Laenor Velaryon - Tumblr Posts

Yes.

Me, someone who was adopted by my mom's husband when I was a baby reading all the comments from TG stans bitching and moaning about how Lucerys, Jacaerys and Joffrey aren't Laenors kids even though he claimed them as his own because they didn't come from his nuts

Everyone in HotD is gorgeous, change my mind

Riders and their Dragons

By Anabel Rossi

the dear daughter

summary: 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.

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

word count: 2.8k

warnings: mention of hard labours, reader is a little shit and everyone loves her for that, language? pretty fluffy chapter if you ask me

author's note: this is my first time writing for hotd, so i hope that you like it lol. it's most likely going to be an AU, and as always, english is not my first language so (kind) criticism is plenty accepted lol

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Once her first labours finally come to an end, Rhaenyra Targaryen finds herself blessed with a daughter: a small child with fair eyes and white hair, that in the years would become the only babe actually sired by her husband, Laenor Velaryon.

Rhaenyra watches with enamoured eyes as you latch onto her breast, suckling any milk you can get; your eyes are of a misty lilac, like hers once were, and as you look up at her, she’s sure she has never felt a thing like this before. She’s a mother now, she’s what Aemma once was to her, and she feels like she’s getting back a small piece of her mother as she brushes the small tuft of white hair upon your head. 

“Aren’t you the sweetest little thing?” Laenor, head laid upon her shoulder to have a better look, says. As you sleepily close your eyes, he nudges the hand that lays on Rhaenyra’s chest to seek a reaction from you, who in return wraps the entirety of your small palm around his index finger — not even managing to cover it all. By the look on his face, your mother knows that he is holding himself back from squealing. 

They both know you’re the only child they will ever have together. The months before your conception were made of dreadful nights, tears of frustration and awkward moments, so when Rhaenyra finally came to be with child they both took a relieved breath, and swore they would never lie together ever again. Rhaenyra, though, knows you probably won’t be her last; it’s expected of her to have more than one child, and if Laenor can’t give that to her, she’s going to seek that from someone else. He knows, they’ve talked about it, and he sees no problem with it; all children birthed by Rhaenyra are going to be legitimised, and he will be treating them as if they were his. 

But you’re the only one that’s going to be his. The blood of his blood. Ours runs thick. 

Rhaenyra, with the last forces left to her, delicately hoists you from her chest to give you to your father. “Why don’t you hold her?”

Laenor flushes, embarrassed, maybe not feeling ready for this moment. “Oh– I– I…” 

Despite his initial scepticism, he rests his back on the headboard, getting in a sitting position and undoing the laces of his blouse, as the maester has said that placing a babe on naked skin should calm and comfort them. So he carefully places you on his chest, and your head sits right above his heart, held and caressed gently by his hands. 

She was not born out of love, Rhaenyra thinks, but that shall not make her feel less loved by any means. 

Your dragon hatches in your cradle barely a sennight after your birth, just like every Targaryen worthy of their name, and your mother lovingly names her Merrax as she gives her to the dragon keepers to feed and train until you are old enough to bond with and claim her. 

Two moons after your birth, a feast is held in your honour, so that Rhaenyra manages to recover from her labours to participate and everyone that is invited can make sure to attend. Neither your mother nor Laenor are happy about it, as they would rather spend their time coddling and holding you in their arms, but Viserys is just too ecstatic about his first granddaughter — cooing and showing her around the castle, introducing the babe to anyone who will listen — so they indulge for his sake, and figure that letting him parade you around for just a night won’t hurt anyone. They surely didn’t think they’d have to thank a hundred lords and ladies for the gifts they brought to their firstborn for two hours straight. 

After the first hour, your mother checked to see how the line of nobles was going and paled, nudging to her husband. “This is worse than it was at our wedding.”

Laenor nodded, looking over at his father-in-law, happily chatting with Lord Bracken about the whole new wardrobe of dresses he just gifted to you. “We now have… what, ten cradles? And how many dresses and toy-dragons and dolls do we have?”

Rhaenyra sighs dramatically. “I stopped counting at the twelfth doll. Some Lords really are desperate for the favour of the King, it seems.” She looks over at you; despite the cradle sitting between her and her father for you to sleep in, it seems that Viserys has no intention of letting you stay there. You’re held in his arms, sat atop his legs, wearing a dress made of all puffy lilac silks that basically drown your little body. 

The King actually seems to be paying more attention to you than to the Lords, redoing the ribbon holding together your bonnet when it loosens and shushing you when you start to whine. “It’s actually quite interesting to watch,” Rhaenyra whispers to Laenor, “I don’t think she’s ever been this confused — nor endeared.”

You squeal when you like a gift, while you just stare when you don’t like one, and your grandsire seems to have caught up on it, managing his response to the Lords based on your reactions.

“Lord Rickon of House Stark, from Winterfell,” the page announces. Lord Rickon is a tall man no older than fourty, though his hair is already completely white — it looks like the North isn’t treating him well. He carries a son with him — Cregan, he says, — barely five summers old, and gives him a little nudge towards the makeshift throne where Viserys and you are sitting. “Come on, son,” 

Little Cregan almost stumbles upon the steps, “Your Majesty, it is an honour to be here. This is House Stark’s bestowal for the birth of the young Princess.”

Rhaenyra is impressed. She’s pretty sure no five-year-old can talk like that; Cregan seems to be much taller than the boys his age, too. The boy in question opens the box in his hands, revealing a necklet adorned with purple sapphires and pearls, and it’s so pretty that your mother thinks she just might borrow it from you. It’s not like you’ll notice the absence of it — you won’t be able to wear it for at least another seven years. To match it, there’s also a pair of tear-shaped earrings and an oval ring, all with the same lilac stones. Looks like the Starks have good taste. 

You stare at the jewels, then at the boy, then again at the jewels. You squeal, a hand reaching for the necklet — or at least, it seems. Because you actually reach for the little metal buckle that sits upon the Little Lord’s chest, holding together two leather pieces. It’s of a deep grey — silver or steel, perhaps? — and it’s adorned with the Starks emblem, the howling direwolf. 

Viserys doesn’t let you lean enough to take a hold of the buckle, taking your little hand in his and shaking his head. “No, not that, sweetling,” he chastises. He gently takes the wooden box from Cregan, showing you the jewels. “They are quite impressive, are they not? Clearly, it took an expert hand to make them.” 

Lord Rickon puffs his chest with pride, but as you reach and take the necklet, you don’t seem quite as happy as before. Your little hands wrap around the big, round gemstones and pearls, and you try to chew on it before the King can stop you. The court erupts in laughter, and your grandsire takes the jewel away from your hands as gently as he can. “No, sweetling, you can’t put it in your mouth–” 

But your attention is already elsewhere, towards the Stark boy, and you reach your hand out towards the buckle with the emblem of his House again. You really like it, it seems.

Cregan sends an unsure glance towards his father, who nods, then unclasps the buckle from the leather straps and hands you the little emblem. You eagerly take it, immediately chewing on it — and this time, Viserys chooses not to stop you before you importunate the Stark boy anymore — but you still don’t look satisfied. You reach towards Cregan, again, and this time, pull a chunk of his hair, squealing delightfully. 

Rhaenyra can tell that the child is trying his best not to protest — after all, even if a babe, you are still a princess — as you, with all the mighty force that a newborn has, happily try to make the Stark boy bald. You shriek and gurgle, happily playing with the black strands as the whole court tries not to laugh their asses off. 

Viserys, despite holding back his laugh, decides to take mercy upon the boy, separing you two and hoisting you up, laughing gleefully. “My dear granddaughter!” he exclaims. “Not even three moons old yet, and already terrorising the whole court!” he then looks at Cregan, a playful glint in his eyes. “I think she likes you, boy!”

He sends the Stark boy off with a pat on the shoulder and a truthful thanks to Lord Rickon for the gifts, as clearly, they were appreciated amply.

Further in the evening, they send you back in Rhaenyra’s arms, milk drunk from the wet nurse feeding, and she finds herself surrounded by Ladies and Lords who gape at you, who are starting to get a bit fussy and stirring and whining in her arms.  Your mother shushes you as best as she can, but since there’s a constant buzzing in the hall — it being the bards or the guests chatting — there’s not much she can do. 

You seem to regain your light when Lord Stark — or, more like, his son — enters your vision camp. You squeal happily, even if the boy winces, brushing his hair behind his ear just to make sure you won’t pull it again. Rhaenyra laughs, saccharine and a bit inebriated from the wine she has had, and looks over the child. “It seems that she has taken quite a liking to you, boy. Would you like to hold her?”

Cregan isn’t exactly fond of the idea, but when a princess asks if you wish to hold her child, you can’t exactly refuse. So he takes a seat in the nearest chair as your mother explains to him how to hold you, and once he does, he finds your eyes — big, violet and shiny — looking at him with what he could only explain as awe. The Ladies around him share a knowing laughter, chanting something about love at first sight, and you slowly fall asleep in his arms. 

He is finally relieved of the tremendous weight sitting in his arms as Rhaenyra retrieves you, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple and thanking the boy, before going towards the cradle sitting between the two makeshift thrones in front of the Royal Family’s table, guarded by two knights. She lays you down and murmurs a small promise of taking you back to the nursery as soon as the feast ends, and then sends a knowing look to Harwin, stationed right beside the crib to guard you. 

The rest of the night passes smoothly, and by the end of it, Cregan finds himself peering over the crib as almost every adult in the room is black-out drunk, poking your cheek with his finger. Ser Strong gives him a reprimanding but somewhat soft slap on the back of his head, asking him not to do that. 

And as he looks at you over the crib, stirring but not waking up, the only thing that Cregan Stark can think about is all the trouble you’re going to cause once you grow up.

Sometime later comes Jacaerys. 

You welcome him with a slap on the cheek and a high pitched cry, scared about the fact that there’s another babe in the arms of your mother that’s not you, and Laenor is quick to escort you out of the birthing chamber, shushing you with promises of buying you new dolls and taking you to ride Seasmoke. 

And he does, but that doesn’t seem to put an end to your jealousy. 

Rhaenyra is still strained by her labours, who weren’t so kind to her like last time; she finds herself in much more pain than she was when she had you, and for days can’t even stand up straight for more than a few seconds. This does not help the situation, because you want your mother to play with you and take you riding on Syrax, but she can't — and you end up, yet again, blaming your little brother and taking it out on him.

You start screaming as soon as you see him. You mostly reject the spare attempts of your mother to make you bond with him or even to hug her, and Rhaenyra, already suffering thanks to the stress of a newborn that looks nothing like Laenor holds, feels like a terrible mother. 

“Of course the child doesn’t like her brother,” the maids whisper. “He looks nothing like her, or her mother. She sees him as a stranger; she sees what he actually is — a bastard.”

The maids’ tongues are quick to cut, but whispers are hard to silence, and they continue. Alicent makes sure of it. She always seems to take a liking in making Rhaenyra’s life as hard as possible, thriving in seeing her pain. 

During this time, you don’t throw tantrums with only three people: Laenor, your aunt Halaena and your grandsire. 

Laenor, bless his heart, is a softie for you. He loves Jacaerys, he really does, but he can’t stand to see you cry and feel replaced. You’re young, but you’re smart, and even if you cannot articulate it, he knows you think that with Jace you’re no longer going to be as loved as before. That’s because when Laena was born, he’s pretty sure he thought and felt the same, but he’s also sure that you’re going to accept Jacaerys, so he often tries to persuade you into seeing him. It always ends in a pool of tears and yet another promise to taking you on a ride on Seasmoke with him. 

Helaena has no expectations of you, and she just lets you roam in the gardens, her chambers or the nursery as you like. She’s sweet, feeding you lemon cakes stolen from the kitchens and letting you sleep on her lap, curled like a cat. She makes you dresses — secretly altered by her septa so that they are actually functioning — and sings you lullabies, liking the idea of kinda having a baby of her own without birthing one or having to have a husband.

Yet, your favourite always ends up being your grandsire, the King; it seems that you can barely be separated from him. You become his little shadow, always following him, waddling around and clinging to his cloak. And when the lords in the Small Council ask him why there's a toddler sitting on his legs, playing with his cup and trying to drink from it, he just laughs it off and tells them to go on with the meeting.

He spoils you rotten, buying you all the toys and dresses you spare a glance to, even after Rhaenyra tells him again and again to stop doing that. It is clear that he has a favourite, as Alicent always reminds him, as he is “constantly neglecting his sons in favour of a spoiled brat”, as she says. Viserys doesn’t tolerate such language, and never makes it a mystery to his lady wife, not once backing down from reprimanding her about it. 

And Viserys ends up being a blessing, because slowly, he manages to make you warm up to Jacaerys. You soon begin to ask about your baby brother, if he can play or say your name, and decide that since you lack of male dolls, he’s little enough to make up for it. 

In the year that follows, Lucerys joins you and Jace. This time, you instantly treat him as if he was your own, happy with your newfound role of older sister, trying to play with him even if he can barely roll onto his belly. This time around, it is Jace who is jealous of the newcomer; his dear sister now’s all preoccupied with the new babe and barely even cares about him anymore, it seems. But his jealousy doesn’t last as long as yours, luckily, because soon enough he’s joining you in the quest of dressing up Luke as a dragon.

Rhaenyra is so happy with this turn of events that the rumours about her sons being bastards are almost completely tuned out. And as she sits in the nursery, watching you dress up Jacaerys as a true prince to save your dolls while Lucerys sleeps like the dead in the cradle, she thinks that weirdly enough, she wouldn’t trade this for anything in the world.

about children and trouble

summary: 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.

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

word count: 8.2k

warnings: cregan being harassed by a six year old, tantrums, mentions of death, reader being young rhaenyra come back to life, overall pretty chill?

author's note: man do i love writing about reader annoying cregan.

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You spend the month before your sixth nameday on Driftmark, with your paternal grandparents and the other Velaryon family members.

There, your grandparents shower you with gifts, presenting you with a beautiful headpiece made of pearls and seashells that you fall in love with and a new array of clothes — all embroidered with diamonds and pearls, most in the sea-blue colour of the Velaryon emblem.

“We started out as fishermen,” Corlys tells you one day, holding you in his arms and motioning to the vastness of the sea beyond Blackwater Bay. “Then we became sailors, then explorers, then merchants. Then we took what was rightfully ours– Driftmark and a title. But never forget where you came from, little one. We owe the sea too much to discard it.”

You like the sea, almost as much as you like riding dragons. You and your grandfather take swims together when it gets too hot, taking your time to cool off before going back to the castle, trying to hold in your laughter and hide from the wrath of Rhaenys, who isn’t too fond of the idea of her granddaughter being wet like a dog. And since her husband isn’t getting any younger either and constantly complains about aching limbs, then maybe he shouldn’t dive into Blackwater Bay like it’s a hot bath, too. 

When she isn’t preoccupied in reprimanding you and her husband for being childish, your grandmother Rhaenys takes you on long rides on Meleys, the Red Queen, who has taken a liking in you and seeks your caresses every time you are near. You like the air brushing your face and hair, and the enormous castle becoming almost small from how much high up you two are.

Your father and grandfather make sure to start teaching you all they know about boats and navigating through the sea. You ask them when your brothers will be able to join you all, and they tell you that once they near their sixth nameday, they’ll take them out to the sea too; teach them everything they know, just as they’re doing with you. You cannot wait for Jace and Luke to be able to share this with you, because the sea has never felt more like home than right now. 

As you lean over the edge of the boat, you let your hand brush over the surface of the water, looking at your grandmother in complete awe. “We have to do this more often, grandmother, I can’t remember ever having this much fun in my life.”

She laughs then, a rich sound coming right from her heart, and pinches your nose, eyes tender and loving. “Ah, is that so, my sweet? Then I’ll be expecting a lot of visits from you once you claim your own dragon.” 

You perk up. “I promise, the first time I fly on a dragon, it will be to come here and visit you and grandfather.”

You catch your first fish that day — a little thing that could barely fill even the stomach of a child — and your grandfather takes you in his arms and promises that soon, he will buy you your own boat — after all, the feast for your sixth summer is only a sennight away. It’s also the first time you hold a real sword in your hands, and as you almost — and by accident — cut off Corlys’ nose, your father laughs his ass off and promises that soon enough, he’ll start training you to be able to manage a real blow with the blade.

Two days later, you all depart on dragonback for King’s Landing; and even if Corlys has always been hesitant about riding on Meleys with his wife, your laughs while you sat in front of your father on Seasmoke definitely eased his nerves. It’s a relatively short ride to the Dragonpit, as you leave in the morrow right after breaking your fast and by the late afternoon you’re already in the Crown Lands. 

Waiting for you in the Dragonpit are your mother and the King, a smile on their faces, Viserys with his arms open waiting for a hug. 

You get off of Seasmoke’s wing slipping like it’s some sort of slide as your father yells at you to please be careful, then immediately call out for your grandsire while running up at him. “Ah, my dear granddaughter!” he exclaims, holding out his arms and catching you as you jump in them. He tries his best not to grunt from the effort. “Have you been good to your father, Lord Corlys and Rhaenys?”

You excitedly nod, snuggling into his shoulder, and even if his knees and back are screaming for mercy since his health is getting worse and his muscles more frail, he refuses to accept that his precious girl is growing up — so much that in a few months he won’t be able to pick her up anymore. 

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow at your apparent lack of care about her presence. “What am I, chopped liver?”

You hold out a hand and pat it against her shoulder, almost like you’re saying sorry. You still don’t budge from your grandsire’s arms. She doesn’t seem to hold it against you, taking your little palm in hers and placing a kiss on it. She brushes your hair out of your face as you close your eyes, yawning. 

She chuckles. “Tired, my love?” 

You nod, eyes teary from the sleepiness. Your mother then eases you out of your grandsire’s arms without too many protests, holding you close against her chest. “Then we better go to bed as soon as we get back to the Keep, sweetling.”

It seems you don’t like this idea. “Don’ wanna,” you mumble, barely squirming, not even managing to formulate properly a sentence. “I wanna play with Jace and Luke, and, and… and train with them and dad. Grandma says she’s goin’ to teach me how to sew dresses for Emya and Melissa like auntie Helaena does, and grandpa wants to take me with him to sail across the seas.”

Emya and Melissa are your favourite dolls — just two of the dozens you have, the ones you gift to all the outfits Helaena sews for practice. Soon enough, she’ll have to start learning how to do that, too, your mother thinks, not without a pang of sadness in her heart. How time flies. “You’ll have time to sail with Corlys and learn from Rhaenys how to sew once you get older, sweetling. About your father and your brothers… well, they aren’t going anywhere any time soon.” 

She isn’t surprised to see you pass out in her arms not even a few minutes later, and by the time the carriage stops at the Keep, you’re dead asleep. She lays you in your bed and tucks you in for the night, thinking– My little girl soon enough will be a big girl. But then, she ponders that you could never be too big for her to stop considering you her little girl. 

The next day is spent catching up with your brothers; mostly Luke, who apparently took your absence particularly bad, and is now set on always having at least a hand on you — and that is when he doesn’t straight up wrap his body around one of your legs, hence you having to limp through the Red Keep with your little brother chained to your leg. 

Thankfully Rhaenys is quick to put an end to this madness, demanding the prince to stop harassing you, since you’re not going anywhere for a while. Lucerys departs from your leg — not without any protests — and lets you be, even if in the next few days he’s still pretty clingy — not that you would ever mind. He’s still your little brother, and you give him all the hugs and cuddles he wants, even if sometimes you’d rather be by yourself or with just Heleana without getting interrupted every single minute. 

When you bring it up to her, she shrugs. “I would pay to have brothers like that, you know. Be thankful for what you have.” Because my brothers are too stuck in their own misery to even care about me or notice my presence or absence.

You take her hand and squeeze it, then hug her tight. “But you have me,” you reply. “‘Tis not much, maybe, but I can try.” Helaena only shakily hugs you back, not saying anything. She usually doesn't like hugs, but this one feels strangely comforting.

(You don’t know how much she cried that night, thinking about how she wishes you were her sister and not a niece her mother despises. But it’s probably better this way, because maybe, if you were born as her sister, you wouldn’t be as loved as you are — and she can’t even imagine you being in her situation, always discarded by your family. Maybe you would become as careless as Aegon, or as closed off as Aemond. Maybe it’s a blessing you weren’t borne out of Alicent Hightower. 

Then, she prays that in another lifetime, you two are borne out of the same mother, a mother as loving as Rhaenyra, and she gets to be your older sister, without having to ask anyone for permission to have a hug from you.)

The day of your name day finally arrives, and with it the feast your grandsire has organised in the last two months. It is a grand affair, with almost all the lords from the Seven Kingdoms present, and your parents honestly have no idea where they’re going to put all the gifts you’ll receive. 

You sit right beside your grandsire, between him and your mother, wearing the pearl headpiece your grandparents gifted you and an aqua blue dress that has been tailor made for the occasion. Every now and then a Lord gets up from his table to bring their felicitations to you and your family, but you know it’s just a way to somehow get to talk to your grandsire about their matters.

Most of them are old and boring, and Viserys dismisses them without even a spare glance towards their problems, set on having a good time at least during your celebrations. You don’t pay them much mind either, focused on the food and all the gifts that you’ll get to unwrap in the next few days — that is, until a guy more or less of Aemond’s age comes over. 

The first thing Rhaenyra does — after thinking what the hell do they feed children in the North for them to be this big? — is nudging her husband on the ribs and nodding towards the boy. “Looks like he got a new buckle. Let’s hope she doesn’t steal that one, too.”

He’s grown since the last time she’s seen him. He should be ten, maybe eleven summers old now, but looks a bit older — northerners and their fucking genes. His dark hair is shorter, he has a ceremonial dagger strapped on his belt and this time he definitely looks like a Little Lord. 

“My King,” he bows, then nods to you and bows again. “My Princess, I wished to congratulate you on your sixth nameday and excuse my father for his absence. Unfortunately he fell ill just before the departure to King’s Landing, so he sent me in his stead." He raises his head and looks again at you, “To a hundred of these days, my Princess.”

You’ve got the same look you had when you first saw him as a babe, even if Rhaenyra is sure that you don’t remember even seeing him. She isn’t even sure you know who he is, but you’re already blushing and swinging your legs under the table. 

“Ah, you’re Lord Rickon’s son– Cregan, am I right?” Viserys looks over to his daughter for confirmation, and she nods. The boy nods, too. “Yes, Your Majesty. Unfortunately he had to stay in the North.” 

“Yes, yes, ‘tis no problem,” Viserys waves a hand at him, “Send him my regards. Last year your mother died — and so did your brother the year before, am I right? Another tragedy in the North is the last thing we want.” he grimaces at his bad phrasing, which clearly sounded better in his head. The boy doesn’t react, but he knows that if he wasn’t the King, he probably would already have that beautiful ceremonial knife up his throat. 

Rhaenyra coughs. “What the King means to say,” she interjects, “is that we wish you our deepest condolences and will pray so that Lord Rickon can get a fast recovery.” 

Cregan bows his head and half-smiles. “Thank you, my Princess.”

“Is it as cold in the North as they say?” you suddenly ask him, tone full of child-like awe. 

The boy winces, and Rhaenyra just knows he’s getting flashbacks of that one time when you tried to make him bald. “Erm… yes, it is. There’s snow all year.” 

“One day I'll make sure to bring you there,” your grandsire briefly cuts in, not wanting to bother the Little Lord any longer. He smiles at him, nodding, “I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening, boy.”

Cregan doesn't have to be told twice, because by the time he's finished bowing he's already sprinting to the table he left earlier. You pout, staring at him while he sits back down between some other northern lords, and you hear your mother laugh. “Why the long face, sweetling?”

You look up at her. “Is the North far away?” you do have geography lessons, but something like distance is still a pretty hard concept to understand. 

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow, amused. “The North, or where the boy comes from?” You blush and keep your head down, “Why, where the boy comes from of course,”

Your mother laughs. “I’d say that Winterfell is… maybe a little more than a moon by carriage far from here.” your face falls, “But it’s a day or two by dragon.” 

You perk up. “When can I claim Merrax?”

Rhaenyra almost falls out of the chair laughing at this. It seems that the first love is never truly forgotten, even if you don’t even remember him. “Soon enough, sweetling.” 

Not much long after, the bards pick songs you can dance to; your grandsire offers you his hand to open the dances, even if he isn’t in the best conditions to do so, and you gleefully accept. You share a dance with him, even if it has to be cut short because of him not feeling the best, and happily swap him for your grandparents who like to twirl you around until you’re dizzy. 

You can’t even sit down before your brothers grab your hands and drag you to the dancefloor once again, demanding a dance with their sister too, and it’s only when the bards choose a slower song that you finally manage to sit down and catch a breath. That is, until you see the boy. 

Cregan Stark is about to retire for the night when he catches the scare of his life. 

“I have a buckle like that, too.”

He barely manages to hold back a yelp, eyes snapping behind him just to see you, bashfully looking at him, hands behind your back and on your tiptoes. He presses a hand on his chest, regaining himself. “Princess,” he says, but it sounds a bit breathless. “Yes, I remember. I gave you that buckle six years ago.” 

You tilt your head. “Ah, really?”

He nods. “Yes, at the feast for your birth. I remember it well.” I also remember how you terrorised me for a good part of the night. 

You hum, but don’t seem to have anything to say for now. He feels awkward, because he would gladly take his leave right now if it weren’t for the fact that he can feel the eyes of the whole Royal Family on you two. He’s not sure he can go without having the permission to — your permission, maybe — and the only thing his father advised him not to do was to cause a diplomatic incident. 

(Meanwhile, at the Royal table, your grandfathers and Laenor are discussing the very thing happening before their eyes, questioning what to do — and what you are trying to do. 

“Maybe she just likes the buckle again,” Laenor hushes. “Maybe she wants another one.”

“No, no, I’m pretty sure she’s asking him if he is already betrothed,”

Viserys and Laenor send a nasty glare to Corlys, “She’s six, I surely hope not,” mutters your grandsire, worried about his little girl growing up, and most of all, getting interested in boys. Have you really already passed that phase where you think that boys are gross? Is he really getting that old?

“Ten Gold Dragons that she’s waiting for him to ask her to dance.” Rhaenyra cuts in. Rhaenys nods, taking a sip of her wine. “I would bet a hundred coins on that one.”)

The music is slow, and it almost drags the silence between you and the boy as you just stare at him. “I like this music.”

“Erm, yes,” Cregan grimaces. He fears he knows where this is going. “It is pretty lovely.”

Another moment of silence passes. “I also really like dancing,” you add. 

He sighs. There’s really no escape now. “Would you mayhaps like to dance, Princess?”

You squeal, girlish and childish, and immediately take his hand to drag him with you to the dancefloor. You don’t know the dance too well and your steps are a bit clumsy, but your enthusiasm definitely makes up for it. At some point though his feet are begging for mercy after being stomped on for ten minutes, so he takes the matters in his own hands and lifts you up enough for your tiptoes to rest upon his feet, so that he has to dance and you just have to stay balanced.

You giggle, blushing and looking up at him, grinning. He has the terrible feeling that he’s not getting out of here anytime soon. 

(Viserys lets out a pained sigh, thinking about his dear late wife. “She looks so much like her grandmother,” 

Corlys nods, looking at Rhaenys. “She does.”)

People around you two are dancing and swirling, too, and they chuckle at Cregan, sending him back to six years ago and making him feel a terrible deja-vu. At least she’s not pulling my hair anymore. He does have to admit that you’re a bit cute, though — you look so focused, looking at his feet and trying to memorise the steps as best as you can. But the fact that you’re cute doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have preferred going to sleep over dancing. 

He finds his saviour in a servant, who awkwardly stops your dance by bowing. “My Princess, my Lord,” the boy doesn’t mind correcting him on the honorifice, since he technically is here in the name of his father. The servant’s voice has a certain urgency. “A raven has just arrived from Winterfell. It’s from Lord Rickon Stark.” 

Cregan nods, “I’ll come in a minute,” he’s already out of the dancefloor, but then you tug on his cloak, big doe eyes staring at him. “But we have to finish our dance,” 

He sighs, and from the corner of his vision he sees Laenor Velaryon coming to get you. “I’m sorry, Princess, I’m sure there’ll be another time for us to dance again,” I hope not, “But now I really have to go.” 

Your lower lip trembles, you let out a whine. Before he can even realise he’s about to witness a grade eight type of meltdown, Laenor saves the day. He comes up behind you, taking your arms in his hands, smiling as sweetly as he can. “I can dance with you,” he offers. 

“But I want to dance with him,” 

Your father tries to suppress a cry of horror from the fact that you don’t want to dance with him — you’ve never rejected a dance with him before now. This is a first. He looks at Cregan, trying his best not to glare at him, understanding that this is not a situation he will get out of easily. “Would you perhaps be interested in becoming a ward here, boy?” he asks, barely managing to stop you from squirming in his grip. “She really likes you, and you would have the chance to stay in the Crown Lands for the time being. It is a great opportunity.”

At this point, he’s sounding desperate. Please stay here, my daughter will throw a fit if you go away. It seems you have found yourself a new toy, and unfortunately it’s not one of the new gifts that the lords brought. “You could be squire, cupbearer– oof,” you land a particularly harsh blow on his ribs, and he loses his breath for a moment, “Lord Commander of the City Watch, anything you want.” he leans down so that he’s more to his height, “Please.” he whispers, all his desperation clear in his strained voice. 

For some unknown reason, you calm down in an instant. Laenor fears that if he looks at you you’re going to start complaining again, so his gaze remains on the boy, who now looks terrified. Evidently, he has understood that he has to run, and fast. “Um– I– I’m flattered,” the Stark murmurs. “But unfortunately I’ve got duties up in the North as heir, a– and um, a letter from my father has just arrived. So, please excuse me,” he bows one last time before bolting out of the hall, the servant in front of him. 

Laenor sighs. He finally looks down at you, disappointed, and–

“Is that a knife?” you put it behind your back before he can see better and try your best to resist his wrangling with one hand. It does not take much for your father to take the dagger out of your hands, and realise it was the ceremonial dagger Cregan was carrying around before. He pales. “Is that why you stopped whining? How did you even get this?”

You look away. “I don’t know. I just took it.” you blush, “It was shiny,” 

It is of beautiful manufacture — the hilt is a direwolf much like the Stark’s emblem, and out of his mouth comes the blade. Your father sighs. “This is bad, sweetling. You don’t get to steal from others, am I clear? Tomorrow, you'll apologise to Lord Cregan and you’ll give it back to him.”

You pout, but it doesn’t last long. Because your grandsire comes up behind you, waving a hand at Laenor. “Aw, come on, she’s just a child. If she likes it so much she can keep it. I’ll make sure to send the boy a dagger twice the worth of that one.”

Your eyes shine, looking up at your grandfather. “Really? I can keep it?” 

“Of course not–”

“Of course,” your grandsire says, and that’s all that matters because he’s the King. You snatch the dagger from your father and run to Jace and Luke to show them your prize. 

Rhaenyra comes up to her father and husband, Laenor sulking and Viserys grinning. “May I ask why my firstborn is parading a dagger that I saw the Stark boy wear earlier to her brothers?” 

“She liked it,” her father simply says. “Was I supposed to just leave her heartbroken by the boy? She had to have some kind of compensation, at least.” 

She rolls her eyes, “Father, that was not heartbreak. That’s the kind of reaction she has when we take away her dolls.” your mother shivers, “May the Gods help us all the day her first heartbreak comes through.”

Rhaenyra surely didn’t think your first heartbreak would have come so soon. 

“How is it possible?” she seethes, arms crossed and a glare that could kill. 

The dragon keeper falters. “Well– you see, my Princess, the Cannibal landed a few hours ago in the pit. We didn’t give it much thought, since he always comes and goes, but then we noticed that a few hatchlings were missing, and–” “And you realised he ate them,” Laenor sighs. He’s already preparing himself for the world-shattering tantrum you’ll throw once you'll know that Merrax was fucking eaten. 

The keeper nods. “Yes. And, he has, um… let’s say, usurped the hatchling’s cave. We secured the other younglings, but if he were to discover them, we wouldn’t be able to stop him. He’s a wild dragon and second in size only to Vhagar, so–”

“I want his head,” Rhaenyra declares. “And if I have to storm into the Dragonpit and kill him myself to do so then I will.”

“My Princess, please reconsider,” the keeper cries out. “The Cannibal is one of the oldest dragons and is thought to be one of Balerion’s offsprings– one of the only ones to have survived. Killing him would be like… like erasing a part of your family’s history!”

“Erasing a part of my family’s history?” Rhaenyra booms. “Erasing a part of my family’s history?! He’s already making sure of it! How are our children supposed to claim dragons if he eats them all? He’s an abomination! Nobody ever even dared to give him a name, and he’s one of the only offsprings of Balerion left just because he ate his own siblings in the cradle, some even before they could hatch!”

“Nyra, calm down,” Laenor chastises. “Yes, it is a tragedy, and I don’t even want to think about how our daughter will react–”

At that she laughs bitterly, “Ooh, she’ll be pissed!”

“–Yes she will, but you know what? At least she hadn’t bonded yet with Merrax. She can still claim some other dragon, or– or– another dragon could hatch before she is of age to claim one.” “She is in the age of claiming one!” his wife rages. “I was seven summers when I claimed one, and I made sure that she would be able to surpass me and become the youngest dragon rider at only six– but of course the fucking Cannibal had to eat her dragon!”

“Princess Helaena’s hatchling was eaten, too,” the keeper whispers. “And even though he hatched at birth, she never bonded with him, and is instead bonded to Dreamfyre. Dragons are put in cradles in hope of the bonding process being easier in the future, but still, not all dragons that hatch in the cradle become bonded with the ones they shared it with. The young Princess still has options.” “I don’t care that she does, I want the Cannibal dead!”

It is quite late in the evening after the feast, so all children should be asleep, but you are not. You are in your aunt’s chambers, near to your own, playing with your dolls as Helaena hums songs and sews new dresses for you. 

“And while the dragon’s scales were as red as flames,” she sings quietly, “the maiden’s eyes were as blue as sapphires…” 

The singing is easily tuned out by the screaming match that is happening outside, probably down the hallway or in the gardens. You can hear the voice of your mother, enraged, and your father, who’s just trying to calm her down. 

You rise from the floor, leaving your dolls there, opening the door of the chamber and peeking an eye out. Ser Harrold Westerling, stationed in front of the door, is quick to notice you even as your mother screams and rages. “Princess,” he whispers, kneeling down. “You should be asleep. Please, get back inside,”

Meanwhile, your mother cries out, “Merrax is dead! And with her another four dragons died, all because you’re too scared of a stupid wild dragon! Why should my daughter suffer because of your cowardice? I’ll slay the Cannibal myself, if you don’t dare to do so!” 

Both you and the knight stop in your tracks. Your breath hitches. Merrax is… dead? 

You’re just a child — you are yet to grasp the concept of death. You know the late Queen Aemma, your grandmother, is dead. She died giving birth to your uncle Baelon — who died, too. You are a child, surrounded by death, yet not touched by it. You know the names of people who have died, relatives and not  — Alysanne, Aemon, Balerion, Aemma, Baelon — but they were all before you were born. You’ve never suffered a real loss. 

“What… what does it mean?” you ask Harrold, trembling. “Where– where did Merrax go? To Old Valyria?” your grandsire, while telling you about Balerion, the largest dragon in the world that he once rode, said that when dragons died they went back there. “We can– we can search for her, right? We… we must.” 

Your mother is none the wiser about your presence down the hallway, cursing in High Valyrian and threatening the dragon keeper. Your father, instead, notices. “Nyra,” he calls her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Stop.”

She does, annoyed, but once she sees your little trembling form coming out of Helaena’s chambers she feels her blood freeze. There’s no way of breaking the news gently, now. 

She dismisses the dragon keeper, rushing to get you; Laenor takes you in his arms, bidding his goodbyes to Harrold and Helaena, holding you tight to his chest while walking towards your chambers. You’re awfully quiet, shaking like a leaf, eyes barred open despite the late hour. 

Reaching your chambers, Laenor sits you down on the settee by the fireplace, kneeling down in front of you with Rhaenyra and holding your hand. Nobody is saying anything, and it scares you. Somehow, it makes it all feel more real. You whimper, because it just can’t be. “I– where… where’s Merrax?”

“Sweetling,” your mother starts. “There’s a wild dragon, known as the Cannibal, that has been eating our hatchlings for centuries. We don’t know how old he actually is– some say he’s an offspring of Balerion, your grandsire’s late dragon, and Vhagar. That would make him one of the two only dragons still alive to this day to have seen Old Valyria before the Doom– that’s why us Targaryens were always adamant about getting rid of him.”

You know about the Cannibal — so why is she telling you this? “The other reason is that nobody has ever managed to approach him,” your father adds. “He eats everything that gets near him, and often wanders to Dragonstone from King’s Landing and vice versa. That is to say, sweetling… there’s nothing we could have done to save her.” That is not true, Rhaenyra thinks, but it is best if the guilt rests on us rather than upon her. 

“What does it mean?” you babble. “Merrax… where…”

“Merrax has been eaten, sweetling,” says Rhaenyra, ripping off the bandaid. “The Cannibal has taken her.”

You shake your head, eyes filling with tears. “But– but she was mine!”

“We know, sweetling–”

“She was born with me, for me! She was my dragon– she had just started to eat from my hand!” now tears flow down your face as you weep, cheeks blotchy and an angry red. “Am I supposed to live like Aemond from now on? Without a dragon, bullied by Aegon and rejected by every hatchling? Why– what will grandsire think of me? He was the last rider of Balerion and his only granddaughter’s dragon died before she could even bond with her!”

Your cries are now inconsolable, and you reach for your parents, falling into their arms on the floor with them. “Your– you gave me your riding clothes from when you were my age and had them tailored just for me, but I can’t wear them without a dragon! I’ll just look stupid!”

Rhaenyra coos, brushing your hair back from your face and kissing your temple. “Calm down, my sweet. You shall not become like Aemond — you had not bonded yet with your dragon. And as much as Merrax’s death pains me, too, ‘tis not the end of the world. There are other hatchlings and adult dragons without a rider, who are just waiting for the right Targaryen to claim them.” 

She kisses your eyes and cheeks, wiping your tears. “And I’m sure at least one of them is waiting just for you.”

You have a plan. ‘Tis not really smart, but you are six summers old and have a dream. A dream that your mother always reputed you capable of — becoming the youngest dragon rider, surpassing her. You’re not about to let that dream go just because a stupid grandpa of a dragon ate your hatchling.

Until the Cannibal is back on Dragonstone, your mother refuses to let you go to the Dragonpit, insisting that he’s already stayed for too long — surely, he’s about to go off his way again, right?

(Apparently not. Helaena, who wasn’t forbidden from going to the pit, said that the dragon keepers are worried: it seems the Cannibal is taking his time — waiting for something, or someone.)

The plan is secretly going with Heleana to the Dragonpit, right before supper. As she visits Dreamfyre, you should be able to seek one of the hatchlings — and maybe one of them will take pity on you and allow you to ride them. 

The first part goes pretty well. You get in the dragon riding attire your mother had gifted you and that she once wore — black, with red embroidery displaying the Targaryen emblem on your chest — and just get in the carriage, right next to Helaena. Ser Criston Cole, the knight assigned to her for the afternoon, doesn’t even spare you a glance; he never does, that’s why you chose today of all days to come with your aunt. 

She is nervous, fidgeting with her hands and playing with her rings. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be wiser for you to stay in the Keep?” she asks worriedly. “It doesn’t matter if for a while you won’t have a dragon. I claimed mine just last year, and I’m older than you.”

You don’t reply — you’ve been rather silent in the last few days, unlike your usual self. Rhaenyra finds it even worse than your tantrums — she wishes you would just get it out and scream instead of remaining as silent as a ghost, your ramblings now an almost distant memory. They all just wish you could be the same as before the feast, before Merrax was eaten. 

The ride to the Dragonpit is short but awkward, and you wonder how your mother will react once she realises you sneaked out. It probably won’t take her much longer to notice your absence, so you have to either be quick or hide in the Dragonpit for the night if you wish to ride a dragon before your seventh name day. 

As you exit the carriage, a dragon keeper welcomes you and Helaena; he looks confused as to why you’re here, but quickly shakes it off, guiding you two towards the caves where the dragons rest. He hesitantly sends a glance to you, “The hatchlings are also there — Dreamfyre has her own clutch, and with the Cannibal near, we prefer to keep them with their own parents so they may be protected.” 

You nod as he guides you into one of the caves, a pretty light-blue and silver dragon chained in there. With Dreamfyre, there are four hatchlings, all much similar to her, all sleeping and chained. 

The keeper frees Dreamfyre from her chains, and she immediately darts to Helaena, gently nudging her with her snout. “Rytsas, issa hāedar,” Hello, my girl, she says. You know the basics of Valyrian — your mother made sure you knew enough to be able to claim and ride a dragon, even if it’s not as fluent as you’d like. You just understand it better than you speak it. 

You watch the hatchlings as they start to rouse; there’s a pretty one with blue and red scales that you intend to approach– 

Then you hear something. 

A low rumble coming from another cave, one that shakes the whole pit. “The Cannibal,” the dragon keeper mutters spitefully. “What a monster.” 

Well, that’s too bad, because you’ve already lost interest in the hatchling you saw earlier, and now your eyes are set on another possibility. The Cannibal.

No one ever managed to claim him, and all that tried are long dead. He can’t be killed as the other dragons know better than to get near him and there’s no amount of gold that could convince any man to try. Yet, he’s the one who killed Merrax, the one to have killed the dragon that should have been yours; he owes you a debt, and it has to be paid. 

The dragon keeper is too preoccupied with Dreamfyre and her hatchlings to notice your absence, and you are quick to snatch one of the torches on the walls to guide yourself through the various caves. You can feel the Cannibal’s presence, somehow; it haunts the pit, hanging like a weight over the caves, and suddenly you understand why the dragons have been so uneasy since his arrival. The air is heavy and smells of burnt flesh, smoke lingering between the corridors. 

The rumbling that you heard earlier is heard again, and you know that he’s near. And he is — only two caves away, you find him. 

He’s of a pitch black colour, and is covered in spikes, which — much like his tail — fade in a deep green. Some of his scales, at the light of the fire, shine of the same colour too; now you understand why he’s thought of being the son of Balerion and Vhagar, because if it weren’t for the torch revealing his green shades, you’d think he was the Black Dread come back to life. Two horns rest above his eyes, tipped backwards and almost pointing at his wings. He’s massive, and it’s clear that this cave wasn’t meant for him, as it’s definitely much too small for his form. It was meant for the hatchlings — the hatchlings he ate. 

He opens his eyes, roused from his sleep, and two gigantic emeralds stare down at you, almost mockingly. He makes no move towards you, nor tries to eat you, so maybe that’s a good sign. 

“You’re the Cannibal,” you whisper, stupidly. “You’re the one who killed Merrax.”

He barely grunts in response, maybe uninterested in you, maybe in assent. 

You then understand that if you truly want to claim and ride a dragon, then you must gather all the courage your little body can muster up and use it. “You ate Merrax,” you state, more firmly, all the anger you’ve felt in the last few days finally getting the best of you. “Ao enkagon nyke iā gēlȳn.” You owe me a debt. 

This time, he props his head up; he looks entertained, almost as if he’s betting on what you’ll do. You can’t hurt him — you’re but a child — and you surely can’t kill him. So, what are you going to do? 

There’s a rack of rope near the entrance of the cave, probably used for the hatchlings when they were still alive. You put down the torch, leaving it on the sand of the pit, and roll up the rope, holding it between your arm and shoulder. The Cannibal has no saddle, so you’ll have to find a way not to fall off of him. Your mother’s going to kill you if you do — but let’s see if you live enough for her to be able to do that. 

The climb to reach the top of the Cannibal’s neck looks hard, but you’re stubborn and would rather die than let him go away with the fact that he ate Merrax. If you can't kill him, then you’re going to bother him for the rest of your life. So, the only thing you can do is start climbing. 

He seems confused by your doing, as you’re clinging to the spikes and scales trying to reach the top of his neck. He shakes it, somewhat in a gentle manner, and you fall on your butt, not from high enough to actually hurt, but from high enough to have a bruised ego. 

“What is wrong with you?” you scream out, angry. “You killed my dragon, the last thing you can do is replace her!”

Your voice dies a little by the end, because the Cannibal has gotten up and leant down, opening his left wing, almost inviting you to mount him. You’re completely weirded out, but surely enough, are not going to reject his offer. 

Quickly getting up, with the wing serving as some sort of stairs, in a matter of mere minutes you find yourself on top of the Cannibal, who looks like he’s just waiting for you to say something. “Okay, okay,” you mumble to yourself. You’re not scared — well, not of him, but of your mother. Oh, once she hears about this, you’ll be grounded until you’re ready to be wed. 

With the rope, you tie yourself to the dragon, using his spikes to hold the cord firm onto his body. You give him a pat on the scales, adjusting to the feeling of being so high up. “Um… iōrās?” you order him to stand, but it sounds more like a question. 

He does follow your demand, though, standing up straighter, ready to get out. “Whoa– alright.” you hold onto the spikes tighter, “Well, I have to name you first, big guy.”

He turns his head to look at you, almost confused. “I can’t just keep calling you the Cannibal, because I won’t let you eat any more hatchlings.” At this, he grunts in disapproval, but you go on, telling yourself that he surely doesn’t understand the common tongue and just wants to go against you. “My mother calls all her dragon’s hatchlings with names ending in ax, because her mount’s name is Syrax. So I could call you something like… I don’t know, Rhaerion?”

He grumbles, and you grimace. “I don’t think you deserve your father’s name, though. You eat baby dragons, while Balerion was loyal and obedient.” You search your brain for names, Valyrian or not, that would suit him, before having the idea of a lifetime.

You know some basics of High Valyrian, enough to make a dragon fly, always says your mother. Helaena is pretty good at it, Aemond is almost fluent and your brothers are still learning it. Your uncle Aegon, instead, is completely ignorant of it except for cursing words. He likes to call anyone an orvorta, but he has a favourite cuss word usually used for your brothers — and while it makes you mad that he refers to them in such a way, you have to admit that it is a name quite fitting for your dragon. 

“Your name shall be Nādrēsy,” you tell him. “That is, until you redeem yourself. Then I may decide to find you another name, maybe a kinder one.” 

He roars, shaking his head, looking at you in disappointment. You can hear the dragon keepers shout your name in the corridors, having finally noticed your absence — or maybe your presence, since you shouldn’t have been there since the beginning. You hold onto the dragon’s spikes as hard as you can, preparing yourself for some movement. 

“Jiōragon hen hen kesīr, Nādrēsy!” you order, with the same tone your grandsire uses while holding court. Get out of here. 

He does as you ask, moving on all fours with steps that make the Dragonpit shake. You see two keepers in front of you, frozen in fear, but it’s not long before they start screaming and running away. 

You get to the entrance of the Dragonpit, and from where you sit you see a group of gold cloaks standing not too far away, behind Ser Harwin Strong — who apparently barely notices the dragon behind him, too preoccupied in screaming in Ser Criston Cole’s face about how “it’s all his fault that the princess is missing” and how “the King should have his head”. 

While you never liked Cole too much, as he seemed to despise you for no reason, you didn’t wish for him to be beheaded because of you. So you stop Nādrēsy, and cupping your mouth with your hands you scream, “Ser Harwin! I’m here!” 

At first the Lord Commander doesn’t understand where you are, looking around and sending a glance at Cole that says this doesn’t end here, but once he sees you, all the blood drains from his face, as well as from the face of Ser Criston and the other knights. “Princess!” he screams, hysteric. “Get off of there, it’s dangerous! Your mother has been searching for you, and she’s worried!”

But it seems that you already can’t hear him, returning all your attention to your dragon. “Gaomagon ao gīmigon skoriot Driftmark iksis?” you ask him. Do you know where Driftmark is?

You have all the intentions of keeping the promise you made to your grandmother, about your first flight being one to visit her and Corlys on Driftmark. They had just gotten back a couple of days ago, but you’re sure that they would still be happy to see you. Right now, you don’t think about your parents, too euphoric of finally having a dragon of your own as you are — and that will probably cost you another two years you’ll have to spend grounded. 

Nādrēsy roars loudly, opening his wings and taking flight. 

Not even ten hours later you find yourself on Driftmark, under the worried glance of your grandparents, who upon hearing your story are asking themselves if Rhaenyra has already thrown herself into madness. You happily show them your new acquaintance, who unexpectedly purrs when you caress his snout and doesn’t look like the Cannibal who ate countless of hatchlings. 

“That’s… that’s marvellous, sweetheart,” Rhaenys is a bit shaken, but still tries to be supportive. “Does your mother, perhaps, know that you’re here?” “Of course not! She would throw a fit otherwise.”

All their fears are confirmed to be true, and your grandmother immediately asks a servant for paper and pen to write to King’s Landing. And as you tell them how you renamed the Cannibal, Corlys pales, thinking that with you being daughter of Rhaenyra, you could have chosen something way worse. He’s just grateful that the common folk doesn’t know High Valyrian. 

Two days later, a raven comes from Driftmark, finally putting at ease the concerns of the whole court and stopping Rhaenyra and Laenor from getting any more grey hairs. 

To King Viserys I Targaryen, his daughter Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and her husband, Ser Laenor Velaryon. The Princess (who you have been searching for, I assume) has just landed on Driftmark. She is safe and sound, thankfully, and she rode ten hours on a dragon known for his wilderness without a saddle, secured on him only by a cord. She renamed the Cannibal (funnily enough, if you wish to know, his name now is ‘Nādrēsy’) who is now eating all the whales and sharks of the Narrow Sea that he can see from the island. We managed to put a saddle on him, so that the next time she’ll ride him the chances of falling off his back are minimal, and I will accompany her back to King’s Landing on Meleys myself as soon as she takes a good rest and is able to get on the dragon again. Me and my husband took the liberty to give her an earful about her recklessness and irresponsibility, but we’re sure you’ll choose a considerate punishment for her behaviour once she returns to King’s Landing.  Yours truly, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.

Rhaenyra puts down the letter, taking a deep breath, telling herself that violence is not the answer. Unfortunately, all she can think about is giving you two slaps at a time until the number becomes uneven. 

Laenor sighs, rubbing his eyes. They both haven’t slept much in the last two days, too worried to even think about stopping the research for you. “Well, at least she’s alive.”

To their grand surprise, Viserys bursts out laughing. “See?” he says to his daughter. “That’s what you put me through when you were young. Ooh, you’re in for at least twelve years of worrying and suffering. Rhaenyra, my dear daughter, I’m glad to announce that your daughter came out just like you.” he then rises from his seat, laughing like a madman. “My granddaughter is the youngest dragon rider in history!” he screams, feeling as young as he hadn’t felt in a while. “Oh, boy, I’ll have to organise a whole other feast for this!”

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra just stares at the letter; she’s not surprised you sneaked out, because that’s what she would have done in the same situation, and she has to admit that there are some similarities between you and the way she was before having you. There’s just one thing that almost makes her think that you really are a younger version of her, come back from the past to haunt her for all the scares she gave her father during the years.

“Bastard,” she mutters. “My daughter, out of all the proper names she could have chosen, called her dragon Bastard.”

little big lady

summary: 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.

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

word count: 5.0k

warnings: description of childbirth, mention of death during childbirth, alicent having beef with a kid, luke is a sweetheart, rhaenyra loves her daughter a lot thank you very much

author's note: a bit of a slow chapter, but still full of fluff to prepare for the mess that driftmark will be. this was supposed to be about the driftmark incident too, but the chapter was becoming too long and before leaving for vacation i wanted to post another chapter, so i split the chapters. don't know when i'll be able to update next, but i'll try my best :') enjoy!

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“Nādrēsy, you either eat or stay hungry!”

He gives you a horrendous screech, like a toddler who doesn’t want to eat vegetables. The whale is starting to stink, and with all the effort that Seasmoke put in catching it, the last thing you want is it going bad. It's already disgusting enough the fact that various mosquitoes have gathered to feast on it. “You like fish– you’re just pissy about the fact that I won’t give you the hatchling that you wanted to eat earlier!”

He roars again, and you gasp. “Oh, don’t get that attitude with me, old man! Ao won't ipradagon Arrax, tolī! Ipradagon aōha qaedar se vykāls bona rōva relgos hen aōhon!” You won’t eat Arrax, too! Eat your whale and shut that big mouth of yours!

At a safe distance, the dragon keepers and your brothers and uncles watch the scene, “You see that, my princes? It may work for her, but please never approach a dragon like that.”

“Well, they surely have found each other,” Aegon mutters, staring at his crazy niece screaming at a dragon who could eat her in less than a bite. Lucerys’ eyes shine. “Our sister’s so strong.” 

Jacaerys falters, and thank the Gods that your little brother can’t understand what you’re saying, because evidently Aegon’s lessons about cursing in High Valyrian worked, and now you’re calling your dragon every atrocious name that he taught you. “…Yeah, something like that.”

In the last two years, you’ve tried your best to stop your dragon from eating hatchlings. That meant arranging a new diet for him — or, letting him try out any meat or big enough fish that came to your mind. That’s where the problem starts. 

You’ve found that he eats anything. Cows, sheep, donkeys… anything, really. So, he eats hatchlings not because it’s the only thing he likes, but because it’s his favourite food — like lemon cakes are for you and your mother. The only thing he likes as much is men, better if scared, but since there aren’t a lot of people open to the idea of getting eaten by a dragon that’s also a no-no. 

Hence, the search for a food that could live up to the hatchlings began. Sharks, whales, aurochs — all animals that are never given to dragons, but since yours has clearly spoiled himself in over two centuries of eating baby dragons, he has high standards about his food. He often makes big fusses about it, but always prefers to eat whatever you’re offering instead of going hungry — sure, he could snatch an egg or two behind your back, but he has no intentions of suffering your wrath afterwards. 

With your mother being swollen with child again, you’ve grown impossibly protective of the eggs and the hatchlings, and if a few months ago you could forgive a slip up or two, now it seems that you’re determined to not let him touch any other dragon. Nādrēsy is learning to suck it up, and eventually he just burns and eats the whale, even if not happy at all. 

You huff, putting your hands on your waist. “Good.” turning to look at your brothers, you call them over. “We can choose the egg now!”

They immediately run over, Lucerys taking a hold of your dragon riding attire, leaving Aegon and Aemon behind with the dragon keepers. Arms wrapped around your brothers’ shoulders, you guide them in the Dragonpit, in search of Syrax — the keepers say she’s laid a whole new clutch of eggs, surely the product of the visit Caraxes paid her some moons ago. Speaking of the keepers, two of them stay close behind you, holding the brazier where the egg shall be put until the child is here. 

Syrax’s cave is unusually calm, with all the hatchlings quiet and the dragon sound asleep. She soon rouses, though, and greets you with a feeble little cry, nosing you three with her snout. “Sȳz ñāqes, Syrax,” you greet her. Good morrow, Syrax. Your High Valyrian has gotten significantly better, and you now can hold small conversations in it. “Jaelagon naejot urnēptre īlva se product hen aōha qopsa mirre?” Care to show us the product of your hard work?

She knows the three of you well enough to trust you — she has seen you grow up, for the Gods’ sake — so it doesn’t take much for her to lift her right wing and show you what is hiding beneath. 

Four eggs lay in the nest, safely protected by their mother, kept warm in her embrace. Your brothers gasp at the sight, then both point to an egg that you had already your eye on. “It’s that one.”

The egg is of a deep black, with red accents, and you put on your gloves and gently take it, placing it in the keeper’s brazier under Syrax’s watchful gaze. “Gaomagon daor zūger, Syrax. Kesi maghagon ao arlī iā zaldrīzes.” You tell her, caressing her snout. Do not worry, Syrax. We will bring you back a dragon.

She leans into your touch, probably missing your mother’s and finding in yours something familiar. Rhaenyra has been banned from the Dragonpit by the Maester since this pregnancy has been harder on her than the others, and even if it wasn’t, the stench of dragons has become too much for her to bear. “Rhaenyra kessa sagon arlī aderī, Syrax. Skorveria daor kes.” Rhaenyra will be back soon, Syrax. Rest for the while. 

She makes a low rumbling sound, then hides her eggs with her wing again, your brothers bidding her goodbye with soft pats on her head and even a little kiss from Luke. You soon get in the carriage directed back to the Red Keep, your brothers fervently insisting on holding the brazier themselves, excited to show it to your mother. They keep removing the lid to just admire the egg, and often coo at it, enamoured. 

Jace looks up to you, “Were Vermax and Arrax like this once, too?” 

You laugh. “Yes. Different colours, though. Don’t you remember when we chose Luke’s egg?”

His eyes widen. “We chose Arrax?”

“Of course we did. Father brought us to the pit with him and let us choose it. Not that you’d remember it– you were merely a summer old.” 

“Whoa.”

He goes back to staring at the egg, and soon the carriage stops, a knight opening the door and helping you get out. Two servants take over to carry the brazier, and you all move towards the castle — towards Rhaenyra’s chambers, where your mother is put to strict bed rest. Her maid greets you by the entrance, showing the servants where to put the brazier as you and your brothers greet your mother. 

“I see you’ve brought something for me,” she jests as her sons rush to hug her, laughing. She’s half-laying on her daybed, a table with grapes and wine at arm's length. You keep your distance, knowing you stink of dragon after riding and dealing with Nādrēsy, fearing it will upset her. You’ve been walking on eggshells around her lately, worried for her safety and the babe’s, doing anything and everything that could help her even if for just a small moment. 

Your mother kisses Jace’s and Luke’s head, smiling at them, “Now, now, let’s see the egg my wonderful children have chosen for the babe,” 

The servants step forward, the brazier held between them, and she lifts the lid to admire the egg, brushing a hand on her baby bump. “Would you look at that, that’ll make a beautiful hatchling,” 

Your brothers stay for a while, just catching up with your mother and babbling about dragons and babies, but soon enough Rhaenyra realises that it’s almost time for supper. “I think you should go change and prepare for supper, boys, or else your father and the King will worry.”

They nod and bid her their goodbyes, reaching for the door to exit her chambers, and you move to follow them but–

“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

You stop in your tracks, your brothers closing the door behind them, and with a wince you turn around to look at your mother. She’s got a grumpy look on her face, one that tells you that she’s either smelt your stench from that far away — and if she did, you really should get her a trophy for having the best working nose in all Westeros — or she’s mad about something. You find out it’s the latter. 

When you don’t move, she raises an eyebrow. “Well, girl? I let you stay in my body for almost ten whole moons, I raise you with love and with everything you could possibly need, and you won’t even give me a hug?”

You grimace– “Ah, no, it’s not that–” 

“Come over here and give me a hug.”

Your mother has been easy to anger in the last few weeks, so you don’t let her repeat herself, speeding towards her daybed and hugging her tight — you could hide it all you want, but you wanted to hug her so badly, too. You try not to snort when she makes a face at your smell, but she’s quick to hide it, motioning over her handmaid to bring a seat to you. 

When she was younger, Rhaenyra swore to herself that she would never be the kind of mother to hate the smell of dragons, but during her pregnancies she has found it harder and harder to avoid throwing up at the faintest smell of Syrax or any other dragon. But if spending time with her only daughter meant smelling a little stench, then she is sure she can endure it.

She gulps a little too hard, reaching for a grape on her bedside table to distract herself as you sit down, and tries to start a conversation — as you’re now the only one of her kids whom she can have a coherent talk with. “So, how is Nādrēsy?” the name still tastes strange on her tongue, even after almost two years now. 

You beam, and she is relieved to find the usual version of you back: since her pregnancy started, you’ve been too much like her when her own mother was with child. She sees your little worried frowns as you look at her bump and she sees herself, scared shitless for her mother and her sibling, fearing that every child would be the last. She doesn’t wish for you to carry that kind of burden upon your shoulders, especially since you’re way younger than she was, and she’s way healthier than Aemma was. 

“He hasn’t eaten a hatchling in almost seven moons! Can you believe it? I’ve tried anything, and maybe I haven’t found something that he likes as much as dragons, but he has started obeying me! He doesn’t search for the eggs in the Dragonpit anymore, and he…”

Your mother watches you as you ramble happily about your dragon, even if he’s probably the worst to have ever lived. She thinks that if a thing like that can be actually loved by someone, then there’s no actual limits to human affection. She suddenly wonders if her mother would have loved you as much as Viserys does, or as she does.

“That’s wonderful,” she replies once you finish your ramblings. “Why don’t you prepare a gift for him? To show him that you care about his improvement. When I was your age, I asked your grandsire to commission a heart locket for Syrax the first time she was able to fly over the sea.”

You seem to think about it. “That would actually be great, you know? Maybe we could go to the blacksmith and ask him to make two big rings for his horns.”

Your mother chuckles, but it is interrupted by a gag. The smell has gotten the better of her, and your expression immediately hardens. “I’ll go wash myself, mother. I’ll see you in the morrow– for the while, rest, please.”

“Oh, no, no,” she takes your wrist before you can get too far, trying to stop you. “What do you think of– uh– of having supper together? You go wash yourself, change into your nightclothes and then come right here. I’ll be waiting for you– we can have some pork together!” 

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Rhaenyra thinks that she just wants her little, sweet and without a care in the world girl back. Not this… worried, stressed child. She fears you’re growing up too fast, and maybe she’s to blame for this — is she putting you in the same place she was when growing up? “Sounds wonderful, mother. I’ll see you later.” 

You come back less than an hour later, smelling of honey and mint, and as her nose finally lets her have a break, Rhaenyra is free to talk with her baby girl. 

“Father said he’s commissioned my own sword!” you tell her passionately. Laenor has been teaching you some basics of combat, and even if Rhaenyra would be happier with you keeping any sharp object at least at arm's length, she’s not going to take away from you something that makes you happy, especially when it could be useful one day. “I have small legs, he says, so it’s a bit shorter than a normal one. Apparently they’re used mostly in the Free Cities, so it will take a while before it’s ready to use.”

Your mother nods, smiling, brushing a hand along her bump. You perk up, “Oh, I, uh… I made something for the babe.”

Rhaenyra opens her mouth, surprise etched in her face. “Oh?”

You nod, sitting up and taking a hold of a rag that you took from your chambers earlier. You spread it out for her, and it takes all her strength to not start crying immediately. 

It’s not a rag, she supposes, it’s a blanket. A small, little purple blanket, with the blue Velaryon emblem embroidered on it. It’s a raggedy thing, and the seahorse is barely recognizable, with the thread clumsily handled, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

You blush under her gaze, cowering a bit. “I– I know it’s not the best,” you mumble. “But– I wanted to do something for the babe and Helaena helped me make it, even if it’s a bit ugly.”

Rhaenyra has tears in her eyes. She takes the rag in her hands, brushing her thumbs upon the embroidery, lips quivering. Her little girl is learning how to sew and embroider now. Time really does fly. Before she knows it, she’s crying.

You wince at her tears, fidgeting with your nightgown. You didn’t think it was that bad.

But instead your mother reaches for you, hands behind your head and back, and soon her snot and tears stain your shoulder. “My baby girl,” she sobs. “Only eight and already a Lady. Will you ever grow tired of your poor mother? I hope not.”

You don’t know where this is coming from, but the Maester had said that the pregnancy could come with some type of hysteria. So you just pat her on the back, being as supportive as you can. She finally raises her head, brushing her thumbs under your eyes. “My Little Lady,” she mumbles. “So little yet already so big.”

She sniffs. “It feels like yesterday I was screaming for my own mother while giving birth to you.”

The comment throws you off. You know Aemma died in childbirth, and with her her child; that is a prospect you don’t even want to think about. You’re a child, and even if it feels like everyone around you is immortal, it’s not how it works. You fear one day, your mother will leave you like her own mother did — on the childbed. 

She doesn’t seem to notice your stiffness, kissing both your cheeks as with trembling little fingers you brush her tears away from her face. She tries to laugh it off, “I think we both could use a bit of sleep, don’t you?”

You nod, feeling the tiredness creep over your body like a shadow. Your mother gets up, waddling towards her bed, sending you a tender glance that means come here. 

You do, immediately sinking into her embrace; she keeps you close to her breast, cheek mushed against it, little legs laid under her prominent belly. “I remember when my mother was with child,” she begins. “I liked being cuddled like this, too.”

Unconsciously, you sink into her a little bit more. Any mention of Aemma Arryn makes you nervous. “When she died, I was all alone. I had nobody to hug me. But then I had you, and I finally had someone to hug.” she takes a shaky breath, snuggling her nose in your hair. “Childbirth is a scary thing. It can take more easily than it gives, and it did take away from me. But it also gave me you and your brothers, and you three are the sun of my world.” 

Her hand begins to draw patterns on your arms, absentmindedly. “Would you like this babe to be a girl, or a boy?”

You shake your head. “Don’t know. Both.”

She laughs. “It can’t be both, darling.” her eyes crinkle from the smile on her face. “When I was little, I wished for a baby brother. Just so that my mother could stop being in pain, and my father could have the heir he always wanted. But in truth, I always wished for a girl, so that we could grow up together and she could make me company.”

Now that she says that, a girl does sound nice. So would a boy, but… “If you wished to have a sister, mother, then I wish for it to be a sister too.”

You raise your head a bit, only to lean it down on her belly. You think you can hear it– the heartbeat. “If it's a girl, can we call her Visenya?”

Your mother tastes the name on her lips, remembering that when she was a child, she proposed the same name to her mother. If it’s a girl, Visenya, if it’s a boy, Baelon. That was what she always told her father when he came to her, asking how he should name the babe her mother was expecting. There was never a babe that lived enough to be named, though, and the names weren’t even contemplated for Alicent’s children — thankfully. 

She then hums, nodding. “Visenya,” she murmurs. “That would be a precious name.” 

“I shall teach her how to use a sword.”

“You shall wait until she’s your age at least. Then we’ll see.” 

A moment passes. “You’re– you’re not going to– umm…”

Rhaenyra’s your mother, she knows you better than anyone else. She knows what you’re trying to say. “No woman is completely safe during her labours, sweetling. I will fight my hardest to come back to you and your brothers alive.”

You whimper, not really convinced. “At your age, I started assisting my mother during childbirth– what do you think? You could do that too. Once my labour starts, it would be nice to have you in the same room. You could see your sibling being born, and it would also prepare you for the future. ‘Tis not a beautiful thing to watch but you must know what it takes to birth a child.” 

You think hard for a moment, but really, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for your mother, and if she wants you to be present for her labours, then so be it. “I can do that.”

Nothing your mother could have said would have prepared you for her childbirth.

It feels like it’s been moons since it started, since Rhaenyra started screaming and writhing in pain, and honestly, you don’t think you could be more terrified than now. The midwife and nurses continue to scream at her to push, and you can tell that she’s really trying, but the absence of the Maester makes you nervous. Why hasn’t mother called for him? You’ve never really feared for your mother’s life, not until now at least. Before it was just a nagging thought in the back of your head, now it’s a horrifying possibility. 

“Push, m’lady!” the nurse behind her screams. Your mother lets out a long, pained cry, tears streaming down her face and sweat clinging to her skin– “I see the head!” 

The midwife turns to you, motioning you over. “Princess, the head!” 

You look at your mother, who despite the pain tries to nod, and hesitantly join the midwife — only to cower immediately after seeing the mess between your mother’s legs, feeling faint at the thought that not only is she going through that, but you’ll have to experience it one day, too. The tears come before you can hold them in — you’ve held them for fucking hours, and finally, the dam breaks. 

“Mommy,” you sob. She takes a deep breath, trying to open her eyes, “Don– ngh, don’t worry, dear, it’s–”

She lets out another ominous, atrocious scream that won’t make you sleep at night for at least a whole fortnight, but finally, another cry adds to her screaming. The babe is out, and he screams with all he has in his tiny little body, making himself known to the world. 

Rhaenyra lets out a breathy chuckle, reaching for the babe, bloody and screaming and covered in Gods know what kind of body batter. Even if there is pretty much enough blood on her to be able to compare it to a battlefield, somehow your mother manages to smile, smile as if she hasn’t just been through the most horrendous affair you’ve ever seen in your entire life. 

She tells you to join her, and you don’t let her repeat herself twice — you’re more than happy to move from the bloody scenario between her legs — and she is quick to hold you tight against her, pressing a kiss against your forehead and your teary cheeks. “Look at your brother– isn’t he cute?”

You scrunch your nose. For these many hours of pain and suffering, you think he could’ve at least come out prettier, but if your mother thinks he’s beautiful, you’re not going to question her. “Here, hold him,”

You clumsily take the babe in your arms, where he settles happily, and Rhaenyra adjusts the towel he’s wrapped in, brushing her lips on his forehead. “Why don’t you give him a kiss too?” 

You’re not too interested in doing that — he looks dirty — but still do, just to see your mother happy. She chuckles again, but the moment is quickly interrupted by a maid storming in. 

“Princess,” she says, embarrassed. “Th– the Queen has requested that the child be brought to her — immediately.”

Your mother grunts. The moment is ruined. She looks at you, “Can you keep him for a moment, sweetling? I just– ngh– need to put on my dress. I shall take him myself.”

“But princess!” one of the nurses protests. “You should be resting!”

“I know!” with a pained gasp she sits up, a squelching sound coming from under her shift. She sighs tiredly. “The afterbirth.” you don’t really have the heart to look. 

“Mother,” you murmur. “I can bring him. You should stay abed.”

“No!” she hisses as a handmaid helps her into her dress. “I will not leave you alone to deal with Alicent.” 

“But mother–”

“You will not bring him to her without me present!” it’s rare that she raises her voice against you, so it’s serious. “That– that–” she’s trying to find a word bad enough to describe her, but probably wants to avoid being vulgar around you — even if Aegon surely makes up for it. 

With shaky steps and a hand on your shoulder for support, you both step out of the chamber, your father waiting outside. He gingerly gets up, a bit confused but happy nonetheless, trying to get a peek at the bundle in your arms. “A boy, I’ve just heard,”

Rhaenyra grunts, and he nods awkwardly. “Well done.” he looks at you, “How was it, sweetling?”

“I don’t think I will look at babes the same ever again.”

He lets out a nervous laugh, and without saying anything your mother stiffly walks past him, towards the hallway — towards the Queen’s chambers. You are quick to follow her, as is your father. “Whe– where are you going?”

“She wants to see him.”

“Now?”

Your mother sends him a glare. “Okay, okay– at least lean onto my arm.”

You proceed like this, with your father half-carrying your mother, and you holding in your arms your baby brother, who still has got no name but already has a place in your heart. You relish in seeing your parents so close, because it’s not a thing that happens often — they don’t love each other, it is no secret, not at least in a romantic way. You’re old enough to notice the way Ser Harwin Strong looks almost identical to your brothers. 

“I thought we were past this,” Laenor murmurs, horrified. He stops before the stairs, shaking his head, “No. We are turning back, right? She can come down to visit us.”

Rhaenyra would smack him if she only had the force to, and it shows. “Not unless you wish to carry me down these fucking stairs.”

Her husband sighs. “Alright, then.”

It is maybe the most sad thing you’ve ever seen, right after her labour. Your mother can barely lift her legs, and surely every step sends her into terrible pain; the nobles are chatting hushedly around you, staring at the babe in your arms, muttering crongratulations to your father. Finally the stairs end, and Rhaenyra takes a heavy sigh, limping down until they reache Alicent’s chambers. Ser Cole opens the door with a small bow, even if not willingly, and you all enter the room.

“Rhaenyra!” the Queen exclaims, fake worry etched on her face. “You should be resting after your labours.”

She would, were you not a stuck-up wench, you think bitterly. You ask yourself if Aegon would be mad at you if you ever called his mother with one of the many feisty appellatives he had personally taught you. 

You can tell that your mother is holding back from cursing at her. “I have no doubt you would prefer that, Your Grace.”

The Queen shakes her head, disappointed. “You should sit. Talya, fetch the Princess a cushion.”

Her handmaid does so, but your mother is still hesitant. “There’s no need.”

“Nonsense.” 

Mostly thanks to your father, who nudges her to sit the fuck down, your heart is relieved to see Rhaenyra finally sat, regaining her strength. 

“What happy news we received this morning!” 

Your grandsire is quick to join you all, as energetic as you hadn’t seen him for a while. “Where is he? Where is my grandson? Ah!”

He spots you, the smile on his face only getting bigger, and he is quickly by your side, kissing your forehead and admiring the bundle in your arms. “Would you look at that! My granddaughter and my grandson are already inseparable. May I, sweetling?”

You send a glance to your mother, who nods, and shakily hand the babe to the King. “Ah, thank you, my dear. You’ve seen the birth, right? Marvellous, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” you mutter. “It was scary.”

Your grandsire cackles. “Scary? You ride one of the largest dragons in the world and you found the birth scary?” he ruffles your hair. “Such a funny girl.” 

He admires your little brother, bouncing him in his arms. “There he is, a fine Prince. Sturdy — you will make an awesome knight, yes, yes. Does the babe have a name yet?”

“We haven’t spoken–”

“Joffrey,” your father confidently says, interrupting your mother. “His name is Joffrey.”

Alicent raises an eyebrow. “That’s an unusual name for a Velaryon.”

“I do believe he has his father’s nose,” Viserys says, chuckling. “Don’t you?”

Nobody replies, but your father is quick to change the topic. “If you don’t mind, Your Grace, your daughter should be back to bed as soon as possible. It’s a wonder she even made it here so soon after her labours.”

“Ah, of course,” your grandsire smiles, holding out the babe for you to take again. Alicent retreats her arms — she had probably thought that her husband was passing Joffrey over. She looks at you, expecting, but you didn’t move an inch. If she thought you were going to give her your baby brother then she was wrong, terribly so. 

“I do hope the labour was easy,” your grandsire says. 

“I think I called the midwife a cunt.”

“You surely did, mother.”

Both her and the King explode in laughter. “My poor girl,” she says, brushing a hand over your hair. “Only eight and already subjected to her mother’s bullying. I suppose after this, you never want to see a childbirth ever again.”

You vehemently shake your head, paling at the thought. Alicent sighs, looking at your father. “Do keep trying, Ser Laenor. Soon or later, you may get one that looks like you.” she didn’t hold the babe, but the brown tuft on his head is definitely noticeable.

You narrow your eyes, opening your mouth before you can stop yourself. “You should try for another child too, then, Your Majesty. A Targaryen with red hair would look dashing.”

Your parents are holding back their laughter, you can tell. Alicent looks down at you, giving you a condescending smile. “What a delightful child. Though I must reprimand you, for that isn’t a proper thing to say.”

You raise an eyebrow with the same attitude she had earlier. “Ah. Then I must reprimand you, too, for that wasn’t a proper thing to say to my father either.”

Laenor lets out a choked laugh and hides it in a cough, while Rhaenyra has to put a hand on her mouth to stop the laugh that she wants to let out so bad. It’s Viserys who laughs for them, pinching your cheek with a warm smile. “Ah, my granddaughter. With that sharp tongue of yours, the Realm will be in good hands once it is passed down to you.” he leans down to leave a kiss on your head and a caress to Joffrey’s forehead, smiling. “Go, now. I don’t want to keep you here more than I should.” 

With that, you’re out of there.

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.”

you'll change your name or change your mind (and leave this fucked up place behind)

summary: 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.

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

word count: 5.3k

warnings: angst, death, grief, implied suicidal thoughts, reader's having a teenage rebellion moment at the young age of barely nine, daemon slander (it will get better i promise)

author's note: i don't really like this chap lol. in fact, i fucking hate it

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Your father has a haunted look on his face. 

He holds you for hours as you cry, pass out, wake up and start crying again, nestled in your bed still bandaged, the wound on your head hurting more than ever. Milk of the poppy only makes you comatose and the migraines are making your head explode, and he doesn’t really know what to do.

He’s lost, he lost his sister and almost his daughter in less than a sennight, and probably feels like a terrible father for not being there when you needed him the most. But thankfully, in a day or two your crying stops; you seem to have understood that the more you cry, the more your pain worsens.

“My little girl,” he coos, taking you to the balcony and holding you in his arms. “I promise nothing bad will ever ever happen to you from now on, not while I’m here.” 

Nādrēsy is always buzzing out of your window, waiting for some kind of sign from you; that’s why Laenor often brings you to the terrace, other than to get some fresh air. To calm your dragon, who has been destroying everything that comes in his sight for the last few days. Soon enough you are finally sleeping again, and slowly, the bandages get less and less bloody: the wound is closing. 

“Do you think I will ever find a husband?” you murmur quietly to him one evening, cuddled close to his chest. He looks down at you, questioning. “I mean… with the hideous scar I’ll be left with, nobody will ever want to marry me.”

“My love,” Laenor says, eerily calm. “If someone doesn’t want to marry you because of a measly scar, then you shouldn’t even consider them. Real men aren’t scared of scars, nor are they repelled by them, as they probably have many. Besides, your beauty hasn’t even been tainted the tiniest bit.”

He boops your nose, earning your first laugh since a while. “How could you ever lose your beauty? You have taken it allll from me. And it’s not going to fade any soon — in fact, it’s only going to bloom more and more as you grow, and as much as I would like to hold you in my arms forever, I can’t wait to see you blossom into a fine woman.”

The Grand Maester visits you every hour — per your grandsire’s request — and checks your wound, who slowly but surely is getting better and better every day. Viserys is already informing himself about headpieces that could hide the scar and is worrying about in having them made by the best goldsmiths of Westeros, and even if the scar will always be there, the thought of hiding it makes you feel a bit easier. 

To take your mind off of the last few days your grandsire lets you sleep in his quarters — on his king sized bed — happily reading you tales about Old Valyria and telling you stories of the great Balerion. He’s taken to sleeping on the daybed by the bed, worried that you’re going to bleed out to death or something like that, and it is only upon Corlys’ pressing that he agrees to the servants bringing another bed to the chambers so that he can sleep there. 

Your parents look relieved for the first time in weeks, visiting you everyday with the maesters, making sure the pain has subdued and you are well. Your father pinches your cheeks and your nose, reminding you that your sword is set to arrive on your ninth nameday — which isn’t that far — and your grandsire promises to call for yet another big celebration in your honour. It boosts your mood to another level, so Rhaenyra for once in her life is actually happy about her father downright spoiling you rotten. 

But soon enough, your grandsire and uncles have to leave for King’s Landing; he has duties to attend to, and they have prolonged their stay for too much time already. Helaena will stay with you and return to Dragonstone with her own dragon when the time comes — and you pretend to not notice the look he gives Alicent when he says that, like it’s a punishment meant for her. 

Punishment or not, you’ve never seen your aunt happier. She says that by being betrothed to Jace, she has just avoided marrying Aegon, which she is ecstatic about. She’s making a point of bonding with Rhaena and Baela as well, often inviting you all to her chambers to embroider or take some tea together. Things are going back up again, but before you can really get back up on your feet, tragedy strikes again.

You are taking a walk with your grandparents right after supper, happily trotting around High Tide like you own the place, when a servant calls for the Lord and Lady Velaryon to immediately follow him to their chambers. 

Neither the sight of your father’s burned body by the fireplace nor the screams of your grandmother will ever get out of your head. 

“In my own chambers!” your grandfather screams, enraged, breaking vases and making servants and guards flinch. “How could you allow this to happen? How?!”

Nobody seems to care enough about you to get you out of the room — with your grandfather going mad and your grandmother lost in her own grief — and as you stare longer and longer at the burned face of your father, where his eyes once were, you suddenly realise why Nādrēsy prefers her preys raw or alive. He doesn’t even look like your father; all that’s left unscathed on his body is the medallion around his neck and the ring in his left hand. 

You don’t have the courage to say anything, but your throat feels raw, the screams of Rhaenys and Corlys melting into one in the back of your mind. Is that even your father? You wouldn’t know, his face is deformed beyond recognition. But the hands are not, and— yes. Those are the same hands that held you non-stop just a fortnight ago. 

You spent an entire lifetime knowing his face, just for him to end up dying with another one.

You fall to your knees, taking his hand in yours, hoping he squeezes back. When he doesn't, it all clicks; this is real. Your father is dead. Laena has brought him with her.

“Father,” you murmur. “Father,” you say louder, shaking his body. The fabrics are still hot and melting, and they stick to your fingers and burn your hands, but you don’t care. “Please,” you beg. With who are you talking — the Gods, the sea, old Valyrian Gods? You have no idea. You just hope someone, anyone, will listen to your prayer.

Nobody hears. 

You’re ripped from your father’s body by rough hands, and it takes you a moment to understand that it’s once again Daemon, holding you back once again. “No!” you scream, hysteric, and only now you notice that your mother and brothers are by the door, behind them your cousins and Helaena. It seems you weren’t the only ones the servants called. “No, no, my father–”

“Your father is dead,” it’s said with an unnerving and cruel calm — the calm only someone who has stopped crying for his parents a long time ago can have. “No tears nor hysterics from you will ever change that.” you ask yourself if he has told that to his daughters, too, when their mother died, because if so you’re pretty sure Rhaenys would love to have a little talk with him. 

Your cries only get louder, and as you trash in his hold you deliver a good kick to his shins. He gasps, letting you go and going to cover with his hands the hurt area. “You little–”

Before you can run up to your father again, it’s Corlys who stops you, caging you in his arms and kneeling down. “He’s gone, sweetling,” he murmurs delicately, tears in his eyes. “Shh, shh, everything’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” 

It’s not.

Nothing’s okay as days later Corlys recites his eulogy, nor when your father’s corpse is thrown in the waters below High Tide, in the same place where his sister was thrown just weeks ago. Your father has died, and for what? A stupid jealousy spat, as Ser Qarl put it? You hope he had a bad time in Nādrēsy’s mouth and stomach, at least half as bad as what you’re going through right now. 

After the funeral you’re in shambles, finding yourself in the same position where Laenor once was: down on your knees in the water, crying your heart out alone. Your brothers had tried to follow, your mother to stop you, but it was all in vain. Your father now belongs to the sea, so to the sea you’ll go for comfort, as you once did with him. 

“Why?” you ask. You don’t know exactly who you are talking to — the sea, to the Old Gods of Valyria or the Seven. “Weren’t Laena and Harwin enough? Hasn’t our family already suffered more than is necessary?”

A storm is clearly brewing, with the salt waters unclear and high waves in the distance. A thunder almost replies to you, making your eardrums shake and your head hurt. “He was kind, gentle and loving,” you weep, “why did you have to take him away from me?”

This time, no response is heard from the sky — there's only the thundering of the waves, who are getting more and more violent, and you take it as your father sensing your pain.

In the days following Laenor’s death and funeral, you do not eat, talk, or get out of your room. You stay bundled up in bed, the same bed where once he had comforted you, and you do not even find in yourself the strength to cry — nor the tears, as you’ve shed an abnormal amount of them in the last fortnight. 

Every day three times a day a servant comes in with a tray and begs you to eat, then leaves the tray filled with food and water on your nightstand, hoping that you will eat something. You barely do. 

Often they leave some letters, too, and leave them on a stack on your settee; they’re all the condolences the lords and ladies of Westeros are sending you, surely, and at least half of them have the Targaryen emblem, meaning your grandfather — who missed the funeral — is probably growing antsy. 

Sometimes your family knocks at the door, and that’s the only moment you get out of bed — to lock the entrance. You do not have the heart to look at your grandparents in their faces, nor your mother or brothers. You fear you’ll find disappointment in their eyes — that they’ll search for your father in your features and will be able to find nothing. The scar is still new and red, and as of now, is as noticeable as ever, even with the bandages.

This trance lasts for almost a sennight, until one day you get up, put on your nightgown and venture down into the kitchens. The hour is late, but not late enough for servants to already be in bed, so you’re not surprised to find them still bustling with pots and pans. 

One of them almost screams once she sees you. “Your Grace!” she yells, spooked, all of them hurriedly and clumsily bowing. “May– may we help you with something?”

Your eyes are dull. “Are there any lemon cakes left?” there are no lemon cakes in the trays left in your chambers.

Soon after you’re sitting on a little crooked chair, eating the lemon cakes that were left from dinner, as they all stand away, staring at you scaredly. You realise they are waiting for some kind of response. “They’re good,” you tell them, voice raspy. 

The servant from earlier nods hesitantly. “We– we’re happy to hear that, Your Grace. Should I… should I call for the guards? To escort you back to your chambers?”

“No,” you murmur, finishing the cake and getting back on your feet. You sincerely hope nobody has seen you, because you don’t want stares from anyone in your family, not if they’ll look at you like the servants are doing right now. “I don't need one.”

The walk back to your chambers is quiet and dark, as the corridors are barely lighted by the torches, and you make sure to lock the door to your chambers once you enter. You spare a glance at the letters on the settee, and think that maybe it is time to read them.

As you predicted, half of them are from your grandsire, made of begs for forgiveness for his absence and memories about his own father’s death, also mentioning that the headpiece he had commissioned is almost done and will be ready for your nameday. How will you tell him you do not wish to celebrate it anymore? 

There are various letters, all from pretty prominent lords — Lannister, Tully, Baratheon — but also from the ones of smaller houses, like Blackwood or Mormont. They all apparently wish their deepest condolences to you and will be happy to assist if you ever need their help with what your father has left behind. Aka, they all already seem quite interested in remarrying your mother — scandal! The mourning period has just started for her and she won’t be able to marry for at least a year — and also, you know that some of them are still married. 

The last letter makes you honestly frown at the direwolf wax crest keeping it closed. Now, why would Cregan Stark, barely three-and-ten, be interested in your mother? But as you open it, interest in your mother is the last thing you can find. 

To the Crown Princess, firstborn of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon.  I was truly sorry to hear of your father’s passing. I remember Ser Laenor very well, and he has always been nothing but kind to our family, always welcoming us with a smile on his face the little times we went to King’s Landing. I myself lost my father almost three years ago, and I must say, the pain dulls over time. It doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, but living with it becomes easier. The void parents leave behind never fully heals, and it is easy to fall back in despair every once in a while, but I recommend crying as much as you can during the mourning period and then keeping yourself busy — at least, that worked for me, and I share this with Your Grace in hopes to help her. I wasn’t much older than you when the late Lord of Winterfell died, and losing a father isn’t something easy to process. Parents are the first to welcome us into the world, and the pain that their passing brings isn’t something even barely imaginable to someone who hasn’t gone through it.  Remember to always keep your head up, for the crown is a heavy burden and your shoulders must get used to it — as unpleasant as it may be. 

You’ve never received a letter from him before, and if it wasn’t for the situation, you’d probably be jumping around and twirling in your dresses. 

Your eyes dart to his knife, sitting upon your desk — as it always is. You rarely leave it behind when you go somewhere, as you have grown quite attached to it. A scary thought passes through your head, making you shiver. Is this what father meant, to think of death as a relief? You doubt you’d ever have the courage to do it; your family is already broken enough as it is. 

You realise you need a change of air. 

The ride to Dragonstone is rushed and a bit scary, with the Stark knife sitting on your hip, heavier than ever. You don’t plan on staying too long, as your mother will worry and your family still is on Driftmark, hoping to bring comfort to Corlys and Rhaenys. 

The servants greet you with messy clothes and tousled hair, clearly having just woken up, but it doesn’t take long for them to accompany you to the nursery. 

It seems Joffrey has just woken up, too, whining in his crib a bit; you coo at him, brushing the brown tufts of hair away from his forehead. “Hello, little guy,” you whisper. “Missed me?”

He stirs as you take him in your arms, bleary hazel eyes looking at you; then he smiles, showing you his toothless gums, reaching a hand out for your cheek. You laugh, “Aren’t you the most precious thing?” you hum, tapping delicately his nose. “Hidden here from all the pain of the world, not knowing a thing about what’s going on?”

You press a light kiss on his head as he takes your index finger in his hand. “Father won’t be here to see you grow up, but I’ll be. And I promise to make sure that you’ll be as loved and taken care of as I was when he was here, still with us.”

Four moons pass agonisingly slowly; you all get back to Dragonstone at the end of the first, for your grandparents seem to be able to go on without your presence, and the time to get used to life on the island without your father has come. As Lord Stark suggested, you keep yourself busy: you show Helaena and your cousins — who, with their father, have moved to the castle with you all —, you’ve helped them set their things up in their chambers and every day you visit little Joff in the nursery, often with your brothers present. 

You started eating again, much to your mother’s relief, and have convinced your grandsire to avoid hosting a feast for your ninth nameday, on the promise to let him go all out for your tenth summer — Laenor’s loss is still too fresh for you to feel like you can start enjoying yourself again. He still insisted on giving you a present, though, and has told you to come to King’s Landing as soon as you could, during or after your nameday. 

The day before you officially turn nine summers old, though, your mother calls you in her chambers. You’re surprised to also find uncle Daemon there; you know they are... close, but as you have a particular dislike towards him, it is rare for the two of you to be found in the same room together. 

Trying to hide the disdain for your uncle, you focus on Rhaenyra, who’s smiling nervously. “You sent for me, mother?”

“That I did, sweetling,” she says, eyes a bit unsure. “I– we, me and your uncle, have to tell you something.” you don’t like the tone she’s using — it’s like she already knows you won’t like what she’s about to say. You have an inkling of what she could be hiding, but you wait for her to spill the beans, because you don’t like your intuition one bit. 

“We’ll get married by the next moon.” what happened to breaking news softly?

Looks like you were right, but that doesn’t mean you’re more ready to hear it from her mouth. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It would strengthen the both of us,” she reasons, already trying to calm you down. “My claim to the throne would be strengthened by the union and Joffrey would have a father to look up to as he grows up.”

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “I know that the passing of your late father’s–”

“Late father?” you hiss. “Late father? Mother, you can’t even say his name now?”

She sighs. “Laenor was a good man, but you know I didn’t love him–”

“Does it really matter?” you scoff. “The mourning period isn’t even over yet! By marrying him, you’ll bring disgrace to my father’s name!”

She has tears in her eyes; she knew from the start that this discussion could only go downhill, and the fact that Daemon has a smirk on his face only worsens things. “I know you’re angry, but you have to understand that me and Daemon hold love for each other and our union will–”

“I don’t care!” you boom, “I don’t care if you love him, father loved you too! Maybe not in the conventional way, maybe more like a sister or a friend, but he held enough regard for you to have me despite his limits! He would’ve never done this to you! And my brothers’ father — he’s dead, both of them are, and you won’t just– just replace them with him!” you point an accusatory finger at your uncle, sat without a care in the world on the couch and sipping on a goblet of wine. "Harwin Strong, too, was a good man, an honest knight, and he was loyal to you until the very end!”

Your mother bites back — because even with all the love she holds for you, she is quite prideful, too. “That is enough!” she rages, “I told you because I wanted to let you know before your brothers and cousins did, not because I needed your approval! Daemon is a good match and the decision is taken, so you better change your attitude! Besides, why do you hate him so much?”

“Ooh, I have a list,” you boast. “For starters, he ripped me off of my dead father’s body when it was still warm. But I can go on.” you don’t wait for her reply to continue, “He’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen — I’m sure horses can look better. He’s so old he’s not only my uncle but yours too, and by now his hair is fair not because he’s a Targaryen, but because it’s turning white! He’s so old he’s starting to smell like a decaying body, and don’t even get me started on his wrinkles! He has lost his wife and child not even four moons ago and he’s already replacing them with a widowed lady and a fatherless child! Out of the two wives he has had, both have died! If you think I am ever going to accept that thing into my house then you’re wrong! Marry him if you want, but don’t ever, ever expect me to be present to the ceremony nor be cordial to him!”

You are breathless by the time the last sentence is finished, chest heaving, and the two adults are looking at you bewildered. Your mother has tears in her eyes, while Daemon stares at you with his mouth open. “First of all, I am not that old. Second, this is not your house. This is your mother’s house.” he says. Then he looks at your mother. “Third, you didn’t tell me she behaved so much like me. I feel like I needed to be warned that.”

If your rage could be held back before, it can’t now. You scream at the top of your lungs until your throat feels raw, “I am not like you and I will never be! I’ll cut my throat before I will even start to resemble you, you… you whore!” you’ll have to ask Aegon for more effective insults towards men, because calling him a whore right now feels like a jest. “You’ll never be even half the man my father was, as you are even barely a man. What is a prince without honour? You must be some kind of dragonseed, because I know you have none!”

Your mother says your name sternly. “You’ve said far more than I should’ve allowed you.”

You stay silent. “Alright, then.” you head over to the door, taking the handle in your hand, and almost open it before she speaks up again, “Where do you think you’re going?” she asks. Her voice has a strange tremble to it, but you cannot understand if it’s out of anger or something else. “I told you, the decision is taken. Nothing you will do will make us change our minds.”

You open the doors, turning to look at them. “Oh, I’m not telling you not to get married. I’m just telling you I won’t be there to witness it.” you get out of there, shutting the doors closed behind you, and despite her yells, your mother doesn’t follow you — nor does Daemon. 

Maybe it’s stupid, but it doesn’t feel like it. You don’t care that Daemon is old, nor do you care about the fact that he’s ugly — it’s just that you don’t like him, and they’re disrespecting your father’s memory by marrying so early after his death. As long as she’s happy, you’d let your mother do anything; but this feels like too much. You get that she didn’t love your father, but at the very least she should care about the love that you and your brothers held for him. Besides, just the thought of little Joff calling Daemon ‘father’ makes you shiver. 

“Your Grace!” as you storm off, a page follows you, breathless and dazed. “Your Grace, a ship has just arrived down to the harbour. There’s a man in the courtroom — he says he’s searching for the late Ser Laenor Velaryon.”

You frown, stopping for a moment. There’s no way any westerosi man has never heard of your father’s passing — he has been dead for four moons by now, and word is quick in Westeros. He should know better. 

The courtroom is almost empty, spare for the guards and a few servants bustling around and whispering to each other, looking at a gruff looking man. He has tanned skin, hair and beard black and unkept, and the dry skin of someone who has stayed on a ship for a long period. His clothes are modest and his gaze is confused. 

“Good evening,” you start, making him jump. He probably hadn’t seen you. “May I help you?”

“Erm…” he mutters, unsure of himself. He’s clutching a parcel in his hands. “Me no talk westerosi good. Ser Laenor Velaryon here is?”

You raise an eyebrow. A Tyroshi. So, that’s why he doesn’t know your father is dead. He has been travelling. “My father was Ser Laenor Velaryon. He passed away four moons ago, I’m afraid. Whatever you had to tell him, you can say it to me.”

He looks unsure — maybe he didn’t understand you pretty well — but slowly nods. “Master said to deliver parcel to him.”

Ah, you understand. A slave. “You can give it to me. I will treat it with the utmost care.” you tilt your head, staring at him. “Do you need anything? Food, some water, a refuge?”

He vehemently shakes his head and places the package in your hands. “Me can’t. Other works to deliver I have. Ship sails again soon.” 

He’s gone before you can protest, a certain urgency in his walk, and the guards are happy to show him off. You look at the parcel in your hands, confused, not remembering anything your father commissioned the Tyroshi. 

You get back to your chambers, curiosity getting the best of you, immediately tearing off the silk wrapped around the wooden box. A piece of paper sits between them, and your confusion only grows when you notice there are words written on it. Tears pool in your eyes once you recognise the writing. 

To the fairest Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, whom the Gods allowed me to raise and cherish.

You open the box with shaky hands, finding a sword. Written on the blade there’s a small inscription: From Father, with love. You start crying even before you can take it out from its box, clutching it close to your chest by the hilt, careful not to cut yourself — you had completely forgotten about it, about the fact that your father had it commissioned for you. With everything that happened, it completely slipped off of your mind.

Even with eyes clouded with tears, you take a better look at the sword: it’s shorter than a normal one, right for your size, and the grip is shaped like a seahorse — it’s the only part of the sword decorated with blue shiny rocks and gold. It’s not a common design, surely not a convenient one — you doubt you could ever go to war with a thing like this — as it’s more of a ceremonial weapon, much like the knife you stole from Lord Cregan. 

Even dead, your father always manages to give you something for your birthday. 

You try to recompose yourself, and now there’s only one thing in your mind — rage. Your father was a good man, yet your mother is ready to disrespect his memory when his passing is still so fresh. You have no intention of staying here to watch. 

It does not take you long to get yourself in your riding attire, the Velaryon gold emblem flaring on your chest; you carefully put the sword in its scabbard, tying an old pearl string that Laenor gifted you years ago to the guard of it. You then tie it to your belt, as you’ve seen knights do, and you don’t forget your — Lord Cregan’s — dagger, who finds its place just beside the sword. The buckle that holds together your leather straps is one with the Stark emblem on it — in this moment, you’d even wear the Lannister’s lion crest just to forget for a minute about your Targaryen blood, which as of now you’re really ashamed of. 

The plan is simple — flee to King’s Landing, then give your grandsire a reason to keep you there, which should not be too difficult. Fate has a funny way of working, and the King’s Justice has just died — news flash! You’ve got a dragon who could use some human flesh between his teeth regularly, and he doesn’t even have to be paid. You have the literal perfect candidate in your hands, and surely, the King won’t be too sad to have you around for a bit. 

You leave right after saying goodbye to Helaena and your brothers, not telling them exactly why. Because even if you hate Daemon, you don’t hate your mother, and you could never bear any of them thinking that you’re leaving because of her. 

“Can I come with you?” Luke asks, dragon plush in his hands, big brown eyes pleading. You melt a bit, gently shaking your head, “You must stay here, you’re still too young to ride a dragon. Besides, who’s going to protect Joff and Jace if you’re gone?”

Jacaerys huffs, crossing his arms as his younger brother lights up and makes sword moves with the plush. “I will take care of them,” he sniffs — you know he’s just trying to act tough, though.

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t have to cry. I’ll come back… sooner or later, anyway.”

He lunges at you for a hug, knocking the air right out of your chest. “Please don’t go,” he whimpers. You caress his head — he’s still much shorter than you, and you hate to think about the day he will be too tall to fit right into your hugs. “I’ll be right back,” you whisper. “I promise.”

house velaryon aesthetic

Rhaenyra, Laenor, Laena, all singing: THEY SHAKE THEIR HEADS SAYING "GOD HELP HER" WHEN I TELL THEM HE'S MY MAN

Viserys, from afar: what is going on?

Rhaenyra, Laenor, Laena: BUT YOUR GOOD LORD DOESN'T NEED TO LIFT A FINGER

Rhaenys: *long suffering sigh, as she chugs a bottle of whiskey* Why, god, why-

Rhaenyra, Laenor, Laena: I CAN FIX HIM, NO REALLY, I CAN. AND ONLY I CAN

Corlys: they're all in love with Daemon.

Viserys: *joins Rhaenys* my only child-

Young Seasmoke and Laenor!

My favorite moments/quotes from each part of “A Targaryen Type of Madness”

To Celebrate the New Year since I wrote this fic in February/March of 2023 and as my first published fic I’m showing quotes from every chapter

Rhaenyra scoffed. “You believe everything he says, even when you know it is not the truth. He has you wrapped around his finger and you don’t see it.” The princess sneered at her with the last remark.

Alicent’s face fell. Slowly, her gaze turned more hateful and her eyes glared at the girl.

“I could say the same about you and Dameon.” (Part 1)

It was her gender. She lost her mother because of her gender. She lost her choice to marry who she wanted because of her gender. She lost her throne in Westeros because of her gender. Now even across the Narrow Sea in Pentos, she could not weld a sword because of her gender. She wanted to curse the Gods. They had given her so much but always made it out of reach. They had created her to fail in all her endeavors and she hated them for it. (Part 2)

Rhaenyra was born into this world where men ruled. The players have always been who move the pawns. Her father and Daemon were the most powerful men in this game of thrones. To get her throne she will have to play and play she will. (Part 3)

As she softly tread the keep, she came upon a familiar door. She twisted the knob and walked inside. Her breath was taken away when her eyes landed on the Weirwood tree. Suddenly she was thrown into her girlhood, where she and Rhaneyra were friends. Memories flooded back of them giggling over gossip, sharing lemon cakes, and reading to each other. Alicent was a woman grown. She had been married and bore a child, her innocence was long gone. Yet, as she stood there in the Godswood, she almost felt it was possible to have happy and innocent dreams of a better future. (Part 4)

While she helped him, she noticed his gaze on her. A smile plastered on his peeling face.

“You’ve grown so tall. Taller than me”, he chuckled but it came out more like a ragged breath.

“You look so beautiful. Just like your mother”, his eyes wavered.

Rhaenyra’s mouth was dry and she did not attempt to speak. (Part 5)

He let out a sudden ragged breath. He pulled away. His eyes shifted down in the darkness where a dagger with a glowing gem rested in his heart.

His face warped into disbelief.

Rhaneyra’s face was cold. “After everything, you believed I would fall into your arms?” (Part 6)

“If your father had never fallen ill during your time away would you have… taken care of him yourself?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes turned cold. Her mouth fell into a deep frown. Silence suffocated the room. A warning hung in the air. Treason if it were said out loud. Still, Mysaria’s thin lips morphed into a sly smile.

“Very well, My Queen. Then we are lucky an illness got to him first.” (Part 7)

“She is a Tully in everything but name. He wants her to have that name, very much.” (Part 8)

I had a son in my previous marriage. He died when he was two. After him, I didn’t want any more children, I only wanted my son back. When they told me I was with child again, all I could think about was my son. I didn’t want to risk it. I didn’t want to have another child only for them to be taken away again. (Part 9)

“You play the role so perfectly a true actress of your craft, no matter what happens you are always a chess piece, moved from place to place by whoever gets their hands on your first. Your father and now Rhaenyra. If you are playing this game of thrones you are exceptional. I always thought you were, I assumed you were clever and cunning. But now I see you are just a fool who is played by those around you and you happen to be lucky that the ones controlling you are better players of the game.” (Part 10)

Then he spoke in a whisper, “Joffrey. Could you name him Joffrey? I thought if I ever had a son, I would have named him that. No child of mine is taking the name anytime soon. So would it be alright if you named him Joffrey?” (Part 11)

His stern expression didn’t waver. “The blood of the dragon runs thick, for every couple of decent Targaryens, there is always one that is wrong. Aegon was strong, Aenys was passive, Maegor was cruel, Jaehaerys was wise, and Viserys was peaceful. What will your wife be? For your sake, I hope she doesn’t finish the pattern.” (Part 12)

“They are my nephews, Cole and as a knight, I have a duty to protect royal blood.”

“Then it’s a good thing.”

“What?”

“That no royal blood was spilled today.”

Silence filled the training yard.

Harwin spoke in a hushed voice. “What did you say?”

Cole smiled mockingly. “The Queen likes to entertain many lords that come to visit does she not?”

Harwin stared at him. His eyes flashed for a moment.

“I hear she’s especially fond of Ser Laenor Velaryon”, Cole glanced at Lenora’s sons. “At least he was good for something.” (Part 13)

Alicent stared down at Mysaria with dark eyes. “Until victory comes on the back of a dragon, the Queen will watch over the kingdom for the time being.” (Part 14)

Seasmoke seemed distressed. He would shift uncomfortably against the chains holding him. He began making short but repetitive calls, all toward the tent. It all culminated in a harrowing screech. Rhaneyra and the men in the camp flinched at the high-pitched call. The dragon extended his neck as far as possible but he could not break free from them.

At that moment, Corlys exited the tent. His eyes seemed red and sunken. He held his sword with trembling hands.

Rhaenyra’s stomach dropped. The gray dragon lowered his head in despair, a wail rumbling out of his mouth.

Laenor Velayron was dead. (Part 15)

“I have lost my one and only son”, Corlys snapped. “In a war, he did not even wish to join. All to win the land you wanted. I, more than anyone here have followed my orders. You speak of sacrifice but I am the one losing everything. We could go over the lost ships, rations, supplies, men, and wealth I have sacrificed during these months for hours. But all of that is but a drop of rain to me. I lost my son. His life is something I can never replace. No matter how many drops of rain, it will never make up the sea that Laenor made up.” (Part 15 Continued)

“I wanted them dead. All of them not just the ones at the camp but all of them in the Stepstones. That is why I left. An objective that I succeeded in. I let Syrax have her share of fire and blood. After I killed them like the rats they were, we would have never had to worry about them again.” Rhaenyra then turned to Corlys. “Had you not run away like a coward with your tail in between your legs.” (Part 16)

Gwayne ceased his stroll. Slowly he looked over at her. “I think you should leave King’s Landing. You are not safe here, Alicent. Your children are not safe here. Father wants you to stay here and build your influence for House Hightower while training Aegon to be king. I don’t care about that, Father be damned. I heard you were in the small council when she screamed at them, I am worried that her anger will turn to you in time if this is the path she continues. You know what your wife did in the Stepstones. You know the cruelty she is capable of showing to those she sees as enemies. This is leaving out the fact that there are factions growing, two of which don’t want your children on the throne. Or that White Worm Mysaria who you told Father was dangerous if left to her own devices.”

He held her shoulders. “Alicent it is not worth the risk. King’s Landing is no longer safe. I’d rather earn father’s ire than a dead sister.” (Part 17)

Daemon shook his head. “You and I are similar but you clearly don’t know one vital lesson that I do, dear niece. Power is easy to grab, keeping it in your grasp is the difficult part. And your power is slipping from your fingers.” (Part 18)

This was what he had waited for. All his life. It was better than he could have dreamed.

Aemond screamed out into the empty sky his joy. Vhagar sensed her rider’s emotions and roared into the night.

Aemond covered his mouth in surprise but eventually started laughing.

He stroked Vhagar’s green scales. A beaming smile on his features. He had never known he would feel such a way. He had a bond with a dragon. Vhagar was now a part of him and he a part of her. Aemond was happy. Everything was right now. (Part 19)

“They will never see you the same. They will see you as a monster”, Rhaenyra said.

“I’m not the only monster here.” (Part 19 Continued)

“Well then let’s be perfectly straight with each other, you while in small part, orchestrated this whole plan to turn them against each other and now the boy has lost an eye. While it backfired marvelously, you now have another problem, the boy claimed Vhagar . That dragon has seen wars you could never imagine and will devour your dragon without much of a fight. You are the playing this game but he now has the biggest card on the table, what will you do about it?” (Part 20)

This was the creature that had killed her family. Yet, Lenora could not find malice behind the dragon’s eyes. She doubted there was a mean spirit in the dragon.

She glanced at the piece of glass. “I don’t blame you, Syrax”, she whispered.

The she-dragon tilted her head, likely unsure of what Lenora was speaking. (Part 21)

“That girl is dead. She died when she ripped from her blue gowns and forced to dress like a woman grown. She died when she was married to a man who did not love her. She died when her first child grew sick and never opened his eyes. I have been walking this Earth as a corpse since I was ten and five. Just when I thought I could not die any further, you stab my corpse even more. I can never stay dead. You reignite my hope every time then kill me again. When will you let me rest in my tomb?” (Part 22)

Aemond squeezed her hand, slightly. “I was visiting Vhagar. I didn’t ride her, just went to see her. I like to sit beside her and stay there.”

Dyanna rubbed his hand with her thumb.

“She’s my only friend”, he admitted. (Part 23)

“Otto Hightower did not work alone, he admitted as much when he said Hobert was aware of his proposal. I need you to bring the body back for burial. Once they see it, they’ll know of the warning it carries. We cut off the head of the snake but the body can still move after it is dead. I want you to remind them I can crush the rest of it if I wish.”

“And if they ask for his head?” Mysaria inquired.

“Tell them they can see it if they wish, on a spike above the Red Keep.” (Part 24)

Lenora walked to the window. She stared at the rain outside. “If we do this, there is no going back”, she said softly. “Succeed or fail, we will be seen as traitors to the realm.”

“I know”, Alicent said solemnly.

“You know the price traitors pay?” Lenora asked her.

“I do”, Alicent stated. (Part 25)

Rhaenyra gave a lopsided smile while lying on her lap. “I want to fly with you on dragonback, see the great wonders of the Narrow Sea, and eat only cake.”

She had once wanted to do that. Alicent dreamed of living that fantasy. Now she would do it, but not with Rhaenyra. (Part 25 Continued)

She gritted her teeth and screamed. Rage and betrayal filled her being. She collapsed on her knees still screaming out.

Somewhere in the distance, Syrax roared. The dragon feeling her rider’s anger as well. She had tried being the Queen of her dreams, now she would be the Queen they deserved. (Part 26)

Memes Based on my Fic "A Targaryen Type of Madness" Part 4

Spoilers if you haven’t read

Character Posters from my fic "A Targaryen Type of Madness" ft. The Men

Dragon Headcanons for my fic Part 5.

Meleys

Meleys is somewhat seen as an unlucky dragon as both her riders would've been Queens but in the end did not

Oddly enough, she rarely roars, somewhat mirroring her rider, Rhaenys' composed personailty

In the dragonpit, she prefers to be in an elevated level and rocks have been added for her to sit on top of

She is one of the fastest dragons alive at the time of the dance

She is extremly loyal to her rider and should she have to she would willingly die alongside Rhaenys

Moondancer

Due to her young age, Moondancer is not very experienced with flying in the air

Moondancer's mother is debated due but her sire is Caraxes

Her scales are light green and shimmer in the sunlight

She is very instinctive when it comes to fighting, and is fearless when attacking even larger opponents

Her rider, Baela, named her Moondancer because she hatched at night and squirmed around almost as if she was dancing

Morning

Interestingly enough, Morning is the opposite of her rider, Rhaena, and tends to aggressively snap at others

While she hatched later in Rhaena's life, Morning grew quite fast

She named Morning due to the time of her hatching and because Rhaena wanted to continue the tradition her sister Baela had of naming her dragon

Despite the fact that they came from a different clutch, Morning and Moondancer share a striking resemblance to each other

She prefers to fly over the ocean than by land

Caraxes

He is seen as an odd dragon both physically and personality-wise, while he likes other dragons, not all dragons like him for this reason

He is one of the least favorites of the dragonkeepers because he doesn't take orders from anyone except his rider and is unpredicatble

He will eat anything that is given to him

Caraxes is very strong-willed and has a habit of sometimes lightly push his rider or blocking their way, while he does follow their commands, he has no qualms with messing with them (many debate whether this is playful or an attempt at humor)

When he is itchy somewhere on his neck, Caraxes will extend his neck to his rider for them to scratch

Seasmoke

Following, Laneor's death, Seasmoke became very depressed and refused to leave the Dragonpit

Seasmoke went through long periods of self-imposed starvation after Laenor died

Seasmpoke chose his rider, Addam, because he knew he was related to Laenor and wanted a piece of his old rider back

He is extremly protective over his new rider, Addam, and becomes defensive around human weapons

Due to his years in the Dragonpit, he looks older than he actually is

If Westeros had a news station Pt 2

Reasons why I changed Addam and Alyn’s parentage in my fic

Spoilers for my fic “The Madness of Dragons” if I haven't read it

So in my fic, I changed Addam and Alyn to be Laenor's sons rather than Corlys which is heavily implied in Fire &Blood and made canon in the show. Still, I changed this because:

Claiming Seasmoke is more emotional. Addam always wanted to know about his father and maybe meet him one day. When he claimed Seasmoke he had no idea it was his father's former dragon. Unbeknownst to Addam, when Seasmoke first saw him, he knew the teenager had Laenor's blood and this made him happy to have a piece of his old rider back. This is partially why he bonded with Addam. Then when Addam learns that Laenor is his father, he is devastated to have lost him but grateful that he has Seasmoke as his dragon.

Addam and Alyn’s relationship with Rhaenyra is more complex. In my fic, Rhaenyra and Laenor didn’t have the best relationship (to put it mildly). They argued during the war in the Stepstones and some words were said that couldn’t be taken back. Rhaenyra and Laenor’s final interaction was not a positive one, so when she finds out that Laenor had two sons no one knew about, she feels a certain type of way about it. While the two teenagers know nothing about this history, Rhaenyra is put in a position where she struggles to put aside her anger with Laenor and see the boys as their own individuals separate from their father.

Making Addam and Alyn Laenor's sons places the two of them on equal footing as Baela and Rhaena. If the two were Corlys' they'd be the twins' uncles and have a much more clear line of inheritance. But by having them be the twins' cousins, there isn't exactly an air of superiority and the four are on the same level as Corlys and Rhaenys' grandchildren.

The inheritance is slightly more complex. Given that Laenor was the heir of Driftmark any children he had would be passed his title. With Addam and Alyn being legitimatized, they have a real claim to Driftmark. However, prior to them being legitimatized, it was assumed that Baela would inherit Driftmark. The appearance of Laneor's sons, complicates things because Addam will inherit Driftmark as he has Laenor's blood, the name Velaryon, and a dragon. But despite having all the qualities of a "true Velaryon", those in Hightide may be upset that he was raised by a common woman and was bastard-born initially. This trickles down into Baela's claim as she is the eldest grandchild of the eldest Velaryon child yet her position is being threatened by a newcomer.

Lastly, it comes down to Laenor's legacy. Early in the story when Laenor is spending time with Lenora, he admits to her that he believed he couldn't have children but that he wishes that he could because he thinks he would have liked fatherhood. A running theme when it comes to Laenor's character is legacy. He thinks he won't be able to pass one on and this is reminded to him often such with Rhaenyra's insult to him about his infertility. He accepts this reality and dies never knowing that he did in fact have children, making the later revelation that much more tragic.

Notes: A MILF is A Mom I'd Like to Fuck, or Mature I'd Like to Fuck