[Daeron Targaryen x Tyroshi!OC] (or x reader I haven't decided yet oops)
Summary: When Prince Valarr Targaryen and Kiera of Tyrosh's union proves "fruitless" in the eyes of the court, another marriage is proposed at the expense of a drunken prince, and a free spirit from across the narrow sea
cw: mentions of miscarriage (nothing else so far)
an: This is my first fanfic! I've been working on this since AKOTSK aired but only just worked up the courage to post. Enjoy and let me know what you think please!!! (master list coming soon, let me know if you'd like to be on the tag list!
A marriage proposed only to strengthen a treaty. That, in the end, was the measure of a noblewoman's worth.
When Kiera of Tyrosh had been sent across the Narrow Sea to wed Prince Valarr Targaryen, second in line for the Iron Throne, the city had celebrated as if a war had been won. The port bells rang from the merchant towers, sugared wine flowed through the streets, and the magisters spoke openly of a brighter future ahead for the proud, sprawling city.
At last Tyrosh might be free of the lingering shame of its past loyalties.
Years before, during the Blackfyre rebellion, a multitude of houses had cast their support behind Daemon Blackfyre in hopes of gaining favour across the great sea should the pretender take the Throne. It had been a gamble born of hastily cast pride and ambition. One that failed infamously.
The Targaryens had not forgotten such transgressions.
The marriage between Kiera and Prince Valarr had been meant as an olive branch, a promise of fealty sealed by blood. A Tyroshi woman beside the Iron Throne, careful of its sharp edges. A child born of dragon and Tyroshi stock. A future that might finally hold the power to bury old betrayals for good.
For a time it seemed the arrangement had worked. Prince Valarr and Lady Kiera were paraded as an unlikely love match found within alliance, a breath of fresh air in the rigid royal family.
Yet the years passed, and no child came.
Kiera miscarried once. Then again... And again.
With each loss the fragile bridge between Tyrosh and the Iron Throne frayed more and more. Without an heir, the marriage became little more than a polite notion. While their love grew stronger, the purpose of their union weakened. The alliance required blood to survive.
And so, a new solution had to be conceived.
Another pact, another alliance, perhaps another bride.
It was a warm summer afternoon when she was summoned from the city. The air carried the smell of salt, sweet wine, and ripening fruit from the orchards beyond the main walls. The sky stretched bright and cloudless from above the deep turquoise waters of the port.
She had spent the morning wandering through the merchant district with her ladies, laughing freely and enjoying the long summer. It was when she had made her way halfway through the bazaar that a household servant found her with urgent instructions to return home at once.
Bidding her friends and the beautiful weather a farewell, she made the unsettling ride back to the estate. There had been no explanation given for her sudden return, only urgency.
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Summary: Haunted by dragon dreams that foretell a future she cannot bear, Viserys' second daughter decides to flee her betrothal before it can begin. Her plan falls apart when the very man she's trying to escape finds her climbing over the Red Keep's garden wall.
Notes: Inspired by Queen Charlotte!! I've seen people rewrite this scene with Valarr and I wanted to do it with Gwayne <3
Gwayne had hoped, above all else, that his future wife would be kind.
It was a small hope, perhaps an unambitious one, but it was the only wish he had allowed himself after his father informed him that King Viserys had accepted the match. Marriage had never been a matter left to younger sons or heirs to decide, and though Gwayne had long since resigned himself to that truth, resignation did not make the prospect any less uncertain. He knew almost nothing about the princess he was to marry beyond the fragments offered by gossip, and gossip was a poor foundation upon which to build a life.
Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.
The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.
Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.
No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.
He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.
His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.
"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."
It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.
No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.
By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.
Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?
-
By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.
It was hardly the first time.
The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.
Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.
You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.
Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.
Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.
So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.
That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.
You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.
Just a little farther...
"You appear to be losing your battle."
The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.
You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.
A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.
You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.
You were in far too much of a hurry.
"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."
His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.
"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."
You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.
"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."
"You are trying to do something."
"I am not."
"You are."
A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.
"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."
"I am simply a guest in the Keep."
The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."
There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"
You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."
The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."
"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."
His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."
You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."
"Are you?"
"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."
A beat passed.
"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."
You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."
"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"
A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."
You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."
The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."
You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.
Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.
"...It's you."
The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.
He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"
You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.
When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."
The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"
You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."
Silence settled between them.
Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.
You did not look mad.
Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.
More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.
Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.
His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"
He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.
You said nothing.
For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.
His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"
You instinctively stepped back.
"I only jest," he said quietly.
Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."
Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.
Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.
I've dreamt of you.
Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.
Whatever future your dreams had shown you, he desperately wanted to prove them wrong.
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Asks are open for any lore questions or theories, or any general thoughts/requests pertaining to Daeron or A Debt of Blood and Gold. I do eventually want to start writing little side stories about Y/N before and after her arrival to Westeros!
Summary: As her departure for Westeros draws near, Y/N of Tyrosh is forced to endure the endless preparations for a wedding she never wanted while mourning the life she must leave behind. Faced with the uncertainty of the Red Keep, she begins to decide not only who she must become, but who she refuses to be.
cw: mentions of miscarriage and stillbirth
an: Some more characterization and Y/N's family lore, as always let me know if you want to be on any sort of taglist and enjoy!
Masterlist
A fortnight passed impossibly slow.
The days following the announcement of Y/N's betrothal settled heavily over her family's estate, as though it were a dark cloud lingering over them. The laughter that had once drifted so freely through the courtyards had quieted, replaced instead by hushed conversations that ceased the moment she appeared. The servants seemed to tread more carefully out of courtesy for the young lady whose future had been decided against her will. It was as if the household itself mourned the loss of Y/N before she ever departed.
The argument between father and daughter remained unresolved.
The first days following had been spent in back and forth debate until there was nothing left to say. Afterwards came a silence far crueler than shouting. She avoided council meetings while he never sought her out. When found in the same room, they exchanged no more than a nod before carrying on.
Pride had rooted itself deeply between them, and her father refused to bridge the gap, believing he was doing what was best for the sake of their line.
Y/N confined herself almost entirely to her chambers, venturing out only when custom demanded it. Her ladies found themselves dismissed more often than not, and invitations from friends within the city went unanswered.
She remained within the comfort of her chambers overlooking the Tyroshi summer that continued on without her. Laughter and music floated from celebrations she had no part in.
She could no longer bear it.
Tyrosh had never looked more beautiful than it did the days she was preparing to leave it behind, possibly for good. Kiera had not graced their great city since the day she left those years ago, she could only expect the same for herself.
She could only will herself to look past it all towards the docks, hoping the narrow sea would swallow her fathers ships whole before one could carry her towards uncertainty.
One day she had found herself reaching for the bottles of pear brandy and sweet wines she had hidden away years before, stolen from feats and celebrations in the name of youthful rebellion. Now they were her closest companions.
'Perhaps I should become as drunken as my future husband', she found herself thinking that evening as the amber drink swirled lazily within her cup.
The thought earned a bitter laugh.
'My duty would be lots easier if I could scarcely remember mine own name'.
She oftened wondered if this was the life afforded to westerosi wives, drowning away their sorrows while being forced to put up a united front. She wondered what lead her future husband to his cups.
Even wine could not quiet Y/N's mind as preparations continued, she could no longer avoid those around her as she put down her cups and took reesponsibility.
Dress fittings, consultations with jewelers, and gifts to be presented before the royal court, they followed one after another until the days blurred together. Her opinion was requested often enough, yet rarely offered or valued. It mattered little to her whether the embroidery upon her sleeves depicted flowers or dragons, or whether the pearls selected for her necklace had come from Lys or the Summer Isles.
A prison remained a prison no matter how well it was adorned.
Her stepmother alone persisted in trying to coax some measure of life back into her, ever a consistent stern comfort in the time they have known one another.
Unlike her father, who buried himself beneath ledgers and correspondence from Kings Landing, Lady Ayria sought every excuse to remain Y/N's support whether the girl willed her or not. She often brought rolls of embroidered silk, tea, and sweets, using them as an excuse as she discussed in her deceptively calm manner what colors would suit the young ladies complexion. It seemed as though she was pretending for both their sakes that these preperations belonged to any regular wedding.
More often than not, she was accompanied by little Emyr.
The boy had only seen four namedays and understood nothing of treaties and rebellion. To him, his elder sister was simply the only person patient enough to tell him his favorite sailor stories of the mystical beasts lurking beneath Tyrosh's port, their other sisters being much older and married to merchants and diplomants alike across the free cities.
He bounded into her chambers without a care clutching a carved wooden ship in his chubby hand.
"Look!" he declared proudly as he scrambled upon the seat beside his mother. "Father says this one has three masts."
Y/N smiled despite herseld, setting aside the silks Ayria had her studying against her will.
"I should hope it does, any less and it would make for a poor trading vessel."
"It is not a trading ship." he replied with a small huff.
"No?"
He shook his head so vigorously his curls bounced.
"It is yours."
She looked down at the toy he now held out to her in surprise.
Its hull had been painted a deep purple, the sails a rich crimson, while messy flowers decorated each side. Great pains had been taken to imitate the merchant vessels her father and his associates oversaw along the bustling harbor.
"I made it," he squeaked proudlym though the uneven carving suggested several patient artisans had likely assisted. "So you don't forget our sea."
The smile upon her face faltered as she ran a thumb carefully along the wood bedore drawing him into her arms.
"I could never forget it."
"You'll come back?"
His innocent question placed a painful weight on her already aching chest.
Ayria looked away, a momentary look of regret crossing her sharp, aging features.
Y/N hesitated only a heartbeat before replying.
"When I am able".
Emyr accepted her answer readily enough, already distracted as he clambered off the seat to wreak havoc through her chambers.
Children possessed the rare gift of believing promises without questioning whether they could truly be kept.
Y/N envied them for it.
A knock sounded upon the chamber door before Ayria could offer any dreaded careful words of support. Though she never sought to replace Y/N's mother, she had certainly taken up the role to the younger womans initial hesistance.
A household servant entered carrying a large frame wrapped carefully in a deep velvet.
"A gift from Kings Landing my lady, his grace the Prince Daeron's portrait."
At once the room fell quiet save Emyrs foot steps along the tiled floor.
The servant laid the portrait carefully upon the table seperating Y/N and her stepmother before withdrawing.
As though two strangers might somehow become acquainted through careful brushstrokes. Neither of them reached for it immediately.
Lady Ayria broke the silence.
"You needn't look today, you have only just-"
"No." Y/N shook her head after regarding the bundle for a bit longer.
She drew back the velvet cover herself.
The portrait revealed a Prince of unmistakeable Valyrian parentage.
Gold, sandy hair framed a handsome face that seemed almost too youthful for a prince nearing twenty years of age. His features were fine, his jaw clean-shaven against his crimson garments. The artist had done everything right in order to flatter his royal subject, yet it did not appear true.
No amount of brushwork could disguise the mans eyes.
A beautiful light amethyst they were, though they carried a heaviness no one could erase.
He looked tired, however not only physically… but spiritually as well.
Like a man who could not locate whatever joy had once belonged to him.
"He is not as I expected," Y/N murmured as her brothers curious eyes glanced over her shoulder.
Lady Ayria tilted her head as she retrieved the boy while still studying the portrait between them.
"Pray tell what you mean, he is rather handsome." Ayria attempted to lighten the mood
"I expected someone craven and spoiled."
"And instead?" her stepmother pushed on.
Y/N continued staring at the painted prince.
"…I see someone truly unhappy." She clicked her tongue and discarded the portrait with slight anger, wishing her stepmother and brother a good night with tension. If Ayria noticed she did not voice her concern, instead collecting Emyr and leaving the girl alone.
As sleep evaded her the eve of her departure, Y/N knew one thing for sure.
Whatever sorrow haunted Prince Daeron Targaryen belonged to him alone. It would not lessen the burden he had become to her.
------
The voyage across the Narrow Sea had been kinder than Y/N expected.
The waters remained calm for much of the journey, disturbed only by the occasional summer wind that sent sailors scrambling across the deck to shorten the sails. Her father spent most days below with his steward, reviewing their arrival and subsequent stay in the Red Keep leading up to her wedding. Her stepmother busies herself with Emyr and the endless task of keeping the spirited chilld from wandering too close to the rails as he studied the ship in awe.
Y/N preferred the solitude of the upper deck most. The sea always had a way of comforting her when the shine and music of Tyrosh became too much for even her.
She spent hours watching the city dissapear behind the horizon until its painted towers became little more than a mirage against the vast waves.
Only then did she permit herself to cry.
The tears came silently, carried away by the sea's breeze before anyone might notice. It seemed as though fear had taken hold of her heart as they neared the shores of Westeros.
Fear, she decided, was a dangerous thing for a woman entering the Red Keep.
Fear invited pity.
Pity invited whispers.
Whispers invited weakness.
And weakness was a luxury she could not afford amongst dragons.
She would not beg for affection.
She would not seek favor.
She would conduct herself with every ounce of dignity expected of a noblewoman, speaking little and revealing less. Let the court whisper that she was cold. Let them mistake caution for pride and silence for arrogance.
Better to be thought distant than vulnerable.
Better to be alone than pitied.
The decision settled strangely within her, leaving her uncomfortable.
While Y/N knew the court of Westeros had surely formed their opinions of the boisterous people of Tyrosh, she would be the opposite, cold and unapproachable, a force that could not be shaken by the courts whispers.
The few weeks she spent in the Red Keep before her eventual relocation to the Summerhall estate would set the precedent for the rest of her married life. She would have to hold out till then if she wanted the eventual breath of air.
And when I said slow burn I MEANT IT. The way things are looking Daeron won't show up till at least late chapter 3 or chapter 4. I hope that's not too long of a wait but I promise it's worth it to properly characterize Y/N and the lore surrounding her.
Summary: When Prince Valarr Targaryen and Kiera of Tyrosh's union proves "fruitless" in the eyes of the court, another marriage is proposed at the expense of a drunken prince, and a free spirit from across the narrow sea
cw: mentions of miscarriage and stillbirth
an: Expanded the preview into chapter one! Once again let me know if you would like to be added to a future taglist, masterlist will be linked below. Also of note, this will be a slow burn and I would like to properly characterize her before she meets Daeron so buckle up and enjoy!
Masterlist
A marriage proposed only to strengthen a treaty. That, in the end, was the measure of a noblewoman's worth.
When Kiera of Tyrosh had been sent across the Narrow Sea to wed Prince Valarr Targaryen, second in line for the Iron Throne, the city had celebrated as if a war had been won. The port bells rang from the merchant towers, sugared wine flowed through the streets, and the magisters spoke openly of a brighter future ahead for the proud, sprawling city.
At last Tyrosh might be free of the lingering shame of its past loyalties.
Years before, during the Blackfyre rebellion, a multitude of houses had cast their support behind Daemon Blackfyre in hopes of gaining favour across the great sea should the pretender take the Throne. It had been a gamble born of hastily cast pride and ambition. One that failed infamously.
The Targaryens had not forgotten such transgressions.
The marriage between Kiera and Prince Valarr had been meant as an olive branch, a promise of fealty sealed by blood. A Tyroshi woman beside the Iron Throne, careful of its sharp edges. A child born of dragon and Tyroshi stock. A future that might finally hold the power to bury old betrayals for good.
For a time it seemed the arrangement had worked. Prince Valarr and Lady Kiera were paraded as an unlikely love match found within alliance, a breath of fresh air in the rigid royal family.
Yet the years passed, and no child came.
Kiera miscarried once. Then again... And again.
With each loss the fragile bridge between Tyrosh and the Iron Throne frayed more and more. Without an heir, the marriage became little more than a polite notion. While their love grew stronger, the purpose of their union weakened. The alliance required blood to survive.
And so, a new solution had to be conceived.
Another pact, another alliance, perhaps another bride.
It was a warm summer afternoon when she was summoned from the city. The air carried the smell of salt, sweet wine, and ripening fruit from the orchards beyond the main walls. The sky stretched bright and cloudless from above the deep turquoise waters of the port.
She had spent the morning wandering through the merchant district with her ladies, laughing freely and enjoying the long summer. It was when she had made her way halfway through the bazaar that a household servant found her with urgent instructions to return home at once.
Bidding her friends and the beautiful weather a farewell, she made the unsettling ride back to the estate. There had been no explanation given for her sudden return, only urgency.
Something had shifted.
By the time she reached her families estate the sun had climbed high, casting an orange glow across the courtyards and limestone columns. The servants moved through the halls in an unusual silence, their voices merely a hushed murmur with a trained neutrality to their expressions. Even the guards seemed to stand more still, checking their surroundings with a carefulness not usually exercised in the free cities.
That more than anything made her increasingly uneasy.
Her father's solar stood at the far end of the upper hall, its carved pointed archway split in half and slightly ajar. She paused briefly to take a breath and run a hand through her bright hair before stepping inside carefully through the doorway.
Closing the door behind her as she left the bustling estate and entered the seclusion of the solar, she took in the permanent scent of ink coupled with the sea wind drifting through the arched windows lining all four walls.
When she finally gained the courage to look ahead, her eyes landed upon her father standing behind his desk, a pristine letter spread open before him upon the surface.
Even before she noticed the tension plaguing his features, her attentive gaze was drawn to the bright red wax seal pressed to the corner of the parchment.
A three-headed dragon of gold.
"Has Kiera written?" she asked ever carefully.
Her father looked up from the letter, as if only just noticing her presence. His expression heavy with thought as he absentmindedly stroked the long olive hair of his beard, a familiar gesture she has known since childhood. Her eyes traveled upward as she noted his sapphire eyebrows drawn together tightly.
"No daughter," he said quietly, his voice ever-strained from his constant barking of orders. "This letter does not come from your cousin."
He lifted the parchment slightly as if hesitant to allow her viewership of its contents.
"It comes from the Hand of the king, Prince Baelor Targaryen."
The words struck her like an unfamiliar chill.
She crossed the room quickly, anxiety rising in her chest.
"Has something happened to Kiera?" she asked urgently. "Father tell me."
Her father rose from his chair at once, sensing the panic in her mannerisms as his large figure moved to ground her.
"Your cousin lives, thank Trios," he assured, raising a hand to calm his daughter. "I assure you she is not in any danger."
He hesitated then, the pause itself heavy with more meaning than perhaps any news he had given.
"But she has miscarried once again, a stillborn son this time."
Y/N closed her eyes briefly, releasing the breath that she could not find the strength to release at the thought of her dear cousins demise.
Relief came first knowing Kiera was alive.
Yet unease filled her chest.
Her father sighed deeply as he looked down at the letter again, as if willing its words to change at a moment's notice.
"Our bond with the Targaryens grows weaker with each passing year," he mused.
Y/N folded her arms, frustration slowly creeping through her lingering anxiety.
"To hell with their bond," she muttered. "Kiera has suffered enough. If they did not treat her like a royal broodmare perhaps she would have born them a child already, perhaps it is them who must change their dealings."
Her father's gaze sharpened immediately, though a hint of what seemed to be fear creeped through the deep cloud of his eyes.
"Daughter," he said sternly, "you would be wise to mind your tongue when speaking of matters of House Targaryen."
She rolled her eyes slightly as she willed her unease away slightly.
"It is not as if they are here to witness my words. Since when do we bend to the dragon lords will." Her father had long before taken a neutral stance when Daemon Blackfyre stationed his rebellion on their lands, disobeying the High Archons will and the heed to action of the Red Keep.
"Aye," her father replied wearily. "But circumstances may shift like the tides. Sooner or later you may find yourself much closer to them than you imagine."
The statement bid her to pause.
Her gaze grew confused, her brows pinching slightly.
"And pray tell what that could mean?"
Her father hesitated. It was incredibly rare for him to hesitate when speaking to her. Their relationship always resolute as he often sought out her opinions in affairs of the district, noting her close relation to the small folk and merchants of Tyrosh. A diplomat she was as she took after her father more than any of her sisters .
"Prince Baelor in the name of King Daeron has proposed another marriage between our house and the Targaryens."
Her stomach tightened slightly as her mind racked itself attempting to remember who in their family was of unmarried besides... no
"That seems unnecessary," she willed herself to speak cautiously "Lady Kiera is already wed to Prince Valarr."
Her father nodded slowly as he worked through her clear state of denial.
"Yes. Yet without a child to bear, their union alone no longer satisfies the crown."
The meaning of his words began to draw slowly within her racing mind.
She stared at him for a moment that seemed to drag on as the waves seemed to rage outside the walls of her father's solar.
"No" she said quietly.
He did not answer.
Her voice only grew sharper.
"No. Surely you cannot possibly be referring to me."
"The proposal," her father continued carefully, "is for you to wed Prince Daeron Targaryen. The eldest son of Prince Maker."
For a long moment the room fell silent, the tension drowning out the thrashing waves of her mind.
Y/N simply stared at him once again, as if waiting for him to bark out his familiar laugh and dismiss the entire notion as some cruel jest.
"Marriage?" She repeated slowly
"Yes."
"Across the Narrow sea."
"Yes."
"To a Targaryen prince?"
"Yes."
She let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"Surely you jest."
"I wish that I were."
The certainty in his tone extinguished the last of her hopeful denial like the flames of a dead dragon.
Her anger rose quickly as she sputtered.
"Kiera has already done her duty to our sanctity," she spat. "She crossed the great sea, she married their prince, endured their court and their mad expectations. What more could they possibly demand of us?"
Her fathers voice remained frustratingly calm through his weariness, as though what he is saying is the law.
"They demand certainty."
"And I am meant to provide it?"
"Yes."
She turned away from him and began picking at the beds of her nails as she paced across the room.
"So that is it," she hissed. "I am to be shipped across the world to the vipers nest in order to mend a mistake made before I was even born, a mistake that our names should have already been cleared of."
"The High Archon's support of Daemon Blackfyre placed our house in an eternally dangerous position," her father replied. "This marriage offers us another chance to restore the crown's trust in our legacy, in our blood… for good."
"By sacrificing your daughter."
"It is not a sacrifice," he replied firmly. "It is duty, one that only you are capable of." She had always been more diplomatically driven than her eldest sisters, her careful yet social demeanor making her perfect for upholding her fathers image within society.
She ceased her pacing to face him again.
"You would have me, a trusted advisor of your council, wed to a drunken prince of the blood who spends more time in brothels than council chambers?!"
Rumors of Daeron the Drunken had reached even the free cities. They were rarely if ever flattering to even a city where such behavior was normalized in the silken streets.
Her fathers expression finally tightened
"Rumors grow rapidly when men speak freely of princes they have never once met."
"So you say you may deny these whispers?"
"I say only that your future husband is a prince of the realm, surely there is honor to be found within his visage."
"Father, you know me well enough to know such notions may hardly comfort me."
Her voice trembled with rising anger.
"Why must we pay for grandfather's mistakes? Why must our generations carry the weight of a foolish, failed rebellion?!"
Her fathers patience continued to fray.
"Because history does not forget, try as we may to will it," he said sharply. "And because we are fortunate to be offered reconciliation by the Targaryens at all. Need I remind you what befell the houses who dared to stand with the pretender against the hammer and his anvil?"
She shook her head, "you could refuse."
"No," he cut in. "I could not."
"You will not." She corrected.
"The letter leaves no room for negotiation."
She stepped closer to the desk, anger blazing behind her pale lilac eyes.
"You want this!" She accused with a jab of her finger. "You want your daughter sitting beside a prince so our house may climb higher in favor, so your trades may be showered in gold, it is of no consequence to you what his constitution may be."
Her father struck his palm against the desk, the sudden sound resounding off of the oak and through the solar.
"You have been given the opportunity to secure our house's future!" He shouted sternly. "And you will take it."
The force of his words stunned her.
"There will be no further argument," He continued coldly. "Preparations will begin immediately. You shall sail for Westeros by the next moon."
For several seconds she could not find it in her to speak. The room felt smaller, the air heavier.
Then the anger returned in full force. Without another word she turned sharply on her heel and stormed from the solar, the heavy pointed arch slamming behind her haphazardly.
The bright joy of the city and the warmth of her beloved summer felt years away. Her life had been changed for good in the span of a single letter, scrawled out by a maester and sealed by a prince that was of no consequence to her.
Soon she would swap tropical paradise for the crowded, stained streets of kings landing and the sharp-tongued misery of its Red Keep. And there was nothing she could do to change the future plummeting over her shoulders.
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Summary: When Prince Valarr Targaryen and Kiera of Tyrosh's union proves "fruitless" in the eyes of the court, another marriage is proposed at the expense of a drunken prince, and a free spirit from across the narrow sea
cw: mentions of miscarriage (nothing else so far)
an: This is my first fanfic! I've been working on this since AKOTSK aired but only just worked up the courage to post. Enjoy and let me know what you think please!!! (master list coming soon, let me know if you'd like to be on the tag list!
A marriage proposed only to strengthen a treaty. That, in the end, was the measure of a noblewoman's worth.
When Kiera of Tyrosh had been sent across the Narrow Sea to wed Prince Valarr Targaryen, second in line for the Iron Throne, the city had celebrated as if a war had been won. The port bells rang from the merchant towers, sugared wine flowed through the streets, and the magisters spoke openly of a brighter future ahead for the proud, sprawling city.
At last Tyrosh might be free of the lingering shame of its past loyalties.
Years before, during the Blackfyre rebellion, a multitude of houses had cast their support behind Daemon Blackfyre in hopes of gaining favour across the great sea should the pretender take the Throne. It had been a gamble born of hastily cast pride and ambition. One that failed infamously.
The Targaryens had not forgotten such transgressions.
The marriage between Kiera and Prince Valarr had been meant as an olive branch, a promise of fealty sealed by blood. A Tyroshi woman beside the Iron Throne, careful of its sharp edges. A child born of dragon and Tyroshi stock. A future that might finally hold the power to bury old betrayals for good.
For a time it seemed the arrangement had worked. Prince Valarr and Lady Kiera were paraded as an unlikely love match found within alliance, a breath of fresh air in the rigid royal family.
Yet the years passed, and no child came.
Kiera miscarried once. Then again... And again.
With each loss the fragile bridge between Tyrosh and the Iron Throne frayed more and more. Without an heir, the marriage became little more than a polite notion. While their love grew stronger, the purpose of their union weakened. The alliance required blood to survive.
And so, a new solution had to be conceived.
Another pact, another alliance, perhaps another bride.
It was a warm summer afternoon when she was summoned from the city. The air carried the smell of salt, sweet wine, and ripening fruit from the orchards beyond the main walls. The sky stretched bright and cloudless from above the deep turquoise waters of the port.
She had spent the morning wandering through the merchant district with her ladies, laughing freely and enjoying the long summer. It was when she had made her way halfway through the bazaar that a household servant found her with urgent instructions to return home at once.
Bidding her friends and the beautiful weather a farewell, she made the unsettling ride back to the estate. There had been no explanation given for her sudden return, only urgency.
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Drafted out a 2k word long first chapter of my DaeronxTyroshi!reader/oc fic... Would anyone be interested in an extreme slow burn maybe canon compliant arranged marriage to lovers fic that would go from pre-ashford to like wayyy later.
So far reader/oc is Kieras cousin that's being arranged to marry Daeron due to the fact that Kiera and Valarr haven't produced any heirs and their marriage was kind of an apology for Tyrosh siding with Daemon Blackfyre during the rebellion.
