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dragons' scars

summary: And after the events that happened during Lady Laena’s funeral at Driftmark, two dragons were left scarred.

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader

word count: 6.4k

warnings: blood, fighting, grief, graphic description of wounds, vomiting, probably medical inaccuracies, representation of alicent and viserys' failmarriage at its best

author's note: whoof. this was a whole lot to write. sorry for the delay, I've been on vacation, but I still hope you all like it! in the next few chapters we'll see reader head first in her position as heir and enter a bit of a rebellious phase. i'm not sure i'm completely satisfied by this chapter, but i hope you all enjoy!

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The raven announcing Ser Harwin Strong’s death arrives at Dragonstone barely a day after the one announcing Laena Velaryon’s passing — as if moving to Dragonstone hasn’t already been hard enough on your family. Now not only is your father unresponsive, but your mother, too. 

Laenor had taken quite badly Lady Laena’s passing. He disappeared until supper, only to come back completely black out drunk after, carried by Ser Qarl. Your mother didn’t have the heart to get mad at him, and simply asked the knight to accompany him back to his chambers; she is closing off, too. 

You’re left to look after your brothers, since your parents are still barely at the start of their grieving; you visit them in the nursery, you play with them, you tell them how good they did with their lessons. You suspect Jace knows the truth about Ser Harwin probably being their real father and maybe he would like to drown in his own misery, too, but you won’t let him. Not when your parents are already going downhill. 

None of you knew aunt Laena, even if your father had promised multiple times to bring you to Pentos to visit her, but her death is still a tragedy. Burnt by her own dragon, per her own request, during childbirth. The fact that your mother survived the same thing not too long ago makes you shiver. 

It’s night when you hear the door of your chambers being opened, and you rouse, a bit alarmed, until you recognize the silhouette of your father under the moonlight. “Father? Is– is everything alright?”

He sniffs, standing beside your bed, then sitting down on the ground. “Do you mind if I stay here? Even for a little while will do.”

“I… sure. For as long as you think you need, father.” He reeks of wine, but you don’t point it out to him, turning in the bed so that you’re facing him. You give him your hand and he gladly takes it, squeezing it. “You know,” Laenor mumbles, “She would’ve loved you.” he wipes his nose with the back of his free hand, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. “I promised you that one day you would have met her, but I couldn't keep my promise. I was waiting for her to come back to Westeros — but I should’ve just flown to Pentos once you were born. Now my sister never got to know my daughter — nor any of my children.”

He laughs; a bitter, teary laugh. “She would’ve really loved you. You could’ve ridden Vhagar and Nādrēsy together — the biggest dragons in the world finally flying together.” another sniff, “I always wrote to her about you, and she said that she had bought some jewellery to give to you. That was years ago, though.” he lets out a choked sob, “I haven’t heard from her in what feels like a lifetime.”

You can’t even imagine being away from Jace and Luke for more than a sennight — Joffrey, maybe, yes, but that’s just because he only cries, eats, sleeps and poops. In a few years you won’t be able to part from him either, let alone grieve for him. You’ve known your brothers for most of your life, while they’ve known you for the entirety of theirs. Losing them, in such a way… you don’t even want to think about it. 

“Where’s aunt Laena now?” you ask him. She may have passed, but she has to be somewhere, right? How can a person just… stop existing?. She still has to be somewhere. Maybe she’s with Merrax.

Your father shakes his head. “I don’t know. For us Velaryons, once we die, the sea takes us back. We’re buried in it, so that it may take back all that we owe it. But Laena was also a Targaryen, and for Targaryens death means going back to Old Valyria with their dragons — but Vhagar’s still alive, so I don’t know how she could be able to reach Old Valyria. For the Faith of the Seven, there are Seven Hells and Seven Heavens, and everyone is judged for their sins and actions, and put where the Gods find adequate.”

“I don’t want to be judged when I die. Isn’t death a punishment enough as it is?” 

“I…” Laenor shakes his head. “I understand that for you it might be hard to comprehend, but death isn’t exactly a punishment. Truth is, men are executed just to prevent other people from committing their crimes by scaring them, and also to prevent them from doing it again; but death itself isn’t a punishment. Sometimes it’s a relief. I suppose that’s how your aunt perceived it.” 

You confusedly nod, still not understanding how she could find it a relief. She had two daughters, a husband, a good name for herself; some people would have given anything to be her. So, why? 

Your father has tears in his eyes. “There are fates way worse than death. I guess Laena thought she had enough.”

He leaves you to sleep with a choppy kiss on the forehead and a cracked goodnight, but you barely close an eye. You ask yourself if your mother would have ever left you and your brothers in favour of a quick death, had the situation been the same. 

Three days later, you depart for Driftmark on your dragons. Your parents carry one of your brothers each, while Joffrey is left on Dragonstone under the attentive care of the wetnurses and maids. The ride to Driftmark isn't too long, and you're one of the last ones to arrive for the funeral — as your grandsire, along with your uncles and his entourage, is already there, and so are many others. 

You see what probably is your uncle Daemon with his daughters, Baela and Rhaena, talking to your grandparents — Corlys a collected expression on his face, Rhaenys with teary eyes. There are a few Velaryon family members, who you recognise from your various visits to Driftmark in the last few years, and your grandsire, sitting on a makeshift throne under the gazebo of High Tide’s courtyard — where the tables with wine and refreshments are already placed. 

A guard announces the start of the ceremony, for Laena’s casket has been placed and is ready to be honoured, and you all move towards the cliff, where your aunt's body is ready to be dragged down and thrown onto the sea; you hold on tight to your father's hand as uncle Vaemond starts his eulogy. He squeezes back, sending you a tender glance full of tears. 

The eulogy is in Valyrian, and you are surprised to find barely any mentions of Laena's life. It sounds more like a praise to House Velaryon, of the thick blood that runs through it, and somehow an attempt at something. You can't decide if he's referring to your brother's not-so-Valyrian features or if he's simply trying to get on your grandfather's good side. Probably both.

“Salt courses through Velaryon blood. Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin.”

Laena's casket is slowly dragged down the rocks, and soon enough, it falls into the waters below. 

You look up at your father, tugging on his vest. “Father, will we be buried like this too?” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “I will be. One day, I shall be united with my sister again and join her in the sea. But you'll be buried like a Targaryen, sweetling. You are destined to be something far greater than to be just a Lady Velaryon.”

You don't like it. You don't like the way he's saying it, like being a Velaryon is a curse. “Why? I want to be buried with you.”

He shakes his head again, almost stoically. It seems this is a talk that, at this moment, is too difficult for you to understand. “You'll be a Targaryen, sitting on the throne. You're destined to be burned by dragonfire.” he sniffs. “Or, or maybe you'll be buried by your lord husband’s family traditions; that's not unusual. I'll be a mere Lord, one day. I am your father, but I am not your duty.”

Your lower lip is trembling, and you bite it to hold in the tears that almost manage to escape. “Father, what are you even saying?” it isn’t fair that you can’t choose where to end up, even in death.

He grimaces. As soon as the ceremony ends, he lets go of your hand and simply disappears, as you all gather back in the courtyard stationed on the cliffside of High Tide. Your mother quickly comes to the rescue, holding you under one arm and your brothers under the others, promising you all lemon cakes and sweets once the ceremony is over.

You soon go to your grandparents, giving them your condolences like your mother told you to and then hugging them tight. Rhaenys almost bursts into tears, but actually, she’s great at hiding them for someone who just lost her only daughter. She pats you on the cheek and just stares for a moment, like she’s searching for something, before your grandfather brings her out of her stupor, gently nudging her to other courtesans. 

You greet your grandsire after that, who kisses your temple and hugs you tight, blabbering about how much he has missed you. “The Red Keep has become dull,” he murmurs, coughing a bit. “My children are in no way as bright as you are. Why don’t you come visit sometime? I could use some laughter, you know, and with your witts you often bring me to tears from it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Grandsire, I’ve been gone for not even a moon.”

He huffs. “Forgive this old man for missing his only granddaughter. You and your brothers are children, behaving like children; that's why your presence is dearly missed.” his gaze goes to your uncles; Aemond is staring dully in the distance, and Aegon is eyeing the maids while being on his… what? Fourth cup of wine? “Meanwhile, I’ve got… children behaving like forsaken adults. A drunkard, a spiteful brat, and… I don’t even know what to say about Helaena. At least she’s quiet.”

You’ve never understood why everyone describes Aemond as spiteful. He’s awkward, maybe even unpleasant at moments, but you wouldn't say exactly spiteful. “Grandsire, that is not a nice thing to say. Helaena is very good at embroidering, for one. Aemond is good with books. Aegon… well, I’m not really sure what, but there has to be something good about him.”

He lets out a disappointed noise, shaking his head. “They all excel at giving me headaches. But you know who’s best at it? Their mother.” he grunts, “She’s been insufferable as of lately. I fear I will go mad.”

You desperately try to take the conversation away from your uncles and aunt, not liking the way he talks about them. “If the Queen gives you trouble, I have a dragon. We could either run away on Nādrēsy or make sure he takes care of her.” as if on cue, a dragon roar is heard from the other side of the cliff.

Your grandsire chuckles and pinches your cheek. “Aren’t you a little rascal? That could be considered treason, sweetling. You’re lucky you’re cute.” 

Soon after you leave him, too, in favour of your cousins Rhaena and Baela. They stay out of the crowd, sitting on a little bench, looking completely inconsolable. You near them, not quite knowing how to start a conversation, since they must have heard condolences all day. 

“Uh, I, uh,” not really the best ice breaker, but you surely have their attention now. “I have some dresses — they do not fit me anymore. But I think that they’d fit you both nicely. If you ever need to take a breather, or, or, some time to think and have some fun, you could come to Dragonstone.” you try to smile, but surely it comes out crooked. “I’d be delighted to have you there. I’m always available if you need me.”

Rhaena tries to smile, too, while Baela barely nods. “Thanks, cousin.” 

Corlys comes up to you three, laying a hand on your shoulder. “Could you go fetch your father, dear?” He looks stiff, and you soon understand why: your father is standing in the waters below, on the beach, kneeling in the saltwater and looking completely lost. It does not take you long to join him, holding up your dress so that only your shoes and collants get wet. 

“Father,” you call out. You can’t go too much farther. “Father, are you alright?” He doesn’t reply. He just stares ahead of him, into the vastity of the Narrow Sea, like he can almost see his sister again. You’ve never seen your father so lost, so… unlike himself. It’s like Laena brought with her a part of him. Is he buried in the sea now, too? Am I destined to never see him again? Not even in death?

“Father,” you try again. You get a bit closer, the cold water biting your skin. “Please.”

Laenor barely turns his head to look at you. He looks like a shell of himself, and you think that maybe, it’s just now that he has realised that Laena’s never coming back. Earlier, he had you to ground him; but once he let go of your hand, he suddenly understood that he was alone. His sister is dead. There’s no one else with whom he has shared the same experiences he shared with her, no one else so willing to understand him as she was, no one else who will look at him as an older brother. 

Laena Velaryon is no more, and you are sure she has dragged your father with her in the depths of the sea. 

It’s well past midnight when you are rudely woken up. It’s Rhaena, you realise, and she is calling your name quite insistently. “What?” you hiss, softening once you remember that you were the one to tell the twins that you were always available if needed. You intended by day, but if they need you, then you’ll gladly get up and get going. 

“Someone has stolen Vhagar,” she murmurs, tears brimming in her eyes. You can hear the she-dragon roaring outside, and she doesn’t sound too happy. “Jacaerys, Lucerys and Baela are already going out — but you have a dragon. Can’t you just… follow her?”

She doesn’t have to repeat it twice, because you’re already putting on your riding pants and a tunic, going for the balcony and calling for Nādrēsy. The infamous Cannibal doesn’t take long to arrive, always at your beck and call, and you soon mount him, as Rhaena runs off — probably to where your brothers and her sister were headed. 

It’s almost impossible not to spot Vhagar: she’s an old, gigantic dragon, that in the years has lost all her spikes and now looks like a giant lizard. Her scales are green, fading into a deep bronze, and her saddle is vacant — not really, you think, as you see your uncle Aemond barely clinging to the ropes of the saddle, almost flying away. 

Nādrēsy roars, unhappy to see his mother, you imagine. He moves to turn away, away from her, and you try to hold tight on the reins, keeping him in place. “Daor, Nādrēsy, daor!” No, Nādrēsy, no!

He whines, rebelling against you for what is maybe the first time in over two years, and you can feel how unsettled he is. It radiates off of him, and before you can even understand what is happening, he’s turning back and going for the beach — searching for a landing. Every attempt to stop him, to make him obey, is vain; he roars over your voice, tuning you out, even when you punch and kick at his neck — it seems the only one hurt by this is you, actually. His spikes are not going to fall off for a while, it seems. Unlike Vhagar he still has them all. 

He lands on the beach, roaring loudly and huffing fire. Since now Vhagar is landing, too, and she is pretty far away, you decide to forget about the stunt your dragon has just pulled in order to catch up with the others — you’d hate to miss Rhaena and Baela, or anyone really, going ballistic against Aemond. 

Except, once you finally reach the entrance of High Tide, you find yourself in front of a scene that will surely haunt you in your dreams for a good while. 

Now, you don’t like Aemond. Not really, since he supports his brother in constantly calling your brothers bastards and mostly keeps to himself. That doesn’t mean that him being beaten up by four children way younger than him isn’t honestly pitiful. You had hoped for a fight, yes, but the kind with screams and insults, not the kind with punches and blood, where one of your brothers could easily get injured. 

Aemond is three-and-ten. The twins are a year younger than you, while Jace is six, barely a year older than Luke. The way they easily win against him almost saddens you, and despite the fact that you have nothing against seeing him beaten to a pulp, your mother is already having a hard time adjusting to the changes of the last few weeks — Joff’s birth, Harwin’s death, moving to Dragonstone — and, you think, your brothers and cousins killing your uncle surely wouldn’t help her. So, against all your best wishes, you stand up for Aemond.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?” you scream, prying them all off of him. You take Jacaerys and Luke by their ears, making them whine as you throw them around. “Is this what Ser Cole taught you? Four against one? It’s not a fair fight!” 

“Whose side are you on? He stole my dragon!” Rhaena screeches, outraged. “Vhagar was supposed to be mine!”

“Well, now it isn’t!” you find yourself saying. “I lost my dragon too, and guess what? I found another one! If he was able to claim Vhagar, then maybe she wasn’t meant to be yours. And I say that with the utmost respect and affection for you, cousin, trust me. If Vhagar accepted him, then maybe she’s not worth that much.”

You turn, leaving your brothers with red ears, looking at your uncle, left groaning on the ground. You offer him your hand, leaning a bit. “Uncle, let’s just go to sleep and forget about all that has happened.”

He glances at you, then at your hand. He takes it, and before you can react, he drags you down towards him. 

He’s got a pointed rock in his free hand. 

Luke and Jace scream before you even feel the impact of the stone with your temple, and it’s not a light throw. It’s one with intent, probably aimed to kill. The pain explodes and leaves you in shambles on the ground where your uncle was just a moment ago, and as he prepares himself for another hit, Jacaerys tackles him. 

Aemond lets go of the rock to fight against your brother, who apparently didn’t come here unprepared, because he’s got a knife that he promptly sheathes. “How dare you?” he roars. “My sister helped you! She reprimanded us about not fighting fairly and you maim her!” 

He tries to fight off the grip on his wrist, his knife pointed at Aemond’s throat. “She should’ve let us kill you!”

His uncle manages to shove him off, throwing him on the ground right next to you, barely conscious and hopefully still breathing. “Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” you never quite understood why people described Aemond as spiteful, but now, laying on the ground in a pool of your own blood, you incoherently understand why. “You will die screaming in flames like your father did, bastards!”

The knife is on the ground, too, but as Aemond reaches for it, Lucerys is quicker. 

When the Kingsguard finally comes to the scene, they find a disfigured prince and an unconscious — dead-looking — princess, both still bleeding, both in immense pain. 

The first to snap out of his daze is Ser Harrold, who immediately comes to your side, glancing at the open wound and reaching for his handkerchief, pressing on the bleeding gash with it. This seems to snap you out of your trance, too, because you let out a blood curdling scream, thrashing against him. “Princess!” he exclaims, trying to calm you down. “I am merely trying to stop the bleeding!”

But it looks like you don’t comprehend anything anymore, blood covering your face and teeth, you find yourself spitting it. All you can think about is the fact that Aemond was going for a second strike. And suddenly, you hold no more pity for him, and find yourself agreeing with your grandsire. A spiteful brat, he had described him. 

Your grip on Ser Harrold’s arm would surely draw blood if it wasn’t for his armour, and you can see the terrified gazes of your brothers and cousins, clouded with tears, as the guards keep them away. As your vision darkens and your head spins, you think you can hear Nādrēsy roaring from outside. 

You are unable to stay conscious for much, slipping between being completely passed out and being awake but quite comatose, and you barely register Ser Harrold taking you in his arms — a guard with a screaming Aemond right behind — and getting you out of there. The thundering from your dragon outside just keeps getting louder and louder, pounding in your ears and shaking High Tide. 

The Grand Maester looks horrified when Ser Harrold brings you into his chambers, screaming about needing immediate help, but soon gets to work. Him and his apprentices work overtime, roughly patching Aemond up for the meanwhile because they have a dying girl in their hands, and it doesn’t take much for you to be mostly drunk off of milk of the poppy. 

When you wake, your head is in a tight bandage, and you’re laid down on a daybed, Rhaenys and Corlys by your side along with your brothers, still covered in blood. Their little butchered faces make you want to cry — you failed. As an older sister, you have one job — protecting your brothers — and you have failed. 

“Mummy,” is the first word that comes out of your mouth — like the scared little girl you are, you are searching for the comfort of the same person who has always given it to you, ever since you were but a blob in her womb: your mother. It’s rasped and barely a whisper, but Luke hears it. 

“Sister!” he screams, jumping on the daybed. “You are awake!”

Your head is pounding and your vision is blurred, but you recognize this room to be the best guest chambers of High Tide, the ones your grandparents sometimes let you to sleep in. If you are correct, right now it’s your grandsire who resides in them. There are murmurs around you, a maester nearing, and a heavy hand settling on your shoulder. 

“She’s not here, sweetling,” it’s your grandfather Corlys, but you don’t recognize him. “Daddy?” you ask, as the maester puts in your trembling hands a calice. You hesitantly drink from it, but as soon as the liquid touches your lips, the first instinct is to spit it out. Corlys grimaces. “He’s… he’s not here either, but we sent for them. They both should be here any moment now.”

“I thought you had died,” Jace sobs, “I could see your skull.”

“It will surely scar,” the maester murmurs, tightening the bandages. “Hopefully, it will do only that.”

A wave of nausea comes over you. The maester seems to notice, and he’s quick to ask for a bucket, passing it to you and patting your shoulder as you vomit in it, ears ringing. “That’s normal. She’ll probably have constant nausea for a while.”

The people around you murmur, and another voice makes itself known in the crowd. “—re’s my granddaughter? Where’s my granddaughter?!”

It’s your grandsire, the King, and he stops once he sees you, bandages bloody and bleary eyes, skin pale and covered in sweat. “What have they done to you, my girl?” he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. He looks at the maester, “Is it serious?”

“I– we have no actual idea of how much it’ll affect her in the long term. In the best scenario, it’ll only scar and leave her with migraines every once in a while,” he grimaces, probably fearing for his life as the King looks furious, “I– in the worst… it, it could have some… permanent effects. Intellect-wise.”

Your grandsire shakes his head. “If you really value your head, dear maester, then you’ll make sure she doesn’t have any repercussions. Don’t forget you have the heir to the Iron Throne in your hands.”

The maester gulps, and Viserys sits by your feet on the daybed, gently placing a hand on your knee. “How are you feeling, sweetling?”

You whine, too nauseated at the moment to speak. The door is thrown open, your mother and uncle Daemon running in, Rhaenyra screaming your names. “Jace, Luke– dear Gods, my girl, what has happened to you?”

Her trembling eyes are frantic, looking at your bandaged wound and the blood splattered on your face, but she is quick to compose herself, putting up a facade in front of the whole court. Later, in the privacy of her chambers, she will hold her three babies and weep as much as she needs, but for now, she has to stay strong. 

Unexpectedly, it is you who starts crying first. Just a little girl crying for her mother, covered in blood and scared for what’s to come. Are you going to be ridiculed for your scar as Mushroom the fool is for his height? You sure hope not.

This enrages your grandsire even more, and he raises back on his feet, throwing his hands in the air. “Gods be good, how could this happen?” he turns to Ser Harrold, “How could you allow such a thing to happen?”

“The princes were supposed to be abed, my King,” the knight replies, tense himself. 

Viserys snarls. “And who had the night watch?”

The Lord Commander’s eyes dart towards Ser Criston, who speaks before he can even be interpelled. “The Prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace.”

Viserys barely spares a glance at Aemond, sitting by the fireplace, his left eye socket being stitched by the Grand Maester. “The Prince?” he says in disbelief. “The Prince? The heir to the Iron Throne could've been killed! You swore to protect my blood!”

A moment of silence. Ser Harrold speaks up. “I’m very sorry, Your Grace.” 

Ser Criston straightens. “The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from other princes, Your Grace.”

“That is no answer!” your grandsire yells, shaking his head. He looks at the Grand Maester, who is now almost finished with Aemond. “It will heal, will it not?” 

“The flesh will heal, but the eye is lost, Your Grace.”

The King sighs. Rhaenyra nods. “That is not even near enough punishment for what he has done to my daughter.”

Alicent’s eyebrows raise up to her hairline. “What he has done? My son has lost an eye. Over what? An innocent scuffle?” “That’s not true!” Jace screams. “He attacked Baela!”

“He broke Luke’s nose!”

“He stole my mother’s dragon!” 

“He tried to kill our sister!”

“Enough!” Viserys rages, immediately shutting down the children. He looks over to you, eyes softening. “My dear, dear girl, are you able to tell me what has happened?”

You sniff. The tears have stopped by now, but the ringing is persistent. “I arrived a bit later than the others.” you murmur, eyes downcast, to your hand, tightly held in your mother’s grasp. “I… I tried to help Aemond. Gave him my hand.” 

You raise your eyes, still full of fear and regret. “Grandsire, he went for another strike.”

“It should be my son telling the story!” Alicent interrupts, voice cracking. “Lucerys Velaryon had a knife– Aemond was ambushed! They meant to kill my son!”

Before your grandsire can reply, you shake your head. Your mother is surprised to find no rage in your words, only… confusion. Disbelief, maybe. “Your son maimed at me when I was simply trying to help him.”

She scoffs. “He was merely defending himself.”

“I gave him my hand to help him off the ground. I had no bad intentions nor weapons with me.” 

You are just discovering one of the bad traits of the human species, Rhaenyra realises. Betrayal, and the worst kind. The one that comes when the intentions are the purest, but the receiver takes advantage. She wonders if after this you’ll be able to help anyone without doubts or second thoughts ever again. 

“He aimed for a kill.”

Viserys turns to his son. “Aemond, I will have the truth of what has happened, now.”

He looks lost. A little kid coming up with a lie. He’s older than you and yet so stupid. “T… they attacked me.”

“That's not true!” Jace bursts. “You called us bastards!”

Silence falls upon the room; you stare at your brother. Had you known that was the motif of the whole ordeal, you would have happily let them beat Aemond till he was no longer recognisable. Your mother pales, and opens her mouth to speak again. “Your Grace, my sons were attacked and forced to defend themselves and their sister, already struck down. My daughter is heir and my sons are in line for the Iron Throne; this is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might know where he heard such slanders from.”

“Over an insult?” Alicent asks, voice trembling. “My son has lost an eye.”

“Your son has permanently damaged the heir to the Iron Throne,” Viserys corrects her. “Now, you tell me, boy. Where did you hear these lies?”

“The insult was but a training yard buster,” his wife interjects, again. “The lot of boys. It was nothing.”

“Aemond,” your grandsire presses firmly. “I asked you a question.”

“Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? Where is the children’s father? Perhaps he might have something to say on the matter.” 

“I…” your grandsire seems to agree, even if doubtfully. “Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?”

“I do not know, Your Grace,” your mother quickly replies. “ I... could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.”

“Entertaining his young squires, I would venture,” the Queen mumbles. The King chooses the best strategy — just ignoring her. “Aemond, look at me. Your King demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”

This is turning messy, you think, too many cards on the table. Your injury, Aemond’s lost eye, your brother’s questioned legitimacy, your father’s absence. For what specific thing are you here? For the fight that broke out or the years of bottled up rage and hatred? 

Aemond’s trembling too, you realise. Yet, for the first time in your life, you can’t find it in yourself to hold even a little bit of pity for him. “It… it was Aegon.”

His brother stands straighter beside him, taken aback. “Me?” 

“And you, boy? Where did you learn such calumnies?” the boy hesitates, “Aegon! tell me the truth of it, now!”

“I…” your uncle sighs, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “We… we know, Father. Everyone knows. Just look at them,”

Your grandsire is silent for a moment, shaking his head. “This interminable infighting must cease! All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it!”

You’ve never seen him so enraged — Viserys The Peaceful, the smallfolk calls him, and not as to jest. He really is a calm and collected person; he has simply had enough, it seems. 

“That is insufficient,” Alicent declares. “My son has been damaged permanently, my King. ‘Good will’ cannot make him whole.”

Your grandsire sighs. “I cannot restore his eye, Alicent. He has wound the heir to the throne. He should repute himself lucky to not have lost his head.”

His wife shakes her head, bewildered. “He is your son, Viserys, your blood! There is a debt to be paid!”

“My granddaughter has already paid more than enough for your son’s thoughtlessness!” Viserys screams. “He wounded an innocent child who was acting in good faith! She helped him and he spat in her face! That is how you are raising your children, Alicent? Aemond is three-and-ten, almost a man, and yet he attacked a girl not even nine summers old! He should be ashamed of himself.”

The Queen looks dazed. “He has paid more than it is acceptable.” her eyes flicker to you; a glimmer of greed, typical of HIghtowers, sits in them. “We… we could wed the children. Who would want the Princess, now that she has been ruined? My son would have a bride as consolation for the lost eye and she wouldn't have to worry about her future husband finding her… hideous, or worse, not finding a husband at all.”

Viserys takes a deep breath. “Alicent, the girl is only eight…”

Rhaenyra's eye twitches. The only thought of one of Alicent’s spawns getting on the throne by marrying you would've been enough to send her on a rampage. "So that she can say that her husband abused her even before the start of their marriage and you can have one of your children on the throne? I would rather my daughter die a spinster than to see that happen. Besides, she’s a Princess — a scar inflicted by your animal of a son could never manage to taint her beauty. It surely won’t help him in the search for a bride, though, so I can’t say I’m really surprised by this proposal.” your mother is trembling in anger as she says this, “I had already proposed something like this, Your Grace, so I don’t see why my proposal should be denied while you expect yours to be happily welcomed.”

A piece of information is missing, you realise, because you have no idea what your mother is talking about. “Very well,” replies Alicent, voice stone cold. “There is still a debt to be paid, and if the King doesn’t bring justice, the Queen will. I shall have one of your sons’ eyes in return. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

Luke screeches and you jump up from the bed, fighting nausea and headache, just to try to keep him safe. Your mother is already making sure of that, hiding him behind her, grabbing you too in the meanwhile, holding you close to her. “Mother!”

“Alicent,” your grandsire chastises.

“He can choose which eye he wants to keep — a luxury that was not granted to my son.”

“You will do no such thing,” the King commands to the knight, who looks conflicted. “Stay your hand.” 

“No, you are sworn to me!”

It seems Ser Cole is not that much of a fool to cut a prince’s eye out of his socket, and he takes a step back. “As your protector, my Queen.” 

“Alicent,” your grandsire starts, “this matter... is finished. Do you understand? And let it be known, anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra's sons should have it removed.”

Your mother takes a breath, and her grip on you and your brothers loosens. “Thank you, father.” 

It all happens so fast. 

In a second or two, Alicent has a knife in her hands — snatched from your grandsire’s belt — and your mother has bolted forward, holding her wrist in place, preventing her from attacking any of you. “Stay behind!” she yells, barely looking at you all — and before you can move to obviously disobey and try to smack Alicent as hard as you can, it’s uncle Daemon who comes up behind you to hold you back as the guards do the same to your brothers. 

You shriek, “Let me go, let me go! I’ll cut her eye out since she wants one so bad!” 

“And then what?” he taunts, putting a hand over your mouth. “For this all to escalate even more?”

“Stay with the King!”

“Alicent!”

“Hold your approach!”

“Stay your hand, Cole!”

Your trashing and turning against Daemon’s hold doesn’t cease, only worsening as your mother grunts in fatigue. “You’ve gone too far,” she grits, glaring at the Queen, steadily holding her wrist and preventing her from wounding her. 

“I?” Alicent asks. “What have I done but was expected of me?” she shakes her head, trembling. “Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law, while you flout it all to do as you please!”

“Alicent, let her go!”

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It's trampled under your pretty foot again!”

“Alicent, release the blade!”

“And now you take my son's eye, and to even that, you feel entitled!”

“Your son almost killed my daughter!” your mother screams, her rage finally exploding. She snickers, but it’s clearly sarcastic. “Exhausting, isn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.” she shakes her head, and her voice softens. “But now they see you as you are.”

Alicent manages to free herself from your mother’s grip; Rhaenyra is sent tumbling behind, but luckily there’s your grandfather to catch her. Her arm is profusely bleeding — the wench managed to cut her — and the dagger falls on the ground with a loud thud. 

Daemon finally lets you go, and you sprint to your mother, holding her wounded arm tight and sniffing into her dress. Despite everything, she still manages to hold you close — as she always does — pressing her nose into your hairline, murmuring sweet nothings and reassurances. 

Your grandsire is speechless; his eyes dart to your mother, then to Alicent, then to your mother again. In the end, he looks at his wife, an unreadable gaze in his eyes. “I accept Princess Rhaenyra’s proposal of marriage,” he declares, the room eerily silent. “and I declare my youngest daughter, Helaena, and my oldest grandson, Jacaerys, betrothed, to put an end to this rift between our family. They are to be married once the boy reaches the age of sixteen.” 

His face holds something you’ve never seen in his face, as he looks at the Queen. Is it disdain? You are too young to really know. “I hope you are happy now, wife.”

So much jewellery was flung at her in the opening months of her queenship that she may have struggled to keep up with it all. Her clasps were capped off by emeralds, her buttons were set with diamonds, and for her brooches rubies were crafted into the shape of flowers, then trimmed with diamond and pearl petals. There were earrings and French hoods trimmed with gold. She had seven diamond-and-gold rings. The ladies of the privy chamber circled Catherine’s little waist with golden girdles or double rows of pearls routinely interrupted by rubies.

[Later, during] the great purgatorial wait for a horrible finale, Catherine was once again ‘taking great care of her person’. Like a candle flaring before it went out, she had apparently never been more beautiful than she was during that winter at Syon. Staring death in the face in a mood of hubristic hedonism, she became as preoccupied with her toilette as she had been at Hampton Court. She made the most of her denuded wardrobe, dressing and coiffing herself, donning her few remaining jewels. Preening in her loveliness, Catherine kept her pulse beating at Syon with the appearance of someone who might live for ever; but in her more sombre moments, when no amount of make-believe could distract her, Chapuys heard from her servants that ‘her only prayer is that the execution be secret, and not in public’. - Gareth Russell, Young and Damned and Fair

PERIOD DRAMA APPRECIATION WEEK 2024 | Day 3 (July 31st): Favorite Costumes → Wedding Dresses

Necklace

c. 1775-1795

England or France

Cleveland Museum of Art

Analogues I took at Versailles last Summer

“You love flowers, madame, and so I have a bouquet to give you; this pleasure house is yours.” - Louis XVI presents the key to the Petit Trianon (hanging on a ribbon and sparkling with 531 diamonds) to Marie Antoinette, 1774

“To me the core element of the story is that she was a symbol of decadence and frivolity and end of an era for France. I wanted to build our own costumes and create our own look using a young girl’s candy-colored palette. Because we’re making a movie about Marie Antoinette I thought we needed lots of silk and macaroons, and I asked Milena the costume designer to make the whole palette of the film in the macaroon colors for the young part of her life, and when I visited the real private apartments of Marie Antoinette they had the fabrics that she liked which were turquoise and pink.” - Sofia Coppola

Costumes designed for Marie Antoinette (2006)

According to William Latymer, Anne was “never found without having some book in French in [her] hand.” Anne always made sure that her books looked splendid, and the king showered her with gifts of gilt, silver and velvet bindings. But her love of luxury didn’t end with her library, spectacular though it was. During her time in France, she often dolled herself up to suit the exacting standards of that most fashionable of courts. The French courtier Brantome wrote about Anne in his memoirs, remembering her as “the fairest and most bewitching of all the lovely dames of the French court, with a gracefulness that rivalled Venus.” On one occasion, she appeared in a dress covered with silver stars, with her little feet clad in velvet slippers, each adorned with a diamond star. On her head she wore a golden-coloured gauze halo, and her hair fell in ringlets about her shoulders. As one of her modern biographers notes, “Anne experimented as much with outfits and hair styles as she did with dance-steps.” She delighted in enhancing her gowns with jewels. Initial jewelry was popular at the Tudor court, and it seems that Anne was fond of jeweled letter pendants; in addition to her iconic “B” necklace, she owned a brooch with “RA”—meaning “Regina Anna”—spelt out in diamonds. She especially enjoyed wearing diamonds and rubies in her hair, often in fanciful shapes such as roses and hearts; as Susan Bordo observes, “Anne must have been quite a ravishing sight dancing at court, her thick, chestnut mane cascading down her back.” Ribbons could also be worn in the hair, and Anne’s inventory for March of 1536 states that she owned several “fine pieces of ribbon” for putting up her hair. Her penchant for ribbons was so great that she even decorated her clavichord with green ribbons. She famously craved apples during her first pregnancy, but her favorite fruits were fresh cherries and strawberries, and in 1532, she even sent a servant to London just to satisfy her cherry craving. (She tipped generously!) Anne also used sachets filled with sweet rose petals and lavender to scent and refresh her sheets and clothes. Perfumes were widely used for the body as well, and for this purpose Anne used the services of her apothecary, Thomas Alsop. While we can’t say with absolute certainty what her favorite scent was, records indicate that she had a fondness for rosewater, and she owned “small flagons and glasses for rosewater” and a gold “casting glass,” a bottle used to sprinkle rosewater and other flower essences onto the body. In the words of Eric Ives, if Anne had lived, “her wardrobe might well have rivalled the 2000 costumes which tradition assigns to that most fashion-conscious of monarchs, her daughter Elizabeth. Anne [was the one who] certainly started her child on that route.”

just thinking about grumpy!aemond x sunshine niece!reader, that's all

Intimidating uncle who only smiles for his sweet niece?? How can I refuse? :> I hope u like it anon

Synopsis: Aemond’s icy demeanor softens as his playful niece, Y/n, brings joy and warmth into his life through her persistence and tender moments.

Aemond x Niece!Reader

The vast expanse of the Red Keep stretched before them, a labyrinthine structure of ancient stone and intricate tapestries of the Targaryens rich history. Within its cold, echoing halls, moved with his customary stoic grace, his singular eye perpetually narrowed, his demeanor perpetually grave. It was a disposition well-suited to his character, a shield against the tumultuous world he inhabited. Yet, like a glimmer of sunlight piercing through storm clouds, his niece, y/n, was a stark contrast to his brooding presence.

Y/n’s laughter echoed through the halls as she flitted about, a vision of radiance and mirth. Her wit was as sharp as Valyrian steel, and her spirit as unyielding as dragonfire. She was a beacon of joy in a court often shrouded in intrigue and gloom, and though many found solace in her presence, Aemond was not among them. Or so he would have others believe.

The gardens of the Red Keep were a sanctuary for y/n, a place where she could escape the stifling formality of court life. She found Aemond there one afternoon, standing by a marble fountain, his expression as inscrutable as ever. With a mischievous smile, she approached him.

“My dear uncle, why do you always seem to be plotting the downfall of the Seven Kingdoms?” she quipped, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Aemond’s eye flicked towards her, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I find little cause for humor, niece. Unlike you, I am not so easily distracted by frivolity.”

“Frivolity?” she repeated, her tone playful. “Surely, you do not think the pursuit of happiness to be frivolous, Uncle. It is the very essence of life!”

He huffed, turning his gaze back to the fountain. “Happiness is a fleeting illusion, y/n. It is duty and strength that endure.”

“Ah, but what is duty without joy? What is strength without laughter? A kingdom built on sorrow and scowling faces is a kingdom doomed to fall” she countered, her voice gentle yet firm.

Aemond’s expression softened ever so slightly, a fleeting hint of amusement in his eye. “You are relentless, aren’t you?”

“Relentless? Perhaps. Or simply persistent in my never ending quest to make you smile” she replied with a toothy grin. “I believe there is a smile hidden somewhere beneath that scowl.”

Aemond arched an eyebrow. “You overestimate your abilities, niece.”

“And you underestimate mine, uncle” she shot back, her tone light but her words carrying a subtle challenge.

Days turned into weeks, and y/n’s persistence in engaging Aemond in conversation did not wane. She would find him in the library, poring over ancient tomes, and offer her commentary on the latest court gossip. She would join him during his solitary walks along the battlements, teasing him about the weight of his thoughts.

One evening, as they dined with the royal family, y/n’s quick wit came to the fore once more. The courtiers were discussing a recent skirmish at the border, the atmosphere laden with a slight tension. Aemond’s expression was particularly dour, his mind clearly occupied with strategic considerations.

“Uncle Aemond” y/n began, her tone deceptively innocent, “do you believe the enemy quakes in fear of your legendary glare? Perhaps we should send a portrait of you to the battlefield. It might end the war without any bloodshed.

A ripple of laughter spread around the table, even King Viserys chuckling at her jest. Aemond’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile breaking through his stern facade.

“You have a dangerous tongue, y/n” he said quietly, though there was no malice in his voice.

“Only when it is necessary to cut through the gloom” she replied with a wink.

Despite himself, Aemond found his defenses weakening. There was something irresistible about y/n’s unwavering cheerfulness, her ability to find light in the darkest corners. She was not deterred by his gruffness, nor intimidated by his icy demeanor. Instead, she met him with a courage and joy that was both infuriating and captivating.

One evening, as the sun set over the Blackwater Bay, they found themselves alone on the roof. Y/n leaned against the balcony, her eyes reflecting the golden hues of the sunset.

“Do you ever tire of being so serious, Uncle?” she asked softly.

Aemond sighed, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It is not a matter of choice, y/n. The burdens I bear are heavy, the responsibilities immense.”

“And yet, you bear them with such strength. But even the strongest warriors need respite” she said, turning to face him. “Allow yourself a moment of peace, Aemond. If not for your sake, then for mine.”

He looked at her then, truly looked at her, and saw the sincerity in her eyes. The walls he had built around his heart began to crack, ever so slightly. Perhaps there was wisdom in her words, a truth he had long ignored.

“Very well,” he conceded, a faint smile gracing his lips. “For your sake, I shall try.”

Y/n beamed, her joy infectious. “That is all I ask, dear Uncle.”

In that moment, he found a glimmer of happiness he had thought lost forever. As he leaned closer to her, their breaths mingling, he felt an unfamiliar but welcome warmth.

With a gentle tilt of his head, he closed the distance between them, capturing her lips in a tender kiss. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them.

They drew back slightly, their foreheads touching, and Aemond could not suppress a soft chuckle.

“It appears you’ve managed to disarm me with a kiss” he said, his tone lighthearted.

Y/n’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she responded, “I had hoped that a kiss would be more effective than a sword. It seems I’ve found a more persuasive weapon.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow with a playful grin. “Am I to expect a steady stream of kisses to temper my seriousness?”

“Only if it ensures that you’re less somber” her smile teasing. “But fret not, I shall reserve my attacks for the most opportune moments.”

“Special occasions, then?” he inquired with mock seriousness. “I shall need to prepare for such events.”

Y/n’s laughter was light and musical. “Indeed, but for now, simply relish this one. It appears to be quite effective.”

Aemond shook his head, still smiling. “Your talent for lightening my mood is alarming. I may have to enlist you as my personal jester.”

“And here I thought I was merely your charming niece” she retorted in faux indignation, giving him a gentle nudge.

“Charming niece and occasional troublemaker” he corrected, “but I find I am quite content with both.”

Their shared laughter filled the space between them, making the day’s burdens seem lighter.

𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺

Daemon targaryen X reader Daughter (Father and daughter relationship)

Word Count:1719

Warning: just daddy issues I guess

You never had the close relationship others might expect between a father and his daughter. The memories of your childhood, especially the first five years of your life, are marked more by the absence of that paternal figure. It was just you and your mother, living a life you knew well, without the presence of a man whose existence you barely imagined.

The first time you saw Daemon Targaryen was when you turned five. You vividly remember a tall man with silver hair and violet eyes, who lifted you into his arms with a mix of curiosity and distance. He took you outside, where an imposing dragon awaited. Although the encounter left you confused, you couldn't help but wonder who this stranger was who suddenly seemed interested in you. You didn’t recognize him as your father until you heard him call you his daughter.

Despite the surprise, there was a spark of excitement in that moment, especially when you descended the skies together. From that visit on, Daemon began to appear more frequently in your life. On one occasion, he arrived with a gift that left you breathless: a dragon egg, in delicate shades of pink and blue, which you held in awe in your small hands.

But life has cruel ways of changing the course of things. The sudden death of your mother marked a turning point. It was then that you were told that your father would now take care of you. You remember clinging to your grandfather’s cloak, tears streaming down your face as you pleaded with him not to let you go with that man who, although your father, still seemed like a stranger.

The cold and gloomy stone walls of Dragonstone never ceased to intimidate you. The imposing statues of dragons carved into every column and wall seemed to watch you with their empty eyes, always managing to scare you. There was no possible comparison between Dragonstone and Runestone, the home in the Vale where you had been raised. There, the air was lighter, the colors more vivid, and the mountains and forests offered a sense of protection that you never felt in this dark fortress.

Daemon, aware of your distress, did everything he could to provide you with comforts. He gave you the finest clothes, feasts that rivaled royal banquets, exquisite toys, and dazzling jewels, all in an attempt to make you feel at home. However, none of those luxuries managed to dispel the sense of loneliness that enveloped you. Each passing day, you felt more distant, more trapped in a place that was not your home and never would be.

You always insisted that Daemon allow you to return to Runestone, to complete your education in the home you so longed for. Every time you mentioned the possibility, his response was the same: "You are a dragon; you must be among dragons." Those words, repeated with a mix of firmness and conviction, seemed like an increasingly untenable excuse. Deep down, you knew you did not share the same lineage as the Targaryens in such a visible way. You did not have the distinctive silver hair or violet eyes that marked the royal family. Even your dragon egg, the symbol of your heritage, remained inert, a silent reminder of the distance between you and them.

The news of his marriage to Laena Velaryon took you by surprise. You had assumed that if he ever decided to settle down, he would do so with one of the dubious women he frequented in the darker corners of King’s Landing. The idea that Daemon, always unpredictable and volatile, would opt for such a strategic and respectable alliance as Laena Velaryon seemed inconceivable.

When your new sisters, Baela and Rhaena, were born, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. The girls were everything you were not: beautiful, with silver hair and an unbreakable bond with the blood of the dragon. Every time you looked at them, the difference between them and you became more evident, like a chasm that kept growing.

It’s not that you hated them, not at all. Laena Velaryon, always kind and affectionate, treated you like one of her own daughters, and the twins looked at you with the same devotion they would a big sister. However, despite all the affection they offered, there was something deep-rooted that kept you separate from the rest, an invisible but unbreakable barrier.

The birth of the twins awakened a paternal side in Daemon that you had seen only distantly before. With Baela and Rhaena, he was attentive and dedicated; he spent hours teaching them High Valyrian, telling them ancestral stories, and making sure each night they were well tucked in before sleep. However, with you, that tenderness and dedication never manifested in the same way. He never came to your room to give you a goodnight kiss or took the time to share with you the secrets of the tongue of his ancestors.

You tried to ignore the void that Daemon’s absence left in your life. Every time you saw him diligently care for Baela and Rhaena, you told yourself that you didn’t need him. You didn’t need his stories, his affection, or his teachings. You had learned to be self-sufficient, to find solace in your own strength. But no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself, there was a part of you that couldn’t help but feel the chill of his indifference.

Laena’s death affected you more than you would have liked to admit. She had been a kind figure, a link that connected you in some way to a family that had always seemed distant. Her passing left a void in Dragonstone that felt like a heavy shadow over everyone. The twins, devastated by the loss of their mother, sought support from you that Daemon no longer seemed capable of providing. You tried to be strong for them, even though sadness also enveloped you.

Daemon, for his part, fell into a silent grief, transformed by the tragedy into an even more distant figure. But just when you thought that sorrow had consumed him completely, he made an announcement that left you stunned: his engagement to Rhaenyra Targaryen. For you, it was yet another of your father’s madnesses, another impulsive decision that defied the norms and expectations of the world around him.

The news filled you with a confusion that quickly turned into indignation. You had barely begun to come to terms with the painful loss of Laena, and now Daemon, in what seemed like an absolute display of insensitivity, announced his intention to marry again, this time to Rhaenyra Targaryen, his niece and the future Queen. You couldn’t help but bitterly think about how quickly he had moved on.

How could he, having just lost his wife, dive so quickly into another engagement? The idea that Daemon, with his unpredictable and defiant nature, would make such a controversial decision at such a delicate time seemed to you like another display of his recklessness. You were surprised that he hadn’t even taken the time to honor Laena’s memory before plunging into what seemed like yet another of his craziness.

The wind whipped at your face, cold and biting, as it often did on Dragonstone. Your hands, numb from the island’s relentless climate, clutched your cloak as you watched Valarr fly in the distance, his pale pink scales glowing softly in the sunset light. The roar of Caraxes, resonant and powerful, made you turn your head. Daemon approached the dragon with a look of anger etched on his face.

Seeing you, he stopped for a moment, clearly surprised. "Y/N," he said, his tone more controlled than his expression suggested. He hadn’t expected to find you there.

Daemon cast you a brief but piercing glance before answering, as if weighing how much he should reveal. "To Harrenhal," he finally said, with a bluntness that only fueled your suspicions.

You were not satisfied. "Does the Queen know?" you insisted, searching his face for any sign that would confirm your fears.

Daemon avoided your gaze, focusing on preparing Caraxes, as if simply ignoring the question could dissipate the growing tension between you. But you were not willing to let it go.

"Was it you, then?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop yourself. "Was it you who ordered the death of Prince Jaehaerys?”

Daemon stared at you, his eyes as dark as a stormy sea. "It was an accident," he replied brusquely.

"How can that be an accident?" you retorted, disbelief and anger mingling in your voice. "I don’t have time for questions," Daemon snapped, his tone sharp and cutting, clearly expecting you to be silent and drop the subject.

Despite his command, you stood firm, crossing your arms and challenging the silence that had settled between you. The tension was palpable, each unspoken word carrying an imposing weight in the air. Daemon watched you, his expression initially hardened, but after a long moment of silence, his eyes revealed a glimmer of something deeper, something he had been hiding. He sighed, resigned. "Y/N, some things are better left as they are. There aren’t always answers you want to hear.”

Your thoughts remained unsatisfied, but before you could respond, Daemon took a step toward you. The unexpected warmth of his hand on your shoulder was a stark contrast to his usual coldness. His demeanor, though still somber, softened with a note of fatigue and concern.

"Take care of your sisters," he said finally, his voice low but firm. "They will need you now more than ever.”

With those words, he leaned in and placed a kiss on your forehead, a gesture that, although brief, was surprisingly tender and protective. It was a moment of vulnerability that sharply contrasted with his usual hardness.

Daemon quickly pulled away, his face hardening again as if the act of tenderness had been a slip he could not afford. Without another word, he turned and mounted Caraxes. The dragon soared into the sky with a roar that echoed through the cloudy heavens, taking your father away into the distance, disappearing among the gray clouds of the sunset.

Aurelia Targaryen the bastard princess Pt.3

. Oftentimes, Aurelia finds that the only place she finds true solitude in, is her own chambers. Countless tapestries lining the walls, ornate boxes filled with sewing materials and threads. Small tapestries and embroidery linens, ranging from messily woven threads and clumsy stitches, all from her youth in the castle- you can see the progression throughout her entrapment in the castle. Stitches become tighter and neater, the images more skilled and visible, and the quality of thread becomes dearer and dearer. Her fingers are still often pricked with needle marks, even now.

Her room is the only territory she has free reign in. The sheets upon her bed, the shelves of childhood toys- glass dragons and dolls lining the carved wooden compartments, and her creations of thread that depict all that she wants. Soaring dragons, still pictures of nature, and even an attempted portrait of her mother after coming to the conclusion one day that she has forgotten what her face looked like. They all bring bitter sweet memories, recalling how she'd smooth her little fingers over the glossy spine of the little glass dragon whenever she was upset at the dinner table, fiddling with it to keep her tears at bay. They often collect dust now, her past leering at her as dancing shadows in the light of the burning fireplace. Fire crackling and sizzling, the sound of rain pelting hard against the window panes as the sky grows darker.

. Every evening gets a little easier when it is time to dine with her 'family'. As a child she would be squished between her two brothers, Jace and Luke, to keep her docile and well-fed whenever she grew tired of eating and decided to strop instead. With age, she grew more resilient and patient. No longer pulling long faces towards her father, or curious glances towards the king and his wife. Now she likes to sit quietly and contemplate, moving her food around with her fork as she listens to cutlery and goblets clink, murmured discussions amongst the dinner table, and occasionally speaking or dancing with Helaena whenever her mood grows less lethargic.

. Seated close to Heleana, her gown of cream and gold contrasting with Helaenas' dress of forget me not blue and silver, she inspects the little beetle figure between her fingertips- smoothing over the intricacies as Heleana softly utters little enamoured comments about it. Sharing little smiles amongst themselves, before her concentration fizzles at the feeling of being watched. Aurelia peers up for a split second, and is met with Aemond's heavy stare. Even as she acknowledges him, he doesn't break the eye contact- he simply taps his thumb against the table like a ticking clock. She cannot find a name for how she feels- frightened? Confused? Concerned?

. Music fills the room as musicians start to play, and the talk amongst the table turns sweet and merry. Gathering her skirts of gold in a fist, she offers her hand to Heleana, who sweetly accepts it. Aemond's stare was beginning to make her skin itch.

The two princesses begin to dance, their families watching with gracious smiles and joyous laughter. Their palms ghost upon one another, held high towards the candle-lit ceiling, as they circle slowly in a soft rhythm of swaying skirts of sunlight and rain, their long pale hair glittering in gold candlelight.

Viserys watches on happily, almost relieved at the sight of the two princesses dancing. His family is whole and content.

Aegon claps to the music, tipsy and flushed in the face from his mouthfuls of wine.

Alicent smiles and sips her wine, fingers clasped together in rejoicing at the sight of her daughter getting along with Daemon's child.

Otto claps to the music, only not intoxicated, and much more on beat. For once he smiles openly at the two princesses, even he was not an exemption to the contagious joy in the room.

Daemon is relaxed in his seat, watching his daughter have fun and smile. A sight not often bestowed to him.

Aemond simply watches the two princesses dance like an owl, his chair moved to an angle so that he can fold his hands upon his knee that is propped upon his other leg. Like a perched raven.

Jace and Luke, Baela and rhaena, all eat and chat. Feeling calm and full from the food.

. Not all dinners are as nice as this, so everyone relishes in the moment.

Daeny Targaryen costume design

Daeny is the 3rd legitimate child of Aegon IV The Unworthy. I have decided she's a court icon when it comes to her clothing. Someone said she took up too much space once and she took it so personally she takes up as much as possible now. She's probably my most petty character, and that's saying something. That tweet that says something like "I only do things for two reasons, spite and the aesthetic" is literally her.

Abigail dressing like people around her part 3: Cersei Lannister

This was a lot of fun 💚

Portrait of Abigail's updated wedding look

And a little excerpt from the wedding feast ❤️

"Another lord's empty blessings fell on deaf ears as Abigail stared straight through him. Maybe she just needed some rest to clear her head. She hadn't slept much since Joffrey's death. Her gaze shifted to her left, going past Tommen and landing on Cersei, and then to her right towards her grandfather. There was a thought, lingering in the back of her mind. A darker thought. A thought that made her too uncomfortable to consider, but she couldn't help but wonder: Was there something deep within her, something wrong? Was there a lurking anger within her that she needed to keep in check, lest it erupt?"

𝐈𝐟 𝐃𝐚𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐄𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐬 ( 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝’𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧 ) 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐞!! 𝐀 𝐦𝐢𝐱 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧/ 𝐄𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐬𝐢 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐬 & 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞!! ( 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐥 ) 𝐀𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐬 & 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞!!

𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐬 & 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞!! 𝐀 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐚!! 𝐈𝐟 𝐰𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦!! 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 & 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 & 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐞.

MAKE ME CHOOSE MEME | @lady-corrine asked - Hürrem & Suleyman or Kösem & Ahmed

MAKE ME CHOOSE MEME | anon asked - tiaras or headpieces

It was the perfect day for the start of a tournament. There was a pleasant breeze that helped cool the mass of people packed into the stands and the sun was partially hidden by the drifting clouds. There wasn’t much else you could hope for. A tourney to celebrate the news of your upcoming marriage, the perfect weather to enjoy the day, your family surrounding you, and the joyful return of your best friend.

It had been a while since you’d seen her in person and it filled you with a joy that had been recently absent to see her again. Laena had taken off from Kings Landing and Driftmark the minute she claimed Vhagar and you only got an occasional letter to let you know how she was and where she was currently calling home.

You had taken the chance and wrote a letter to her last known place, some manse owned by a Lord in Pentos, asking her to come home to visit you. You might have put on a happy and content face for the masses, everyone sure that your betrothed was to your liking, but it was only to Laena that you could confide your fears too. You wanted her there with you, not across a sea. The announcement of your betrothal came on the heels of your letter and let Laena know the real reason you called for her.

She left the very next morning.

Now, she sat next to you, her hand held tightly within yours, you playing with the rings that lined her fingers. It had long been a nervous habit of yours that Laena thought you’d broken. It sent a small shard of pain echoing through her to see it again. It had been too long she’d been away from you.

She was using your hand holding to help keep you in the moment, your eyes going unfocused and dreamy. Laena knew that you liked to daydream — wishing to leave the life you had led so far. Laena had planned on taking you away on Vhagar, flying across the known world. It had been a childhood dream of the two of you, Laena spiriting you away from the drudgery of Court life. She guessed it was too late now.

But you needed to show a strong face to the vipers that would now surround you and that meant you couldn’t disappear like that anymore. Not when everyone could see you do it. So she was squeezing your hands, pinching slightly at the skin between your fingers.

“If there was anything in the whole world you could have at your wedding, what would it be?” Laena wondered if your dream ceremony was still the same as it was the last time the two of you talked about it, happy and grand and fit for you.

You leaned against her, allowing your weight to be entirely supported by her, whispering in her ear a secret she already suspected. “A different person to wed too would be nice,” the words were soft and simple but the emotion in them was anything but. There was a wreath of sadness and despair and desperation, a hint of anger and resentment, and the worst of it was the resignation that Laena could hear. She hated that there was nothing that she could do to help you but stand by your side.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered back to you. “If I could do anything…”

“…just stay with me? My family will be heading home after the ceremony. They said Court life doesn’t agree with them. I just want…—”

“A friend,” Laena finished your thought.

“A friend,” you agreed.

@whumpuary

Marie Antoinette (2006) dir. Sofia Coppola

the heir and the wolf

summary: Being Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir is a difficult thing, but what happens when you also become one of the Realm's most prized posessions?

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader, reader x platonic targs/velaryon

i. the dear daughter (2.8k) - At one-and-twenty and eight-and-ten, barely a year after their marriage, Ser Laenor Velaryon and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen welcomed their first child, a daughter, into the world. The girl immediately became dear to the whole court, coddled and spoiled by all, but mostly by her grandsire, King Viserys I. The man saw in his granddaughter her mother, and as the girl grew to look like his late wife, Aemma Arryn, it became even clearer that he doted on her more than he did to his own children or his other grandchildren.

ii. about children and trouble (8.2k) - It is reported that in the year 121 AC, when the Realm’s Jewel was only six summers old, her hatchling Merrax was eaten by the Cannibal in a strange turn of events that found him moving from Dragonstone to the Dragonpit in King’s Landing. Princess Rhaenyra demanded to have the dragon’s head cut, but as nobody ever tried nor dared to get close to the Cannibal, it was impossible to do it. Thus, her daughter took the matters into her own hands.

iii. little big lady (5.0k) - Court whispers tell us that during her third pregnancy, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was particularly sensitive. She managed to cover it up pretty well, apparently, but she had one weak spot: her daughter, her firstborn and heir, who later on witnessed her little brother Prince Joffrey's birth by request of her mother. Despite openly disliking the experience, it is said that the Realm’s Jewel insisted on being present to future labours in case things went downhill — and she did, attending her mother in giving birth to all her future children.

iv. dragons' scars (6.4k) - And after the events that happened during Lady Laena’s funeral at Driftmark, two dragons were left scarred.

v. you'll change your name or change your mind (and leave this fucked up place behind) (tbd) - When the King’s Justice — the royal executioner — died, the Realm’s Jewel proposed a perfect replacement: Nādrēsy, her dragon, the infamous Cannibal. Even if many eyebrows were raised at the Small Council, the King hastily agreed, happy to have an excuse for keeping his granddaughter close to him, even if it was for only a few days every moon. Or, as it always ended up, for a bit more than that.

more to come!

extras:

snippet cut from chapter three

sneak peak at reader and cregan's baby number #1

memes tag

Dark! House Of The Dragon x Reader...

WARNINGS: English is not my first language, I'm sorry if the story has some errors in the writing. This is my first time writing something, so bear with me please

SYPINOSIS: During the reign of Aegon I, the Conqueror, a large room was created with the purpose of being a place to offer the gods and receive their blessings in return. One night, during a visit from Aegon and Rhaenys, a star appeared in the sky, bright and mesmerizing. Among the offerings to the gods, under a large white silk cloth, was a child with crystal clear eyes. A gift from the gods to the Targaryens

☪ Maevon, fruit of the gods, was adopted by King Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya. Over time, his name came to derive from good luck and wealth for the kingdom. Abundant and healthy harvests, free from worms and rot, provided food and health to the citizens, while the king and his queens enjoyed constant joy, despite their strange possessiveness over the boy. However, fate, often capricious, would prove that not even something made by the gods was immune to tragedy. One night, in the middle of a waning moon, while the kingdom is still reeling from the murder of Aenys, his half-brother, Maevon drank his cup of wine with his other half-brother Maegor the Cruel. However, the lethal poison, infiltrated without his knowledge, penetrated Maevon's body. The news of his death was hidden, but the gods were dissatisfied with such a barbaric act.

This tragedy left a trail of vengeance in the skies, causing a series of disasters for Maegor and his kingdom. Hunger was felt again among the people, while cold and long nights, full of diseases, ravaged the land. However, when Maegor himself, Maevon's killer, met his end, the fury of the gods finally subsided and the woes receded until they disappeared. In everyone's minds, Maevon represented the last gift of the gods, and as a tragedy, many believed that the gods forgot the kingdom, gradually leading them to destruction again.

...but it seemed like they were wrong....

During the reign of Viserys Targaryen, the ancient offering room, built to honor the gods, remained standing, bearing witness to the passage of time. Maevon's story still remained among the Targaryens and the people, occurring as a reminder of divine benevolence, even as generations passed, the memory of this heavenly gift still echoed throughout the lands of the kingdom, arousing interest and curiosity in other courts and kingdoms, spreading through reports and stories.

Meanwhile, in the hallways, Daemon walked through the castle, trying to calm down after a heated argument with his brother. Frustration and anger intended to gather in the air as he tried to break away from his dark thoughts. Deep down, he knew he needed to keep control of his desire to confront someone with his sword, but the urge to release all the anger built up or consumed inside. The targaryen stopped in front of the large offering room, a place he had seen countless times over the years. He had a deep dislike for the place, considering it a useless and purposeless space. His thoughts raced as he contemplated the idea of ​​demolishing the site, ignoring the history and traditions that sustained it. But at that moment, his attention was once again captured by the brightness of the big star that lit up the night sky, his gaze didn't linger long on her, soon picking up the wine from the offering that his brother, Viserys, still insisted on offering to the gods.

"Nonsense..." the word came out of Daemon as he drank the wine. while tasting the wine, he heard a small childish noise nearby, stopping drinking and looking around with his eyes stopping on a large basket covered in a white silk cloth with details on it, he doesn't remember seeing it there before. The targaryen approached cautiously, reaching out to lift the silk cloth covering him. A curiosity in his mind compelled him to discover what could be hidden beneath the fabric. With a slow, cautious movement, he slowly removed the cloth from the basket, prepared to discover what awaited him inside.

Daemon's eyes widened in surprise when he saw you. Before him stood an adorable little baby, whose crystal clear eyes slowly opened as they woke up with the removal of the cloth. However, Maevon's story came to Daemon's mind, although he was always skeptical of its true meaning. A mixture of bewilderment and fascination came over him as he examined the baby, but the only thing that went through his head when he looked at you was "protect" which repeated itself in his head several times. When you looked at him and let out a cute giggle, he quickly smiled and took you in his arms. Now you would be his lovely little girl

• The first person Daemon showed right after meeting you was Rhaenyra, she felt a strange feeling when she saw you, the gods sent you to her, to be the beautiful daughter she can never have.

• The news that the gods had sent another precious gift as a second chance spread that very night. All the Targaryens gathered in the great room wanting to see you up close.

• An argument created by Alicent, who believed that Daemon had stolen you from her, as she was the one who went every night with Viserys to leave offerings for the gods, so you were hers as a gift for the faith she had in them, but that led nowhere, Daemon was willing to use his sword for you.

• Viserys tried to make a deal with Daemon and Rhaenyra which was quickly rejected.

• The velaryon, Corlys and Rhaenys tried to convince the two Targaryens to leave you with them, for a better education, but without success. Rhaenyra and Daemon were determined you were theirs.

• Years passed and you grew up together with your half-siblings, Jacaerys and Lucerys. You became a girl of rare beauty, black, soft and smooth skin, long white, curly hair that reached her hips and large crystalline eyes, which some said were worth more than anything. Her angelic features were adorned with a gentle and sweet expression. You were a notable figure in the seven kingdoms, being the crush of many boys, including even your half-uncles Aegon II and Aemond. Since his arrival, good harvests appeared, illnesses were much less frequent, health was present in everyone in the kingdom. You were the apple of the people's eyes, their miracle.

• Daemon and Rhaenyra were still very possessive of you a lot more as you grew up. His food was often watched by someone super trustworthy, so that poisoning attempts would not happen again. They gave you a dragon, which you loved very much, spending a lot of time with it, flying through the skies away from everyone, you named it Belial, he had a dark bluish tone, great for hiding at night and had dark green eyes. Your fire had a peculiar color being purple, but it is still growing just like you.

• When you met the redhead's children for the first time, the first one you spoke to was Aemond, you just said a shy “hi” to him and he responded back with a small smile.

• Haelena likes to admire your eyes, saying that she dreams of you, that she dreamed that one day you left and never came back. You calmed her down saying that this will never happen

• Aegon was bolder, speaking first, hugging you and throwing compliments. Jace and Luke almost tore their own hair out when they saw such a scene.

• You are also very close to Baela and Rhaena, joking, telling secrets while you braid their hair.

• Alicent still looks from afar jealous at Rhaenyra for stealing her beautiful baby, but she would have you in her arms.

• Corlys brings you gifts, always telling you that you would be fine if you wanted to move in with them. Rhaenys always helped him with his dragon and many other things.

• You spend time with Viserys, he likes it when you call him Grandpa, such a lovely and obedient granddaughter. Always checking to see if he is ok or helping him.

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and that's it, I thought it was too short, in the middle I ended up running out of creativity but I hope you at least like it, even if just a little