatever resolve he had left.

It was the name you had called him in childhood, when he had bandaged your scraped knees and dried your tears after nightmares. The name that belonged to a simpler time, before war and duty and this terrible, forbidden love had torn everything apart.

Gwayne’s eyes glistened. He looked down at you as though his heart were breaking in his chest.

“Gods help me,” he whispered, voice thick and shaking. “Do not call me that. Not while you kneel in the dirt for him.”

But you did not rise. Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks as you clung tighter to his cloak, your shoulders trembling with the force of your sobs.

“Please, papa,” you begged again, the word breaking his heart, and possibly his oath. “Please. I cannot lose him. I love him. I love him more than my own life.”

His hand hovered above your head as though he meant to touch your hair the way he had when you were small, but he could not bring himself to do it.

“Get up,” he said hoarsely. The words sounded like they had been torn from him. “Get up now!”

When you still did not move, something in him finally gave way.

“Very well,” Gwayne whispered, defeated. “I will help you.”

He reached down and gently took your hands in his, prying your fingers from his cloak. His eyes were bright with unshed tears as he looked at you, then past you to Daeron.

“Go now,” he said quietly, the words heavy with resignation. “Fly on Tessarion to Oldtown. I will tell Aemond that you have fallen ill—something sudden and grave—and that you begged to be taken to Lannisport to see a maester. I will say Daeron offered to fly you there himself and return at once. It will buy you time. Not much, but perhaps enough.”

He gently helped you to your feet, his hands lingering on your arms as though he were memorizing the feel of you one last time.

“Tell no one where you are truly bound. Once you reach Oldtown, you are in my cousin’s hands. What he does with you after that…” Gwayne’s jaw tightened. “That is between you and him”.

Daeron stepped forward, still holding you close with one arm. His violet eyes were dark with a mixture of gratitude and grim understanding.

“You are risking much for us, Uncle.”

“I am damning myself for you,” Gwayne answered without bitterness, only weary acceptance. “But I will not watch you both die tonight.”

Thank you, papa,” you whispered, voice muffled and breaking. “For everything, I love you.”

Gwayne went utterly still for a moment. Then his arms came up and closed around you, holding you with a fierce, protective tenderness that belonged to a father, not a knight. He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his lips trembling against your hair.

“My brave girl” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Go now. Before I lose what little courage I have left, before the love I have for you both wavers.”

You looked back at your father figure one last time. “Bye,” you whispered, the word small and trembling.

Daeron’s hand found yours. He laced his fingers through yours and squeezed once, firm and grounding, before pulling you toward the back of the tent. The two of you slipped through the narrow gap in the canvas and into the cold night air, moving quickly and quietly through the shadows toward the clearing where Tessarion waited.

The blue queen lifted her head the moment she sensed you both. She seemed to understand the urgency without needing words. The instant Daeron helped you onto her back and climbed up behind you, one of his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you firmly against him.

Tessarion launched into the sky with a powerful beat of her wings.

The wind hit you hard and fast as she climbed, her speed fierce and unrelenting. The war camp fell away beneath you in seconds. The world below had vanished into the blackness of the night, and all around you stretched a sea of stars.

Tessarion cut through the darkness like a blade, her powerful body slicing through the air with such speed that it felt as though you were gliding through starlight itself. Daeron’s arm remained locked around your waist the entire time, holding you against him as the wind roared around you both.

Neither of you spoke for a long while. There was only the distant roar of Tessarion’s wings, and the steady, frantic beating of two hearts flying toward an uncertain future.

After some time, you turned your head slightly, your voice barely carrying over the wind.

“Daeron… what are we going to do in Oldtown?”

His grip on your waist tightened instantly, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress. He leaned forward, his chest pressing more firmly against your back, his lips brushing close to your ear so you could hear him clearly.

“I’m going to marry you in the Starry Sept tonight.”

The words struck you like dragon fire.

For a moment, you could only stare ahead into the darkness, the wind whipping strands of your rose-gold hair across your face.

“I’ve already decided,” he continued, voice low and fierce against the roar of the wind. “The moment we land, I will take you to the Starry Sept. I will stand before the Seven with you and make you my wife in the sight of gods and men.”

He pressed his face into the side of your neck for a brief second, breathing you in.

“I don’t care what Ormund demands. I don’t care what price he asks for his protection. You will be my wife before this night is over. And once it is done…” His voice dropped even lower, rough with something dark and possessive. “No one will ever be able to undo it. Not the king. Not a betrothal. Not my brother. Not the Faith itself.”

Tessarion let out a low, rumbling cry as she cut through the sea of stars, as though she too understood the weight of what had just been spoken.

“Say something,” he murmured against your ear, a hint of vulnerability threading through the steel in his voice. “Tell me you want this too. Tell me you’ll stand with me in that sept tonight…”

He was willing to marry you — to risk his freedom, his claim, even his life — all for you. Of course you wanted to marry him. You had loved him all your life.

From the moment you drew your first breath in the same cradle, Daeron had been your constant. In Oldtown, he had protected you fiercely — standing between you and anyone who tried to dye your pretty pink hair Hightower brown, shielding you from the sharp tongues and colder hands of those who did not understand your Targaryen nature. He had even snuck you down to the dragon pit in the dead of night, holding your small hand tightly in his as he helped you bond with your dragon, whispering that the two of you would always have each other, no matter what the world tried to take.

“Blood of my blood,” you said sweetly, the words carrying back to him on the wind. “I was born to marry you.”

He leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head, then another, softer one to your cheek. The tenderness of it almost made you cry.

“Then it’s settled,” he murmured against your cheek, voice low and rough with emotion. “I’ll protect you forever. You will never have to fear again. Not Aemond. Not the realm. Not anyone. I will stand between you and the world if I must.”

He pressed one more kiss to the back of your neck before resting his chin on your shoulder.

You are mine,” he whispered fondly, his voice low and warm against your ear. “My future wife. My future queen. The mother of my future dragons. I will carve out a place for us in this world — somewhere you no longer have to hide who you are, … what we are”.

In that moment, despite the war and the uncertain future ahead, you felt a overwhelming peace settle over you. You leaned back against Daeron’s chest and tilted your head up to look at him. He met your gaze, and for a brief second, the fierce prince softened into the boy you had always loved.

He reached down, gently cradling your jaw, and captured your lips in a soft, chaste kiss — tender and full of quiet devotion

You had both spent your lives having every choice made for you. But tonight, for the first time, you were choosing something for yourselves. Something reckless and entirely your own.

And flying through the stars with the boy who had always been your home, you finally felt free.

Lemme know if you wanna be tagged for part 3💚

Aerion Targaryen x Cousin Reader (Reader is Valarr’s sister and Betrothed)

Summary: At a lavish feast in the Red Keep, Aerion Targaryen sets his sights on his cousin — the girl betrothed to another. With charm, patience, and carefully poured wine, he slowly isolates her from the crowd, wearing down her resistance until she’s too drunk to properly refuse him.

What begins as seemingly harmless attention turns into something far darker when he convinces her to come to his chambers to “rest.” Once alone, Aerion takes what he believes has always been his.

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: This fic contains explicit non-consensual sexual content. The reader character is intoxicated and unable to consent. It also includes physical violence during the intimate scenes, including slapping and choking. Please read with caution. Dead dove. 18+. Minors DNI

Y/N sat near the high table in a soft blue gown. The fabric was modest for a maiden, but it still clung to her body in ways that drew eyes. She had a tiny, narrow waist that flared into wider hips, but her most striking feature was the full, heavy curve of her chest, which strained noticeably against the silk whenever she moved or breathed. Her thick silver hair had been brushed until it shone and left mostly loose, falling in waves down her back. The small crimson dragon birthmark on her inner left arm was hidden beneath her sleeve.

She was trying to enjoy herself, but these feasts still made her feel small and out of place.

Aerion had noticed from the moment she arrived.

He sat a few places away, positioned so he could watch her without drawing too much attention. Every time her cup grew low, he caught the eye of a passing servant and gave the smallest nod. More wine. Always more wine. Sweet Arbor Gold, poured generously.

Y/N had already had more than she meant to.

“You seem quiet tonight,” Aerion said during a lull in the music, leaning across the table just enough for his voice to reach her. His tone was warm, almost concerned. “These things can feel overwhelming when you’re not used to them.”

She glanced over and offered a small, polite smile. “I’m fine. Just listening.”

He smiled back — that slow, knowing smile. “You listen more than most. That’s rare. Most girls your age never stop talking.” His eyes lingered on her face before drifting lower to her generous chest. “It suits you. Makes you stand out.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm. She took another sip of wine to hide it.

Aerion refilled her cup again without asking.

“I should probably get back to my brother soon,” she said after a while, glancing toward the high table where Valarr sat deep in conversation. “He is my betrothed. He’ll wonder where I’ve gone.”

Aerion’s smile didn’t waver. “Your betrothed is busy. He won’t miss you for a little while.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something more intimate. “Besides, you deserve a night where someone actually sees you.”

She hesitated, fingers tightening around her cup. “Still… I should check on him.”

Aerion reached over and placed a piece of honeyed bread on her plate himself, his fingers brushing hers in the process. The touch lingered half a second longer than necessary. “Eat something. You’ve barely touched your food. And stop worrying so much about your brother. He’s a grown man. You’re allowed to have your own evening.”

Y/N ate the bread without thinking. It helped settle her stomach but did nothing for the wine already in her blood. When Aerion refilled her cup again, she didn’t stop him.

He kept the conversation flowing — questions about the books she liked to read, light stories about old Valyrian legends, small compliments slipped in between. Every time she tried to excuse herself, he found a way to keep her there. Another story. Another question. Another refill.

“You keep trying to leave,” he said after another attempt, his voice gentle but with an undercurrent of something firmer. “Do you really think your betrothed needs you hovering over him all night? Let yourself enjoy something for once.”

Y/N looked down at her cup, cheeks burning. The wine had been refilled again without her noticing. She felt self-conscious of how her body moved with every breath, how the gown pulled across her chest.

By the time the musicians struck up a livelier tune and people began moving toward the open space for dancing, Y/N’s head felt pleasantly light. The hall didn’t seem quite so loud anymore. Her cheeks were warm. Her limbs felt loose. The wine had made everything softer around the edges.

Aerion had shifted closer during the meal. His arm rested along the back of her chair now. Every so often his fingers would brush her shoulder or the back of her neck. Once, when she leaned forward, his hand brushed the side of her chest.

“Thank you, Prince Aerion, for the conversations. I think I’m going to get some rest now,” she said again, her voice softer and slightly slurred at the edges. She pushed her chair back a little.

Aerion’s hand settled lightly on her shoulder, keeping her in place without force. “One more dance,” he said, voice low and coaxing. “Then I’ll walk you back myself. I promise.”

“I don’t think I should dance,” she murmured, trying to stand. The room tilted. “Forgive me, my prince, but I might not be a very good dance partner right now”

“You’re fine,” he said, rising with her and steadying her with a hand at her waist. His fingers spanned the narrow curve. “Just a little dizzy from the wine. It happens. Come on. Some air will help.”

She tried once more, weaker now. “Aerion… wait.”

But he was already guiding her away from the table, one arm around her waist as if she needed the support. The music and laughter of the feast faded behind them as they moved into a quieter corridor.

Y/N leaned against the cool stone wall, one hand pressed to her forehead. “I really shouldn’t have had so much…”

“I know,” Aerion said softly, stepping in close. His body blocked most of the light from the hall. “But you’re safe with me.”

His hand came up to brush her hair back again. This time it didn’t stop at her cheek. It slid down the side of her neck, then lower, until both of his hands settled on her chest. He didn’t squeeze yet — he just cupped her, feeling the weight through the silk, thumbs brushing slowly over her nipples.

Y/N’s breath caught. “Aaah— my prince, please… this is inappropriate.”

“Shh.” His thumbs circled her nipples, teasing them into stiff peaks. “No one’s watching. No one cares what we do right now. You’ve been so good all night — smiling, being polite… letting everyone stare without ever touching.” His other hand settled on her waist, fingers pressing in just enough to hold her in place. “Let me touch you. Just for a little while.”

She tried to step back, but the wall was behind her and his body was in front.

Aerion leaned in and kissed her before she could finish the sentence.

It started slow — almost gentle — but quickly turned deeper, more insistent. His tongue slid against hers while his hands kept working her chest, squeezing and rolling the soft flesh. Y/N made a small, uncertain sound into his mouth. Her hands came up to his chest, not quite pushing him away but not pulling him closer either.

When he broke the kiss, her lips were wet and her breathing uneven.

“Come with me,” he said, voice rough. “Just for a little while. Somewhere quieter. I want to show you something.”

He steered her down the corridor, one arm around her waist to keep her steady. The wine made resistance feel distant and difficult.

Instead of leading her back toward the hall or the gardens, Aerion guided her toward the wing where the royal family kept their private chambers.

Y/N blinked, trying to clear her head. “This… this isn’t the way back…”

“You’re too drunk to go back to the feast like this,” Aerion said smoothly, his voice full of false concern. “You’ll embarrass yourself. Come to my chambers. Just to rest for a little while. No one will know. I’ll make sure you’re comfortable, and then I’ll take you back to your brother myself once you’ve sobered up a bit.”

She hesitated, swaying slightly. “I can’t go into your chambers, my prince. My father told me to never enter a man’s chamber alone.”

“I know,” Aerion said gently, already steering her down the quieter corridor. “But you can barely stand. If you go back now, everyone will see how much you’ve had to drink. Do you want your betrothed to see you like this?”

Y/N shook her head slowly. The idea of Valarr or her father Baelor seeing her drunk and unsteady made her stomach twist with shame.

“That’s what I thought,” Aerion murmured. “Come. Just rest for a bit. I promise I’ll take care of you.”

She let him lead her the rest of the way.

Aerion’s chambers were larger and more luxurious than she expected — dark wood, rich tapestries, a large canopied bed, and a fire already burning low in the hearth. He closed the door behind them and locked it with a soft click.

Y/N stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly. “I… I should only rest for a little while. Then I need to get back to my brother…”

“Of course,” Aerion said, guiding her toward the bed with a hand on her waist. “Just lie down for a bit. You’ll feel better.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to her forehead. The room was spinning more now that she was alone with him.

Aerion sat beside her on the bed. For a moment he just looked at her — at her flushed cheeks, her slightly unfocused mismatched eyes, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, straining against the blue silk.

Then he reached out and brushed a strand of silver hair from her face.

“You worry too much about your brother,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t own you.”

Before she could answer, he leaned in and kissed her again.

This time there was no gentleness. He pushed her back onto the bed, his body covering hers. Y/N made a soft sound of protest and tried to push at his chest.

“Aerion, wait— I’ve never done this before ”

He ignored her.

His hands were already at the laces of her gown, tugging them open with impatient fingers. He yanked the front apart, exposing her chest to the cooler air of the room. Aerion made a low, hungry sound and immediately filled his hands with her, squeezing hard enough to make her whimper. His thumbs rolled over her sensitive peaks, pinching and tugging until they ached.

“So fucking perfect,” he muttered.

Y/N tried to cover herself with her arms, but he caught her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand while his mouth descended, sucking hard. She cried out, back arching off the bed.

His free hand shoved her skirts up roughly. He tore her smallclothes aside and pushed two fingers inside her without warning. Y/N gasped at the sudden stretch, her body clenching around the unfamiliar intrusion.

“Tight,” he groaned against her skin. “So fucking tight. You really are untouched.”

She nodded, tears stinging her eyes. “Aerion, please… I don’t want this’

He curled his fingers inside her, finding a spot that made her hips jerk despite herself. His thumb rubbed tight circles over her clit while he worked her open.

“You keep saying that,” he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “But you’re not going anywhere.”

He withdrew his fingers and freed his cock, already hard and flushed. He lined himself up and pushed inside her in one long, relentless thrust.

Y/N cried out, the sound sharp and broken. The pain was immediate — the stretch, the burn, the feeling of being split open for the first time. Tears spilled down her cheeks as he bottomed out inside her.

Aerion groaned, forehead pressed to her shoulder. “Fuck… so perfect. Worth every year I waited.”

He didn’t give her time to adjust. He pulled back and thrust again, harder, setting a brutal pace that rocked the heavy bed beneath them. Y/N’s hands pushed weakly at his chest, then fisted in his robes as she tried to stay quiet.

Every thrust hurt. She could feel him deep inside her, claiming what had never belonged to anyone else. He reached up with one hand and squeezed her chest roughly, using it as leverage while he fucked her.

“Say my name princess” he panted against her ear. “Say who’s inside you.”

She shook her head, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood.

He fucked her harder, one hand gripping her waist bruisingly tight while the other slid up to wrap around her throat — not choking, but holding her in place.

When the words finally came, they were broken and small.

“Valarr”

Aerion’s eyes flashed with sudden rage. He slammed into her harder, the force of it jolting her entire body up the bed.

“You dare bring him up while I’m inside you?” he snarled.

He released her throat only to slap her across the face — hard. The crack echoed in the chamber. Y/N cried out, head snapping to the side. Fresh tears spilled over as pain bloomed across her cheek.

Aerion grabbed her jaw and forced her to look at him, still fucking her with brutal, punishing thrusts.

“Say it again,” he hissed. “I fucking dare you.”

Y/N’s voice came out small and shaking. “Val-”

The second slap was harder. Her lip split. Blood welled and trickled down her chin. Aerion’s eyes were wild, violet fire and something far darker.

He wrapped both hands around her throat this time and fucked her like he was trying to erase every trace of her betrothed from her body and mind. Y/N’s hands clutched at his wrists, not quite fighting, more like holding on as her vision blurred at the edges. Each thrust drove the air from her lungs. Each slap or squeeze reminded her who held the power here.

Near the end, as the intensity built and her body began to betray her with unwanted sparks of sensation, something broke through her resistance. Her voice, hoarse from the pressure on her throat and the relentless pace, slipped out in a broken, involuntary moan.

“Aerion… Aerion…”

Her body suddenly seized. A powerful orgasm ripped through her without warning, and she came hard — squirting around his cock in hot, uncontrollable pulses. The sensation made her cry out again, her legs shaking violently as fluid soaked the sheets beneath them.

Aerion froze for half a second, then let out a low, amused laugh.

“Well, well…” he murmured, voice thick with dark satisfaction. He slowed his thrusts just enough to feel every spasm and every gush of liquid around him. “Look at that. You really are a filthy little thing, aren’t you?”

He kept moving through her orgasm, grinding deep while she continued to twitch and squirt around him. The amusement in his voice was clear.

“Crying and begging one second, and now you’re soaking my cock like a desperate little slut. Your cunt is so much more honest than your mouth”’

Y/N could only whimper, too overwhelmed and humiliated to form words. Tears streamed down her face as her body continued to betray her, another smaller gush escaping her as Aerion kept fucking her through the aftershocks.

Aerion’s amusement only grew. He leaned down, lips brushing her ear as he spoke in a low, mocking tone.

“Valarr’s precious little betrothed,” he taunted softly. “So proper. So innocent. And here you are, squirting all over her cousin. What would he think if he could see you like this?”

The combination of his words, the relentless pace, and the overwhelming sensation pushed her over again.

Another broken moan tore from her throat as she came a second time, smaller but still wet, soaking the front of his hips and the sheets beneath them.

Aerion groaned, clearly enjoying the mess she was making.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice dark with cruel delight. “Keep going. Make a fucking mess for your dragon.”

He kept thrusting through it until his own release hit. With a low, guttural groan, he buried himself as deep as he could and came hard inside her, grinding through his orgasm while Y/N’s body continued to twitch and leak around him.

When he finally stilled, he stayed inside her for a long moment, breathing hard. Then he let out a quiet, amused chuckle against her neck.

“Messy little thing,” he said, almost fondly. “I didn’t expect that.”

He pulled out slowly, watching with open amusement as a mixture of his cum and her release leaked out of her. Y/N lay there shaking, tears still falling, too humiliated and overwhelmed to move.

Aerion reached down and casually wiped two fingers through the mess between her legs, then brought them up to her lips.

“Clean them,” he ordered softly.

When she didn’t immediately obey, he pressed them against her mouth until she parted her lips. He pushed his fingers inside, making her taste the evidence of what her body had done.

He smiled, clearly entertained by the whole thing.

He pulled his fingers free and wiped them on her thigh before standing up. He adjusted his clothes with calm efficiency, then looked down at her — at the tears on her face, the bruises already forming on her body, and the wet, ruined sheets beneath her.

“Rest here for a while,” he said, voice almost gentle now. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you. And remember — this is our secret. For now.”

Daeron Targaryen x Twin Reader

Fic and title inspired by Oedipus by Regina Spektor

Aged up characters- Daeron and his Twin are 19

Summary:

“In the war-torn dark of his campaign tent, you find your twin brother Daeron hollowed by battle and haunted by the betrothal that will soon hand you to his brother Aemond. Once the gentlest of the Targaryen sons, Daeron has been quietly breaking beneath the weight of being the spare’s spare—the last son always expected to yield.

But when your comfort turns to desperate, forbidden touch and Aemond’s name slips from your lips, something inside him finally snaps. The sweet boy you loved is gone, replaced by a possessive, unhinged hunger that refuses to let you go. Not to duty. Not to dragons. Not even to blood.

As Vhagar’s roar shakes the sky and discovery threatens to destroy you both, Daeron makes his claim brutally clear you were always meant to be his. And he will burn the realm before he lets anyone take you.”

Warnings: This fic contains explicit twincest, graphic sexual content, obsessive possessiveness, and dubious consent elements including threats of forced sex. War trauma, family conflict, and dark themes are present. Reader discretion is advised. DEAD DOVE 18+. Minors DNI.

Work count 3.1k

Inside the spacious canvas of Daeron’s tent, the air hung heavy with woodsmoke, dragon musk, and the sharp scent of healing herbs. You stood before your twin, Daeron Targaryen, the gentle flame of your shared blood. Weeks had passed since you last saw him—long, agonizing weeks while he rode on campaign with Tessarion. Golden firelight flickered across scattered battle maps and heavy Targaryen tapestries, casting long shadows that only made the exhaustion on his face look deeper.

His once-proud shoulders were bowed. Bruises bloomed along his jaw and brow like crushed violet petals, half-hidden beneath a lock of dyed brown hair. He had sacrificed even the silver-gold of his birthright to move unseen among the enemy. The sight of it still hurt.

You crossed the space between you without hesitation, your dress and long pale rose-gold hair swaying in the firelight. He looked up at the sound of your steps, violet eyes lifting to meet yours. For a moment the hunger in them was unmistakable, but beneath it was something softer—relief, longing, and a bone-deep weariness that made your chest ache.

“Sister,” he said, voice rough. He reached for you and pulled you close, hands trembling slightly as they settled on your waist. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I thought of you every moment I was gone.”

You threaded your fingers gently through his darkened hair, studying him. The war had hollowed him out. The gentle boy you had grown up with—the one who used to bring you wildflowers and read to you in the gardens until your head rested on his shoulder—was still there, but he looked thinner, older, haunted.

“Daeron…” Your voice was soft, thick with everything you had been holding in since he left. “Lēkia, I miss you so much. Let me carry some of this burden. What can I do to help? I can’t bear to see you like this.”

The words seemed to hit him harder than you expected. His eyes closed for a moment, as if the simple offer of relief was almost too much to accept. You had always been able to read him better than anyone. You saw the way the killing weighed on him, how every victory carved away another piece of the sweet, dutiful boy he had once been.

He gave a shaky laugh that held no real humor. “You already carry enough just waiting for me to come back alive. I won’t put more on you.”

“But I want to,” you insisted, stepping closer between his knees. Your hands moved to his shoulders, thumbs pressing carefully into the tight muscle there. He was so tense it felt like touching stone. “You’ve been carrying all of this alone. The battles. The deaths. The weight of every decision. I see it in your eyes, Daeron. You’re not sleeping. You’re barely eating. And now this…” Your fingers brushed lightly over the bruise along his jaw. “I hate it. I hate seeing what it’s doing to you.”

He leaned into your touch like a man starved for gentleness. For a long moment he simply let you tend to him—your fingers working slowly over his shoulders, down his arms, careful around every new mark the war had left on him. You had done this for him before, when you were children and he came back scraped from training. Back then it had been easy. Now it felt like trying to hold together something that was quietly cracking.

“I dream about them,” he admitted quietly, voice low so only you could hear. “The men I’ve killed. The ones who begged. The ones who didn’t. I used to think if I was honorable… if I fought cleanly… it would matter. But it doesn’t. It all feels the same in the dark.” His hands tightened on your waist. “And then I think of you. Of coming home to you. And for a little while the noise stops.”

Your heart twisted. You had always known he loved you—deeply, quietly, completely. Even before either of you had words for it. He had been your safe place, your secret keeper, the one person who never asked you to be anything other than exactly who you were. And now the war was trying to take even that softness from him.

You cupped his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. “Then let me be that for you tonight. Let me help carry it, even if it’s only for a few hours. You don’t have to be strong with me. You never did.”

Something in his expression shifted. The exhaustion was still there, but beneath it rose something warmer, more desperate. His hands slid up your back, pulling you fully into his lap until you were straddling him on the chair. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“You smell like home,” he murmured against your skin. “Rose water and vanilla. I thought about this scent every night. About how you would feel in my arms. About how you’re the only person who’s ever seen all of me and stayed.”

You held him tighter, one hand stroking the back of his neck. “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever, if I have any say in it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His violet eyes were dark with emotion—love, fear, and something sharper that had only grown since the betrothal was announced. The news that you were to be given to Aemond had broken something in him. You had watched it happen. The sweet, gentle Daeron who would have stepped aside for duty had begun to fracture the moment those words left your grandsire’s mouth. Now there was a wildness in him that hadn’t been there before—a desperate, almost mad possessiveness that both frightened and thrilled you.

“I was supposed to be good about this,” he said, voice rough. “I was supposed to smile at the feast and wish you well and let you go to him. But every time I think of his hands on you, of you in his bed, I feel like I’m losing my mind. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. We came into this world together. The gods made us that way. And they want to rip you away from me?”

His grip on your hips tightened, almost painful.

Before you could answer, he kissed you.

It started soft—almost reverent—but quickly turned hungry, desperate. Weeks of separation and fear and twisted love poured into it. His tongue claimed your mouth like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. One hand fisted in your hair while the other dragged your hips down against him. You could feel how hard he already was, the thick line of him pressing up against your core through layers of fabric.

You gasped into the kiss, hips moving instinctively. The friction sent sparks racing up your spine.

The kiss deepened, turning messy and wet. His teeth caught your lower lip and tugged. One of his hands slid up to cup your breast through your dress, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaked. You whimpered into his mouth and ground down harder, chasing the pressure against your clit.

“Daeron,” you breathed when he finally let you pull back for air. “We should—”

He didn’t let you finish. He kissed you again, deeper, and shifted beneath you so the hard ridge of his cock pressed directly against your soaked smallclothes. The thin fabric was already useless, clinging to your swollen folds. Every roll of his hips dragged the rough material of his breeches over your clit in a way that made your vision spark.

You were so lost in it—the heat of him, the way he trembled with how much he needed you—that the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Aaah, Lēkia… we should stop,” you moaned, the protest weak and unconvincing even to your own ears. “Aemond will be joining soon with Vhagar.”

The name hit him like a blade to the gut.

Daeron went completely still beneath you.

For one terrible second the only sound was the crackle of the brazier and your own shaky breathing. Then something in him snapped.

His hands clamped down on your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises tomorrow. His violet eyes, usually so gentle, had gone dark and wild—almost feral. The last fragile thread of the sweet, dutiful boy he had once been finally burned away in that moment. The betrothal had already been eating at him for weeks. Hearing you say Aemond’s name while you were straddling him, while your soaked core was pressed against his cock, while he was shaking with how badly he needed to claim you—it was the final push over the edge.

He was no longer just jealous.

A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest. One of his hands left your hip and came up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back so you had no choice but to look at him. His other hand stayed locked on your waist, holding you exactly where he wanted you—your covered entrance pressed directly over the thick, hard line of his cock.

“Say his name again,” Daeron snarled, voice low and shaking with barely contained rage, “and I’ll fucking take your maidenhead right here.”

The words were so raw, so vicious, that a shocked whimper escaped you. Your walls fluttered helplessly around nothing.

He didn’t soften. If anything, the sound only made him darker. His hips rolled up once, hard, grinding the thick head of his cock directly against your throbbing clit through the soaked fabric. Then the words poured out of him like venom he had been holding back for years.

“I hate it,” he spat, voice trembling with years of buried resentment. “I hate being the spare’s spare. The last son. The one they always expect to bow and smile and give way while everyone else takes what they want. Aemond gets the glory, the biggest dragon, the respect. Aegon gets the throne. And me? I get sent off on campaigns no one cares about and told to be grateful for the scraps. They look at me like I’m an afterthought. Like I’m the one who should step aside and be happy about it. And now they’ve given you to him too—like I’m nothing. Like I don’t matter. You’re mine. You were always supposed to be mine. And I’ll burn the fucking realm before I let them take you from me too.”

He punctuated the last words with another rough grind of his hips, dragging his cock against your swollen clit until you gasped.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice rough and shaking with weeks of repressed madness. “Say you’re mine. Say it like you mean it, or I swear on every god in the Seven Kingdoms I will rip these fucking smallclothes off you and take what’s mine right now while my brother’s dragon circles overhead.”

You were shaking. The contrast between the gentle Daeron who had let you tend his bruises and this dark, possessive, half-mad version of him was terrifying—and it made you ache in ways you didn’t want to examine too closely.

“Daeron,” you moaned, the only word you could manage as he continued to grind up against you relentlessly. “Daeron—please—”

He groaned like the sound of his name on your lips was the only thing keeping him from completely losing control. His grip on your hair tightened as he forced you to keep looking at him while he rutted up against your soaked core.

“That’s it,” he panted. “My name. Only my name. I don’t want to hear his ever again. Not while I’m touching you. Not while I’m making you come. Not while I’m buried inside you—which I will be, soon enough, betrothal or no betrothal.”

The grinding became faster, rougher. Every powerful thrust of his hips rammed the head of his cock against your swollen clit. You were so close, teetering right on the edge, your walls clenching and fluttering around nothing while your soaked core pulsed against him.

“I’m yours,” you gasped, the words tumbling out broken and desperate.

“I’m yours, Daeron—I’ve always been yours—”

He snarled in satisfaction and slammed his hips up harder, grinding the thick ridge of his cock directly over your clit with brutal precision.

“Come,” he ordered, voice dark and shaking. “Come for me right now. Let me feel how much you belong to me.”

The orgasm crashed over you so hard your vision whited out. You screamed his name as your body convulsed in his arms, walls clenching rhythmically around nothing while your soaked core pulsed and fluttered against the hard line of his cock. Wave after wave of blinding pleasure tore through you. Your thighs shook. Your entire body trembled uncontrollably.

Daeron held you through it, still grinding up against you, drawing every last aftershock from your oversensitive clit until you were whimpering and trying to squirm away from the intensity.

Only then did he let himself go.

With a guttural, broken groan of your name he came hard, cock twitching and pulsing as he spilled hot and messy into his breeches. His hips jerked up against you in short, desperate thrusts while he rode out his release, arms locked around you like iron.

For a long moment afterward, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the crackle of the brazier. Daeron’s arms loosened just enough for him to press shaky kisses to your forehead, your temple, your hair. The wildness had softened again, leaving something raw and aching in its place.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice hoarse and cracking. “I’ve always loved you. Even when I tried to be good. Even when I told myself I should let you go.” His arms tightened once more, almost desperately. “But I can’t anymore. Not if it means losing you to him. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m like this now.”

You rested your forehead against his, breathing him in, still trembling from the force of your orgasm. “I know. I know, Daeron. I still see you.. Underneath all of it.”

Then the tent flap tore open with violent force.

“What in the seven hells is going on here?” a voice hissed in utter disgust from the entrance of the tent. The flap was thrown open with force, letting in a gust of cold night air that made the brazier flicker wildly. That voice belonged to someone you both knew well—your uncle, Gwayne Hightower.

His face was twisted in a mixture of shock, fury, and revulsion as his eyes took in the scene before him—his niece straddling her twin brother, dress bunched around her hips, both of them flushed and disheveled in the aftermath of their forbidden passion. The sight seemed to physically wound him. His gaze dropped lower, landing on the damning splotches staining the front of Daeron’s breeches—clear, undeniable evidence of what had just happened between you.

“By the gods…” Gwayne breathed, voice shaking with barely contained rage. “Have you two lost your minds? In the middle of war?! In the middle of a gods-damned campaign with the enemy at our throats and your betrothed’s dragon circling the sky?!”

“Uncle, please,” you cried out pleadingly, voice still hoarse from pleasure and panic. “We can explain—”

He did not care.

Gwayne stormed forward like a man possessed, crossing the small space in two furious strides. His hand shot out and grabbed your arm in a bruising grip, yanking you roughly off Daeron’s lap. You stumbled as he pulled you to your feet, dress still rucked up around your hips, your legs unsteady beneath you. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough to leave marks, his face harsh and disbelieving as he stared down at his former ward.

“How dare you,” he hissed, voice dripping with betrayal and disgust. “You call yourself a knight? You, who I took as my own ward, who I taught honor and chivalry and the sacred duties of knighthood? Taking advantage of your own sister—your own twin—like some common beast rutting in the dirt?”

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This was Daeron. The dutiful, kind, soft-spoken boy he had mentored himself. The one who had always been the most gentle of the Targaryen sons, the one who had listened when Gwayne spoke of duty and restraint and protecting the innocent. To see him like this—breeches stained with the evidence of his own sister’s pleasure, arms still half-reaching for you even now—felt like a personal knife twisted straight into Gwayne’s heart.

“What have you done?” Gwayne demanded, voice rising. “What have you both done? After everything I taught you. After every lesson on honor, on protecting your family, on controlling your baser urges. And you—” His furious gaze snapped to you, still trembling in his grip. “You let him? You encouraged this depravity?”

Before either of you could answer, a deafening dragon roar split the sky overhead.

The sound was so close and powerful it silenced all three of you instantly. It vibrated through the canvas walls, rattled the tent poles, and sent a cold chill racing down your spine. Vhagar had arrived.

Aemond was here.

But Daeron did not care.

A slow, cocky smirk curled across his lips as he rose to his feet, completely unbothered by the wet stain darkening the front of his breeches or the fury radiating from his uncle. He met Gwayne’s glare without flinching, violet eyes burning with dark triumph and something far more unhinged. In two steps he was at your side again. He collected you into his arms with possessive ease, one strong arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you firmly back against his chest even as you still trembled from the aftermath of your release. His other hand settled low on your hip, fingers splaying possessively over the bunched fabric of your dress.

He held you there like a statement.

Like a claim.

Gwayne’s face twisted further at the sight—Daeron refusing to let go of you, refusing to show even a shred of shame.

Daeron’s violet eyes never left his uncle’s. They gleamed with defiance, with madness barely leashed, as if daring the entire world—and especially his older brother—to try and take you from him now.

Let Aemond come.

Let the dragons roar.

Daeron’s hold on you only tightened, every inch of his body radiating the same silent, unhinged promise he had growled against your skin minutes earlier.

He would fight for what was his.

What the gods had promised him.

His birthright.

And if anyone—uncle, brother, or king—tried to rip you away from him again, he would burn the entire realm to ash before he let it happen.

authors note:

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! 💚 I hope this chapter hit the way you wanted.

Please leave comments and let me know what you want to read next — I’m taking requests!

Requests can be as dark as you want. However, I only write fics featuring Green characters (Gwayne Hightower, Ormund Hightower, Aemond Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen, and Daeron Targaryen). Requests set in the era of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms are also welcome (Daeron, Aerion, Vallar). Also MINORS DNI.

What would you like to see next?

Chapter 2: https://www.tumblr.com/drevbkkurwszvhnk/822176718436564992/the-kingss-33rd-son-part-2

Also you can read a “what if” to this fic here https://www.tumblr.com/drevbkkurwszvhnk/821871611202453504/the-art-of-breaking-dragons-aemond-targaryen-x

“Caught in a forbidden embrace with her twin brother Daeron, the princess’s secret is violently exposed when their uncle Gwayne walks in. Chaos erupts — until Aemond arrives. In front of a bound and broken Daeron, Aemond claims what he believes is his by right: her body, her maidenhead, and her submission”

Warning: This fic contains explicit non-con, twin incest, voyeurism, humiliation, rough sex, virginity loss, and graphic violence. Dark themes and dead dove content. 18 +

Aged up characters- Daeron and his Twin are 19

3.3k words and sequel to https://www.tumblr.com/drevbkkurwszvhnk/821815987294928896/the-kings-33rd-son-daeron-x-sister-reader

Gwayne Hightower stood frozen in the entrance of the tent, his face drained of all color, the flush of exertion from his hurried ride fading into a sickly pallor. The urgent news he carried—about King Aemond’s impending arrival with the monstrous bulk of Vhagar —died on his lips. Instead, his gaze locked onto the unthinkable scene before him: his niece, the princess, perched atop her brother Daeron’s lap, her skirts hiked high around her waist, panting from the aftermath of depravity. The air inside the tent hung thick and heavy with the musky scent of arousal and sweat, the unmistakable evidence of their forbidden release already cooling in a dark, wet stain across the front of Daeron’s pants and seeping into your small clothes.

“What in the seven hells is going on here?” Gwayne hissed, his voice cracking with raw disgust. His eyes darted wildly, from the way your thighs clenched around Daeron’s hips, your gown disheveled and riding up to expose the flushed skin of your legs. “By the gods… have you two lost your minds? This is an abomination! Grinding and rutting against each other like animals in heat beneath the very banners of our house!”

You scrambled desperately to cover yourself, shame flooding your cheeks in a burning wave that rivaled the lingering pulses of pleasure still echoing through your body, Your hands fumbled to tug your skirts back down over your thighs, hiding the soaked evidence of your climax, but it was too late. The image was seared into Gwayne’s memory forever. “Uncle—please, it’s not—” The words tumbled out in a choked whisper, your voice still husky from the moans you’d tried—and failed—to stifle.

Your uncle did not care. Rage overtook his shock, and he stormed forward into the tent with purposeful strides. Before either of you could react, Gwayne’s strong hands seized you, ripping you roughly off Daeron’s lap. His grip on your arms was bruising, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he hauled you away from your brother. He forced you to stand behind him, using his armored body as a living barrier between you and your disgraceful brother. The sudden movement left you dizzy, your legs still shaky from the recent peak.

“Stay back!” Gwayne snarled at you, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and revulsion. Then he rounded on Daeron, who was already rising with a murderous glare. “You—defiling your own sister like some common whore in a brothel? I can see the proof, smell it in the air. Have you no shame?”

Daeron moved like lightning, and lunged at Gwayne with a snarl. “Get out!”The older knight stumbled back, but Daeron’s momentum carried them both outside the tent in a chaotic scuffle. Fists flew. Daeron landed a solid blow to Gwayne’s jaw, but the seasoned knight was stronger and more experienced. He grabbed Daeron by the collar and slammed him against the ground, pinning him with a knee to the chest.

“Enough of this madness!” Gwayne growled, pressing down harder as Daeron thrashed beneath him. Mud splattered across Daeron’s disheveled clothes. “I came bearing the arrival of Aemond and Vhagar, and this is what greets me? With my own attacking me!”

You stood trembling behind where Gwayne had left you, clutching your gown closed, tears of shame and fear stinging your eyes. The cool night breeze raised gooseflesh on your exposed skin. “Uncle, please… it wasn’t like that. We love each other. It was only closeness—nothing more than movement of covered flesh. Don’t do this,” you pleaded, your voice breaking as you watched your brother pinned and struggling.

Gwayne’s gaze flicked toward you, filled with disappointment, horror, and a flicker of reluctant pity. “Closeness? You call spilling against your sister through your clothes closeness? This is the rot that will destroy House Targaryen from within. In the eyes of the Seven, even this dry-humping is a sin worthy of condemnation. What would your mother say? What would the realm think if whispers of this reached King’s Landing?”

Daeron strained against the pin, fingers clawing at Gwayne’s wrist. “She is mine,” he spat, blood trickling from a split lip. “Blood and fire—ours to share in any way we choose. Release me, uncle, or I swear by the gods I’ll burn this camp to the ground with you in it.”

Gwayne was at a loss for words for a moment, staring down at the snarling young man pinned beneath him. He could scarcely recognize the person beneath him as the same Daeron he had known— the chivalrous prince who had always put duty and honor first. Where was the courteous knight, the dutiful son of House Targaryen? This wild, possessive creature driven by base lust was a stranger wearing his nephew’s face.

In the heat of the commotion, no one heard the heavy footsteps of Aemond approaching—flanked by several of his loyal guards. The one-eyed prince emerged from the shadows like a vengeful spirit made flesh, his tall, imposing frame silhouetted against the flickering torchlight. His single violet eye burned with icy fury as it swept over the chaotic tableau: Gwayne pinning Daeron to the mud, you standing trembling and disheveled behind your uncle, and the unmistakable stains of passion still visible on your clothing. Vhagar’s distant roar rumbled somewhere in the night, as if the great beast herself could sense the volatile tension crackling through the camp.

“Ser Gwayne and Ser Daeron,” Aemond demanded, his voice cutting through the night like Valyrian steel, cold and commanding. He deliberately addressed his own brother as if he were a lowly knight rather than a prince, the slight emphasizing his displeasure. “What is the meaning of this?”

Gwayne released Daeron and stepped back, breathing hard. “My king, this is madness. Your brother and his twin sister… I walked in on them in the middle of… unspeakable sin. But we are at war. Aemond, please—think of the realm. We cannot afford this kind of division right now. Not with the Blacks at our throats.”

Aemond’s gaze flicked to you, then to Daeron, who was still on the ground, chest heaving with rage. The air grew heavier, charged with the promise of violence.

Daeron pushed himself up, eyes blazing with a darkness that had been building for weeks. “She’s mine, Aemond,,” he snarled, voice low and venomous, the gentle prince completely gone. “She has always been mine. We shared a womb. We share blood. You think you can take her from me just because you lost an eye and ride the biggest dragon? She was never yours. She was born for me. The gods bound us together. You’re just a disgusting kinslayer”

A stunned silence shattered into collective horror as every witness drew in a sharp, audible gasp. Daeron’s accusation hung in the air like the deadliest treason—sharp, poisonous, and utterly unforgivable.

The word kinslayer struck like a thunderclap, echoing the darkest whispers that already haunted Aemond’s name and reputation.

Aemond’s lips curled into a cold, dangerous sneer, though his single violet eye burned with quiet, murderous fury. “The gods?” he echoed, his voice dripping with icy mockery. “The gods gave me Vhagar. The gods gave me the strength to crush my enemies while you played the dutiful little lapdog. And now you dare accuse me of baseless crimes… then claim my betrothed as your own? My future queen?” He let out a low, humorless laugh. “You’re nothing but the last-born scum, Daeron. A spare who has forgotten his place. I’ll enjoy reminding you.”

The vile insults and threat forced Daeron back onto his feet in an instant. Mud and shame clung to him, but rage burned hotter than either. With a wordless snarl, he lunged toward his brother like a man possessed, fists clenched and brown hair wild.

Aemond didn’t flinch. He merely sidestepped with predatory grace, his single eye gleaming with dark satisfaction as Daeron stumbled past him. Before Daeron could whirl around for another attack, Aemond’s hand shot out, fingers closing like a vice around the back of his younger brother’s neck. The grip was iron, pressing just hard enough to promise violence without quite crossing into it yet.

“You dare raise a hand to me?” Aemond hissed, voice low and venomous, close enough that his breath brushed Daeron’s ear. “Over her? After I’ve bled for this family while you hid behind your chivalry and pretty manners?”

Without warning, Aemond drove his forehead brutally into Daeron’s face with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed from Daeron’s nose as he groaned in pain, his head dizzy from the impact.

You watched in frozen horror as the two princes grappled, the torchlight casting long, monstrous shadows across the camp. Gwayne stepped forward instinctively, one hand on the hilt of his sword, clearly torn between stopping the fight and letting the Targaryen brothers tear each other apart. Your heart pounded so hard it hurt, the sticky evidence of what you and Daeron had done still warm against your skin, a humiliating reminder of how this nightmare had begun.

“Enough!” you cried out, your voice cracking with desperation, but it went unanswered

Daeron, still caught in Aemond’s crushing grip, twisted violently and spat directly into his brother’s face. The glob of saliva landed on Aemond’s cheek, sliding slowly down toward his scar in a blatant show of defiance.

For a heartbeat, everything went deathly still.

Aemond slowly wiped the spit from his face with the back of his gloved hand, his expression shifting from cold fury to something far more terrifying — a calm, almost serene rage. His lips peeled back in a vicious smile that didn’t reach his eye.

“You’ve just sealed your fate, little brother.”

“Tie him up,” Aemond ordered coldly, “and bring him back to his tent.”

Then his single violet eye fell on you.

His gaze dragged slowly, deliberately, over your disheveled form — lingering on the rumpled skirts barely covering your thighs, the lingering flush on your skin, and the pretty pink strands of hair that had come loose during the chaos. A dark, unmistakably possessive glint flickered in his eye.

“Bring the princess with you as well,” he added, his voice low and dangerous. “I think it’s time I made my claim perfectly clear.”

Gwayne tried to protest, stepping forward with his hand still hovering near the hilt of his sword. “My King, with respect—this has gone far enough. She is still your betrothed. You cannot—”

Aemond’s head snapped toward him, his single eye sharp as a blade. The look alone was enough to make the older knight falter.

“I can,” Aemond said softly, dangerously. “And I will. Stand down, Ser Gwayne, unless you wish to join your charge in chains.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenched, his protective instincts warring with years of loyalty and the grim reality of their situation. He looked at you — his niece, still flushed and trembling, and his expression twisted with frustration and helpless anger. He wanted to shield you from your own mad brothers, but openly defying Aemond right now, in front of the gathering guards and sentries, risked turning a family scandal into something far bloodier.

With a heavy, defeated breath, Gwayne finally stepped back, though his fists remained tightly clenched at his sides.

“Forgive me, princess,” he murmured toward you, voice thick with regret, as two of Aemond’s men took hold of your arms with careful but firm grips.

Aemond gave a curt nod of satisfaction and turned, striding ahead into the night. You were marched after him, your heart racing as the camp blurred past you. Behind you, Daeron’s muffled groans of pain followed as he too was dragged back to his own tent.

The guards roughly threw Daeron onto a heavy wooden chair binding his wrists and ankles tightly to the frame. He groaned through bloodied teeth, still dazed from the headbutt, but his violet eyes burned with defiance as they flicked toward you.

Aemond stood near the center of the tent, arms crossed, the torchlight casting harsh shadows across his scarred face. His gaze never left you.

“Put her on the table,” he commanded the guards, voice calm and authoritative, “and leave.”

The two men obeyed without hesitation. They lifted you with practiced efficiency and set you down on the large oak table at the center of the tent, your back against the cool wood. Your rumpled skirts rode up again as they positioned you. The guards quickly retreated, closing the heavy tent flap behind them and leaving the three of you in heavy, charged silence.

Daeron strained against his bonds, snarling, “Don’t you fucking touch her—”

Aemond’s head snapped toward his bound brother. Without a word, he struck Daeron savagely across the face with the back of his hand, the sharp crack echoing through the tent. Daeron’s head whipped to the side, fresh blood flying from his already split lip

.

“Speak again,” Aemond warned quietly, “and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

He punched him savagely in the stomach, the blow forcing a pained grunt from Daeron as he doubled over as much as the ropes would allow.

You were now reduced to silent, broken sobs. Tears streamed down your flushed cheeks as the weight of everything crashed over you — the shame of being caught, the brutal violence between your brothers, and the terrifying helplessness of being trapped on this table, completely at Aemond’s mercy. Your body trembled. You felt small. Ruined. Utterly powerless.

Aemond made his way toward you with and he stopped between your spread legs, his tall frame looming over you as you lay on the table. One gloved hand rested possessively on your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh.

“Watch closely, brother,” Aemond said, his voice low and cruel, never breaking eye contact with Daeron. “As I claim what is mine.”

Daeron thrashed wildly against his bonds, the chair creaking dangerously under the strain. “Get away from her!” he roared, blood still dripping from his nose and split lip. “She’s not your property, you one-eyed bastard! She’s my twin—my blood—my everything! Touch her and I swear on the Fourteen Flames I’ll end you!”

Aemond laughed — low, cruel, and dripping with contempt. “Your everything? How touching,” he mocked, eyes never leaving Daeron’s face. “The way you speak about my betrothed…”

In one brutal motion, he ripped the front of your dress open, then tore your small clothes away, leaving you completely exposed on the table. Cool air kissed your skin as Aemond’s hands roamed over your body. He squeezed one of your breasts hard, rolling the nipple between his fingers, while his other hand slid down between your thighs.

“Already dripping,” he mocked, sliding two fingers through your slick folds before pushing them inside you without warning. You gasped sharply at the rough stretch. “Still so wet from him. Did you come on your twin’s cock like a whore, sweet girl? Did you scream his name while he spilled inside this cunt that was meant for me?”

You whimpered, shame burning hot across your cheeks. “Aemond, please—don’t do this in front of him… please, I’m still a maiden…”

The words hit Aemond like a spark on dry tinder. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second in genuine shock, then darkened with raw, delighted hunger. A deep, guttural groan rumbled from his chest as he curled his fingers inside you, stroking that sensitive spot with cruelty.

He turned his gaze toward Daeron, mocking and full of vicious amusement. “You’re pathetic,” he sneered. “You claim she’s yours, but you haven’t even taken her? All that growling and posturing… and you couldn’t even manage to claim your own twin’s maidenhead?”

Aemond laughed softly, pumping his fingers deeper, making you whimper and squirm on the table. “How fitting. You got her wet and desperate, but you left her untouched for me. Thank you, brother. I’ll make sure to enjoy every inch of what you couldn’t take.”

Daeron’s face twisted with rage and humiliation, his struggles growing even more frantic as he was forced to watch.

Aemond undid his pants and smallclothes with impatient hands, freeing his hard cock. He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the thick head through your slick folds once before thrusting into you in one savage stroke, tearing through your maidenhead with brutal force.

You screamed, the pain white-hot and overwhelming as he buried himself to the hilt.

Aemond groaned in deep satisfaction, holding still for a moment so Daeron could see everything — the fresh blood coating his cock and the way your body trembled violently around the sudden, brutal intrusion.

“Look at that, brother,” Aemond hissed, voice thick with triumph. “I just took her maidenhead. The one thing you never managed to claim. She’s mine now. In blood. In body. In every fucking way.”

He began to move immediately — deep, punishing thrusts that rocked the entire table beneath you. Every snap of his hips forced a broken cry from your throat. The sharp sting of your lost maidenhead slowly bled into something hotter, more shameful.

Your body betrayed you, walls fluttering and clenching around his thick length as unwanted pleasure started to build against your will.

Aemond pulled out almost completely, then teased the swollen head of his cock against your clit in slow, deliberate circles, coating it in your mixed juices and blood before slamming back inside you.

“See that?” he growled, fisting one hand in your pretty pink hai. “She’s soaking my cock already. Your twin sister is screaming at me while you watch. Say my name, whore. Let him hear who owns this cunt now.”

A-Aemond—” you moaned unwillingly as he hit a spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. Tears streamed down your face even as your hips started moving back against him.

“Louder,” he demanded, pounding into you harder. “Tell your brother whose cock is making you feel this good.”

“Aemond!” you cried out, the pleasure forcing the name from your lips. “Please—slow down—”

Aemond laughed breathlessly. “Hear that, brother? She’s already begging for my cock. Listen to how wet she is.”

He reached around and found your clit with cruel precision, rubbing tight, ruthless circles while he drove into you deeper. The pleasure became unbearable.

Despite the shame, despite Daeron’s devastated eyes, your body betrayed you completely. You shattered around Aemond with a broken, unwilling cry of his name—“Aemond!”—your walls clenching tightly around him as wave after wave of forced orgasm crashed through you. Tears streamed down your face as your body trembled uncontrollably, the pleasure sharp and humiliating.

Aemond didn’t stop. He fucked you through it with savage intensity, chasing his own release. When he finally came, he buried himself as deep as possible and spilled hot and thick inside you, marking you completely while staring directly at Daeron.

For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged sobs and the crackle of the brazier. Aemond stayed buried inside you, one hand stroking possessively down your spine, before finally pulling out and letting you slump against the table, his seed and your virgin blood leaking down your thighs.

Aemond and straightened his clothes. “You will watch her marry me,” he told Daeron coldly. “You will watch her swell with my heirs. And you will never touch her again. Or I will make sure the realm knows exactly what kind of whore your precious twin is. I’ll sully her name as King Regent and marry her off to the lowest commoner I can find—a beggar, a stableboy, anyone desperate enough to take my seconds. She will spend the rest of her life spreading her legs for scum while you rot in a cell or on the Wall. Do you understand me, brother?”

“I understand,” he whispered hoarsely. “I won’t touch her again.”

Aemond smirked, victorious. He walked over to his bound brother, still half-hard and glistening with your wetness, his seed, and traces of blood. Without hesitation, he wiped his cock slowly and deliberately across Daeron’s cheek and chest, smearing the evidence of what he had just done.