It Was The Perfect Day For The Start Of A Tournament. There Was A Pleasant Breeze That Helped Cool The

BABY SISTER: 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘈𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘈𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

The Red Keep hummed with quiet excitement, a rare gentleness settling over the halls as the news spread. The queen had given birth to another child, a girl, and the brothers were brought to see their sister for the first time.

Aegon, stomped ahead, his silver-blond hair a wild mess that matched the glint of mischief in his violet eyes. “I don’t see why everyone’s so fussed,” he grumbled, casting a look over his shoulder at Aemond, who followed more cautiously. “She’s just a babe. Probably all wrinkly and loud.”

Aemond didn’t reply. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect. His small hand clutched the edge of his older brother’s sleeve, his wide eyes taking in every detail as they approached the cradle where their sister lay sleeping. Aegon made a face as they neared. “See? She’s not doing anything interesting.”

Despite his words, Aegon leaned over the cradle’s edge, his annoyance more curious than he let on. Aemond stood on his toes beside him, peering over, almost shyly. Inside the cradle was the tiniest babe they’d ever seen, her silver hair softer than the finest silk, curling slightly on her tiny head. Her cheeks were pink and round, and she slept peacefully, her breaths soft and steady.

Aegon wrinkled his nose. “She’s so small.” He reached out and gave her a gentle poke on the cheek. “Hey, wake up.”

Aemond gasped softly, his eyes wide. “Don’t!” he whispered, though he was just as curious. He glanced back down at her, nervous that Aegon might have hurt her.

The babe stirred, her little nose scrunching up. Aegon watched in surprise as her eyelids fluttered open slowly, revealing the same violet eyes that both brothers shared. She blinked up at them, her gaze drifting between Aegon’s smirk and Aemond’s wide-eyed stare. Then, as if recognizing them in some deep, instinctual way, the corners of her tiny mouth curled into a soft, gentle smile.

Both boys froze, their hearts seeming to stop at the same moment. Aegon, who had been ready to declare his sister boring and unimportant, suddenly found himself captivated by that smile. His earlier irritation melted away, replaced with something warm and protective he didn’t quite understand. “She’s… she’s smiling at us,” he whispered, almost in awe.

Aemond, who had been hesitant, felt his heart swell. He reached out a tiny hand, his fingers barely brushing her soft, pudgy one. “She’s beautiful,” he breathed, his voice filled with wonder.

The babe made a small, contented sound, her tiny hand curling instinctively around Aemond’s finger. Her eyes, so large and innocent, stayed fixed on her brothers, as if already knowing how important they would be in her life. Aegon reached out too, letting her grab his finger with surprising strength. The moment was simple, yet so lovely. The two boys stared down at their sister, completely captivated, forgetting any doubts or teasing words.

Aegon, who had been ready to dismiss her, now felt a fierce surge of love and protectiveness. “I guess… I guess she’s not so bad,” he admitted, but there was no mistaking the affection in his voice.

Aemond just nodded, still entranced, his heart swelling with a love he had never felt before. “We’ll take care of her,” he said softly, a promise in his quiet words.

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

Aurelia Targaryen the bastard princess pt.2

Her relationship with her closest family members...

. As Aurelia grew, the more she found herself more inclined to keep herself distracted. She found comfort in a needle and thread- pushing and pulling the silver thorn between canvases, mimicking a memory from long ago. Craving the comfort of sewing clothes and cushions in her little home, but instead of mending ragged shirts and socks, she weaves stories with silken thread and beads.

. She'd often find herself accompanying Heleana, the two soft-spoken princesses lost within the comfort of silence and dance of fingers and needle. Heleana would embroider silver winged butterflies and spindle legged spiders, whilst Aurelia would weave pictures of dragons and flame. The two little twins playing nearby, tended to by a maid with cast down eyes. Helaena was a kind company, her odd dreamy mutterings were nothing but distant bird songs to her ears. She could not understand, but she listened and appreciated it.

. The training grounds often bored her, you see. She would often feel inclined to watch Jace and Luke train with their clashing swords, perched upon a balcony above like a ruffled dove, her gleaming dress of seafoam and gold surrounding her in a cloud of soft fabric. Her heart had warmed over the years towards the two princes, as she could only stay bitter and sad for so long at so many people. Her heart grew lonely, and those two found themselves wiggling their way inside.

She would often capture their glances towards her like she were the sun, their smiles just as bright. She'd smile and blow playful kisses, finding laughter as Luke would pout and Jace waving back. However Aemond, the one eyed prince, his intense smouldering glare would startle her- causing her to shy away in the end. She found no amusement in the clash of steel or the shouts of men, the kick of dust and rubble polluting the air. Nor the willowy man who'd glue his eyes to her like she were some spectacle.

. After all, she had her half-sisters to tend to.

Rhaena and Baela.

The twin girls would sail upon oceans to visit, always bearing tender expressions and gifts. The older girls would spoil her, almost as rotten as Rhaenyra would. Treasures of pearls and sea glass, jewelry fashioned into shapes of seahorses and dolphins and shells, all placed upon her throat in golden chains. But Aurelia could only look forward to being in their arms again, that was the greatest treasure she could ask of them.

Their hair of spun silver and gold almost seemed to tangle into one as they'd hold one another, Aurelia finding comfort in their familiarity and embrace. They were kind to her as a child, the closest she had felt to ever since she had been taken. The adults never seemed to understand, always blinded by their own greed and power- but the friendship between children is simple and pure.

. Rhaenyra was a warm and kind woman. Warm hands and eyes, embracing and gazing at her with wholehearted adoration.

Often would the silver haired woman preen and tend to her curls of silvery gold locks, picking at braids with gentle fingertips and brushing down the fabric of her dress to look presentable, before smiling happily and kissing her daughter upon her brow. Syrax is just as attentive, bowing her neck of gold scales to coo and trill like a mother bird- huffing her smoky sulphur burnt breath over her face, her snout nestling within Aurelia's palm contently before retreating to her riders side.

. To them, she was a soft little dove. Letting them bestow her with pretty things for her nest of solitude, gleaming silk threads to embroidery with, or shimmering gowns made of the finest fabric and jewels. It almost seemed to weigh her down, like chains. Pretty chains made of gold and gems are still chains.

But to Daemon? She was just as spiteful and stubborn as she had been the day he took her. She seldom even looked at him. Him and Ceraxes both frightened and angered her.

Her breath would catch in her throat whenever the blood scaled beast would chirp and coil close to her like a viper, his eyes beady and predatory like a shark. She was just as much in his hovering possessive glare as her father's, whose eyes seemed just the same. Watching. Nitpicking. Controlling. Yet he'd still speak to her like everything was simple and plain, like she wasn't under his thumb. She'd curse and curse him in her mind, under her breath, grinding the words of his name between her fingertips into dust- as if it would eradicate him entirely. Daemon was aware, of course he was. But he couldn't care less. Seeing her all dolled up in pretty fabrics and looking clean and healthy kept him docile. No matter how much his daughter would spite him with venomous glares and pursed lips every time he'd forbid her from riding her dragon without him accompanying, or simply leaving the castle to walk upon the beach without a guard trailing her heels like always.

Yan!Parents Alicent and Viserys Headcannons (Platonic)

(Forgive me for any mistakes this is my first time)

Mention of death, suicide, obsessive, possessive behavior, manipulation, unhealthy father, force pregnancy, and not good writing.

Pairing: Platonic Alicent and Viserys × female reader

To be honest Alicent was looking forward to the arrival of her first child well Viserys was excited. She was still young to have a child but hoped it was a boy for Viserys duty.

When she first gave birth to you and hold you...she felt like she was at the end of the world. Childbirth hurted is what she always said but when she get to see you put in her arms she couldn't help to smile in joy.

Viserys wasn't mad that she gave birth to a girl but he was happy to hold you in his arms. He looked up at your lilac eyes, a combination of his white hair and Alicent brown hair he just couldn't help to cry a bit.

They both swear to themselves to always protect you and your innocence. They turn extremely protective when you grown up close to your marriagable age. Alicent wouldn't let nobody have you. You are HER child and nobody is going to take you away from her even if she have to manipulate you in the process.

Viserys wouldn't let NOBODY Absolute NOBODY disrespect you not even Rhaenrya or any of his family. He feels like he own you, like he's entitle to you since of his inner dragon (per Viserys saying). He would get rid of anybody that do wrong to you, he would even have his guards kill someone if you demand it.

Alicent wants to do as she says. She wants to control you (kinda like how her father did) and not really follow in her footsteps but for you to have a better life then her. She would go a little mad if you get her depending on how mildly it is. If it's a paper cut you'll get caring Alicent if you are seriously injured then you get crazy mad Alicent.

If you want any suitors then they would go through serious questions about them and their house and many other things. If you really like your suitor then they let you marry them only on one rule and that's to kill him if he hurt you in any way.

They would go thick and thin to do anything for you and I mean EVERYTHING. You want this? You can have it! You would get spoiled anytime they can get stuff. Now your suitor on the other hand....

They are just like your mother and father. Another hand to deal with but maybe a less crazy one. Oop nevermind he tried to kill Aegon and Aemond because they was kinda plotting on stealing you away.

He did forcefully get you pregnant and when he heard he was SO happy about it....a little. His plan kinda backfire now you are just giving your baby more time then giving him time with you.

Jealous Boi until you actually give him time in which they just melt in your hand.

Your parents on the other way is happy to have a grandchild despite Alicent having Aegon marry our Helaena and having children. Alicent and Helaena like to make things for them and Viserys just loves playing toys with them. Your brothers are jealous that they don't have their sister love anymore.

When the war started Alicent hid you away and wanted to protect you even if it cost her life. She would do anything to make sure you're safe.

a days worth

synopsis: a slice of life with geta and his child. (2k)

pairings: emperor geta and his child: emperor caracalla and his niece

contents: animal fighting, gladiatorial fights, blood and gore, mentions of nightmares, author doing her best for historical accuracy, geta being a girl dad! a/n: part two!! this poor girl is still unnamed, but it's alright! she's doing her best. a venatio is an animal fight where a wild animal faces off with people within the colosseum!

divider by @saradika

masterlist!!

when geta is awoken, it's with a warm cheek pressed into his side.

the windows are opened, and the sun lightens the entirety of the room. the room is comfortably warmed by the sun, nearly lulling geta back to slumber.

his child is curled around a pillow, seemingly sideways with her breath fanning out into the air as she lies on his chest, wrapped in linens. it seemed that she had stolen his linens in the night, as she was nearly buried in them.

his child looks endlessly peaceful in her sleep, content in somnus' realm. geta knows he should get up, summon the servants, and tuck her back underneath the linens, only able to see her in passing until the games later that day.

instead, he plays with a string of curly hair that peeks out of the blanket, listening to the sound of his child's breathing as they bask in the sun, their responsibilities lingering outside of his door.

-

the streets were bursting with chatter and festivity as seemingly every roman citizen clambered their way to the colosseum, rowdy with the promise of bloodshed.

his people feasted on war and bloodshed, even if they did not wish to admit it. geta felt the heat of rome on his skin, the warmth radiating from the sun as he stood behind the curtains leading to the emperor’s box, ignoring the way his brother shifted anxiously, consistently paranoid about the threat of assassination. 

he could hear the roar of his people from behind the curtains, the excitement brimming in the bones of thousands, ready to animalistically tear apart the gladiators below. 

this was not war by any means, but it would keep his empire calm for the day.

behind the curtain, he can hear his mother conversing with a general as everyone waits for them to step out from behind the curtain, to allow the games to commence.

however, it's with a nudge to his forearm that he looks back, grinning at the sight of his daughter, dressed similarly to both him and his mother, donning a smaller version of a laurel wreath upon her head.

"my child," his voice seemed to boom within the room as his brother also turned to grin at the child, who grins back. his hand finds the warmed cheek of his daughter, stretched in a grin that bears her teeth.

much like him, she dons a wide expanse of jewelry, wearing an identical blue ring on her left hand. as the sun peaks through the curtains, his child seems to radiate as the gold grows brighter underneath the sun.

"father? are you well?", geta had to strain his ears to hear the question, despite the fact his child wasn't too far away, pressed against his arm, seeking comfort before the games. her eyes seemed to grow impossibly wider as the question went unanswered.

after a minute of looking at his child, geta nods and turns around before he drops his hand, his child's nose still pressed to the back of his forearm as she stands behind, yet between them. he faintly thinks of how much his citizens will talk about this.

it seemed that the sight of his daughter soothed the unrest of the citizens. when the whispers of their vanity and cruelty ran rampant through the streets, geta was always careful to bring his daughter out.

while well-loved by the citizens, geta knew his child was often a cruel topic between senators and generals alike. it seemed to upset the men within the box, that his child held a considerable amount of power in the eyes of roman citizens.

geta had killed men and women alike the minute he caught wind of any ill-intent towards his child, the senators and generals that sat within the box were no different.

for a moment, he debates sending his child back to her servants, to keep her safe from the looming threat of being in front of rome's people. but as a servant pulls the curtains back, and the noise of the colosseum swallows them, he knows it's too late.

-

excitement seemed to fill the colosseum as geta watched from his chair next to caracalla, bathing in the bloodshed below. his child was on her knees in front of them, head peeking over the edge of the box. her cheers seem to blend in with every other cheer.

he can barely hear anything past the yelling and cheers of the citizens below, and the roaring noises erupting from the rhinoceros within the stage. the ventaio had only just begun, and the rhinoceros had already gained the upper hand.

his child turns to laugh as caracalla begins wildly giggling next to him as the rhinoceros roars and rushes toward the man on the stage.

unfortunately, the man is not quick enough, and the rhinoceros is quick to charge at the man with its horn. caracalla is giggling next to him, feeding into the crowd’s excitement as the rhinoceros tramples the man to death.

entrails hang from the greyed horn, swaying in the wind and sending blood splattering onto the walls. the animal continues its tirade against the smashed corpse of the man until no identifiable limb is left in sight, a mush of blood and body on the ground. 

grinning, he waves a hand, joining his family in laughter as the rhinoceros is led out of the ring, and a new pair of gladiators enter the ring.

-

geta can tell the exact moment his child grows tired.

her body seems to slump against the edge of the box, and her hands cushion her chin as she watches the fight below. both men were fairly new to the gladiatorial games and seemed unsure of what to do as the crowd screamed at them.

he allows his attention to drift for the slightest of moments, stretching out a veiny hand to pull his child closer. she seems to feel the grab coming as she leans back and his hand wraps around her shoulder.

she stands on shaky legs before joining him on the chair, slightly leaning against the arm of the chair. his attention swiftly returns to the fight as his child settles in next to him, leaning against a pillar behind her head.

he allows himself to get lost in the craze of bloodshed once more, grinning and cackling as the gladiators finally turn against one another instead of trying to rebel.

a sick glee fills his chest as the men dance, swords flying through the air and blood splattering.

-

geta splits away from his child once more when they return to palatine. she’s still dozed from her nap, blinking away fatigue as she waves goodbye from behind a servant’s hip.

he’s immediately swept away with caracalla, whispers of an invasion against a neighboring village filling the air.

general acasius is by their side, harshly drilling into the other generals as maps are sprawled across tables and opinions are thrown back and forth.

-

it’s deep into the night when the battle plans are finalized, and geta is left with his brother. caracalla’s eyes are deceivingly bright, still energized despite the day’s events.

for a minute, they sit in silence, engulfed in the warmth of the torches of the study, sitting as brothers instead of emperors.

caracalla is the first one to break, muffling a yawn as he stands from his chair, rushing off into the halls. no words are exchanged by them, just a slight nod, and caracalla is gone into the night.

a headache pummels itself against his head, irritated by the constant bickering of their generals. he's thankful for the silence of the study as he bathes in the warmth of the torches, and the stillness of palatine.

a stillness that is promptly interrupted by the door creaking open, and soft sniffling that has his head swinging back. his sweet daughter stands in the doorway, peering over at him from behind a servant's back.

with a crook of his fingers, his daughter is shuffling his way, and the servant is leaving, gently shutting the door behind them. she stands in front of him for a minute before sniffling again, wrapping herself tighter in the linens she brought with her. the flickering torchlight cast shadows across her pale face, revealing the telltale flush of sleep on her cheeks. he could see the way her eyes glistened, heavy-lidded with fatigue.

“father?” her voice was barely a whisper, tinged with a raspy-ness that sent worry down his spine. she inched closer, the linens draping around her like a shroud.

“what is it, my dove?” geta asked, forcing himself to remain gentle, as his child always startled easily when drowsy. he gestured for her to come closer to him, and gently tugged her onto his lap, cradling her body against his chest. she fit so perfectly against him, as if she belonged there, and he wished he could shelter her from the world forever.

“i had a bad dream,” she murmured, her forehead resting against his chest. “there was a rhinoceros in our chambers, and it ate you!" he stroked her hair, muffling a chuckle into her ruffled hair.

"i'm right here, my dove. there are no rhinoceros' within our home, if there were, i'd have their horns." the thought of rhinoceros' within palatine was laughable, the vile, bloodied beasts just walking the halls was a sight they would never see.

alas, venatioes always gave his child nightmares, the beasts that fought for their lives always ended up in her dreams, always inflicting pain on a member of their family. it would send his child rolling into his arms, awaking in a pitiful fit of cries.

"but i don't feel good, can i stay here with you, father?" her voice quivered, pushing her head underneath his chin.

geta sighed, as much as he would love to stay in the study, basking in the warmth, the study was far too vulnerable, and he could lose her easily to fate’s cruel hand.

“then you should be in bed, resting. this study holds too many dangers, our bed is far safer." she looked up at him, big eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “but father, i want to stay here, it’s much warmer.”

irritation sparked in his chest. his child rarely went against him, but the few times she did, it enraged him. she knew he did everything in her favor, did everything he could to keep her safe from the cruelties of rome.

despite this, his child held an affection for rebelling against his wishes. geta could count the amount of times she had directly gone against him on one hand, but the few times she had, it hadn't ended prettily. his daughter’s vulnerability, whilst heartwarming, ignited a flame of craze within him. losing her to sickness, injury or her own naivety was a fate he refused to entertain.

“alright, my dove,” he sighed, his voice low and smooth. “we will go to our chambers. let’s get you in bed, away from those dreams of rhinoceros.” he anchored himself, shifting to rise, and pulled her onto his hip effortlessly, her weight a welcomed comfort against him.

she nestled against him, her small form bundled in linens that felt chilled from her descent down to his study. his grip tightened instinctively around her, as if holding her too loosely could expose her to the dangers lurking within the halls of palatine. as he stepped into the dimly lit halls, shadows danced in the flickering torchlight, and his mind raced through the myriad of potential threats: the whispering intrigues of too many ambitious men, a rebellion, or perhaps, in his daughter's mind, a rhinoceros.

-

once again, geta awakes with a cheek pressed to his side. this time, his daughter is curled up against his side, hidden underneath their shared linens.

it is dark in their room, the rain pattering down the sides of palatine as a storm washes over rome. with one lasting look to the darkness outside of their chambers, geta turns to his side, and pulls his child a little closer.

they have a few more hours, so for now, geta will rest.

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

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

Portrait of Abigail's updated wedding look

And a little excerpt from the wedding feast ❤️

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

Yandere team green and bastard!reader

(Alicent edition)

. At your initial arrival, Alicent is filled with mortification. Her lips thinned, tongue held between her teeth, doe brown eyes wide and stern as she stands by her husband's side and awaits for the scolding Daemon is about to receive. To return you at once, as you should have no place in the castle walls. However she's not met with any of that- and she's both furious and offended by Viserys's standoffish acceptance of you.

Even Rhaenyra takes you into her arms, which adds salt to the wound. She wished she could shriek at her husband- to demand an explanation of his actions. Another bastard roams the halls, whilst you all turn a blind eye. I have legitimate heirs, whilst you treat them like air. So it's safe to say she's not terribly happy about your arrival.

The grand echoing hall was filled with the hushed whispers and murmurs as the grand wooden doors were heaved open in the snowy haired princes arrival- gossiping hushed voice arose like a tide amongst the people as Daemon swaggered in with his chin held high and mighty. All with a wailing, kicking child held firmly under his arm like they were a wild alley cat. His expression was unreadable, yet fierce.

Everyone fell still at the sight. Rhaenyra's face pales, her palm settling upon her naval in shock, and viserys simply gawks a little in confusion upon his seat at the iron throne. Jace and Luke shuffle closer to their mother.

"Daemon, what is the meaning of this?", viserys commands. Alicent squeezes her children's shoulders, tucking a young curious Helaena into her side, and a scrunched-brow Aegon behind her. Aemond is unreadable. She casts her husband a wary look, which goes unnoticed.

"I am returning my child home, brother. That is all".

"that is all?" Rhaenyra speaks up. Her voice trembles a little in anger. But her eyes fall upon you, and her expression immediately softens.

Viserys seems to be in deep thoughts, his brow crinkles, before he sighs deeply in defeat.

"bring them closer, let me see".

Alicent shoots him a look. Yet again, she goes unnoticed.

Your feet drag across the floor a little as you're forced to the foot of the throne. The hundreds of peering eyes that leer above you make you squirm and fall silent, afraid, and the courtroom is uncomfortably silent now, it seems everyone is holding their breath awaiting for the kings say. The man- Daemon, you've learnt, stands behind you like a wall. Your back pressed to the front of his legs, and his gloved hands squeezing your shoulders to keep you still.

You look upon the pale haired man who sits upon the frightening looking throne, which seems to be made from an accumulation of soldered swords. Jagged and glinting in the pale sunlight that streams through the tall windows. Your little head is still confused and overwhelmed, but the crown upon his brow confirms to you that this man who is inspecting you must be an important king.

"Hello, little one". Viserys greets you in a soft hushed voice, as if not to startle you.

You find yourself silently staring back at him, still wary. He looks you over- amethyst eyes glancing across the features of your face, before leaning back into his jagged throne.

"she has your eyes". Viserys simply remarks, a softened smile appears upon his face. Daemon smiles back, taut lipped and eyes glinting like embers. Pleased by his brother's response.

You're ushered quickly afterwards towards the pale haired woman who stands close, two dark haired boys hiding behind her with their mousy doe eyes and cherub faces. You don't particularly want to be touched by strangers right now, but her gentle touch upon your shoulder gives you a little comfort- a stark contrast to your new father's possessive iron grip. She shares a look with him, the two seemingly having a conversation with their eyes alone, but she folds you close to her regardless.

Alicent watches, burning. Eyes, throat, stomach. Churning and boiling.

. Alicent is distant and leering at the beginning. She watches you get coddled and swaddled up by Rhaenyra, her boys tending to you with their little faces and hands. Petting your hair, clumsily wiping away tears, and sharing their toys with you. She struggles with the reality that you are accepted by the king, discontent churning in her stomach.

. She does all she can to avoid you- even going as far to dissuade her children from interacting with you. At the dinner table, she treats you like you are invisible. In the day, she tugs Helaena away after she spots you two in the garden lifting rocks to watch bugs together, and she finds herself glaring at Rhaenyra and Daemon more often than usual.

. However, it is inevitable for her to fall into a maddening descent to ultimately adore you too. No matter how coldly she treats you, you always seem to peer up at her with your big mousy eyes back. Always in soft curiosity. She watches the way you treat helaena so kindly, the two little girls always seemingly playing in their own world and gently handing spiders to one another to save them from getting swatted in the throne room. She also finds herself growing more and more distraught whenever she catches Aegon tormenting you for your lineage, swatting and scolding him whenever he pulls your hair and calls you a bastard. She often finds herself wondering why. She should despise you, hate your very existence in this family, and yet she cannot find herself to.

. Perhaps it is because you too have very little autonomy and freedom in the scenario. Her heart aches whenever she sees you pressing your little face to the glass panes of windows, yearning to capture a glimpse of the oceans horizon. Or scrambling at locked doors and gates to escape, blubbered sobs leaving you as you call for your mother.

. The moment she finally gave into her yandere thoughts is when you bump into her one day, your ornate silk dress and shoes wet and worn down to scrap, running from a knight. You're an inconsolable wreck, having just been carried back in by a fretful knight after catching you bolt out of an unlocked gate outside in the courtyard. He had just been able to catch you once you were knee-deep in seafoam, crying and sobbing to go home.

With your little face buried into her emerald green skirts, she wryly dismisses the guard.

She hesitates, contemplating, before scooping you up from under your arms to hold you like a crying babe. You whimper and sob into her soft coils of chestnut hair, little hands scrambling to cling to her like she were a life raft.

"I want- I want my mummy".

. It was like her breath had frozen in her body. Mummy. You want your mummy.

Emotion swept through her at your words, her own waterline stinging. She understood now. You're trapped here, just like she is. Your mother is gone, just like hers.

Her breath stutters out in a long breath to steady herself, before she cradles the back of your head and tucks you closer. Your little legs cling around her waist as she soothes into your hair, uttering a soft "I know".

Me too.

. After that occurrence, and finding herself reluctant to hand you over to Rhaenyra once the fretful woman found you two, her view of you changed. She no longer ignored you at the dining table, often sending you kind and remorseful glances, her thumb brushing over your cheek tenderly. Tension grows thick between her and Rhaenyra, but she lets it linger. If it means she gets to speak and spend time with you, then let their little war go on longer.

. She often encourages playdates between Heleana and you, along with reading and language lessons with Aemond. Aegon, to her disheartenment, seems to want nothing but to torment you and keep your attention to himself- no matter if it's positive or negative attention. Aegon is often slapped and scolded whenever he treats you poorly, torn into with her protective and scorning words.

"You are not to touch her Aegon, do you understand? ' she'll scold, grabbing him by the ear as he hides away into himself like a door mouse and meekly nods. His eyes burning with tears as he watches you walk away hand in hand with Helaena, Aemond following close by your side.

. Alicent is keen to spoil you for attention, as well as Rhaenyra is. They both want you as their own. Alicent is keen to gift you beautifully ornate leather books with emerald green ink lettering and intricate illustrations, finding delight in your reactions when she gifts them to you herself. She may even gift you a stead of your own, despite Rhaenyra's or daemons dislike for the thought of you on a horse. She'll attempt to convince viserys to have you be allowed to learn to ride horseback on the grounds alongside her sons, just to give you a taste of 'freedom'. Although she may condemn your freedom, hypocrisy at its finest, she still wants to make you as happy as possible. It's also a way for her to make you get along with her children, using you almost as a tool to cement herself a safe standing within the family. You get along so well with them, after all. It'd be a tragedy to tear you away from Helaena, the poor girl will cry for months if that were to happen.

. So although it is a rocky start with Alicent, she eventually softens to you because how can she not? She sees a part of herself in you and grows protective and enraptured. The tension between her and Rhaenary thickens because of it, and it brings a growing conflict between the greens and blacks over where you stand. Eventually you may grow overwhelmed and tired of the war and the fighting and miscommunication and revenge, that you may ultimately take off on your dragon and disappear. Another name in the history books, your whereabouts a mystery, and your name a myth. But we may see where you end up eventually, and where you stand in the dance of the dragons is up to you.

A lot of these headcanons are based early on in season one. I'd like the reader to appear around the time that Daemon married Rhaenyra, so that they'd both be your parents in this scenario, and alicent would be a godmother figure to you. I'm still figuring out the timezone that the reader appears in considering the events that take place, like Aemond losing his eye, so I'd love to hear suggestions!

but I'll know, I'll know

summary: At the ripe age of ten, the Realm’s Jewel was nominated by her grandsire the King, despite all the protests of the Small Council, the official Royal Ambassador; thus, her voyages throughout the Seven Kingdoms started, and yet another nickname was forged for her by the Smallfolk: the Wandering Princess.

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

word count: 8.4k

warnings: language, mention of labours and pregnancies (nyra has just given birth to aegon), the ass freezing cold weather in the north, scars, nādrēsy eats people, reader is a kid with a dream (marrying cregan) but my guy doesn't want anything to do with her, mention of cannibalism, if you catch the dante's inferno reference I will give you cookies

author's note: this took me forever but it's finally here!! enjoy :)

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Aegon is born skinny and scrawny, all twitching limbs and bloodied hair, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Dear Gods, aren’t you the ugliest thing?” you say as a midwife carefully passes him to you, fresh out of your mother’s womb. You’re sure he’s at least thrice as ugly as Joff was when he was born — and that’s all on Daemon. 

You pass the babe to a nurse, who then passes him to your mother, who’s breathing heavily but still smiling. She nods to one of her handmaidens. “Go fetch Daemon, tell him it’s a boy.”

A bit after you went to your grandsire and took place in court as King’s Justice, the reason why your mother had wanted to marry Daemon so hastily quickly got out: she was pregnant, pretty surely out of marriage — not that other people aside you and your grandsire were allowed to speculate on that. 

Speaking of your grandsire, he was furious once he discovered that after all, they had really married. You had never seen him so angry, not since Aemond tried to kill you; he broke vases, screamed at the men in the council and behaved insufferably for a whole sennight, before just accepting his defeat. He still refuses to open any of your mother and uncle's letters, even after word of rhaenyra’s pregnancy got out. 

If it wasn’t for the babe, you wouldn’t have talked to your mother for much, much longer. But a pregnancy isn’t an easy thing, and even if you have every right to be mad at her right now, you will not let her die on the childbed without any support — because of fucking course Daemon isn’t there when she delivers little Aegon. He’s run off Gods know where, too scared to face another birthing wife in fear she might die. Coward. 

“I’ll head to King’s Landing on the morrow.” you murmur as the servants finish changing the sheets and exit the room. Now it’s only you, your mother and the suckling-milk monster latched onto her breast. She sends you a bleary gaze, confused, hair mussed and skin still glistening in sweat. “What?” she breathes out. 

“So that for now I can give you my help in washing off all the blood,” you reply. “And then, once they wake up, say goodbye to my siblings.”

“But… you just got here yesterday. Your brothers haven’t even seen you and you’re already running away.” well, that is true. You’ve arrived on Dragonstone after supper was already finished, and the boys had already gone to sleep; then your mother’s labours began barely after the sun rose, so they were yet to wake. Now it was well into the night, and the only person who you have seen is Helaena, who at some point came to see how things were going and offered a kind word to her half-sister. 

You sigh, knowing she would've said that. “The prisons in all the Seven Kingdoms are overflowing, mother. And once the lords heard that the King’s Justice didn’t have to be paid, they either started bringing their prisoners to the Crownlands or started asking if I could come to clean their dirty laundry.” you furrow your eyebrows sadly as Aegon gurgles, hiding deeper in Rhaenyra’s chest. “I thought we already talked about that. I have to be in the Riverlands tomorrow to clean Lord Elmo Tully’s… wastes.” 

She shakes her head, bewildered. “You don’t have to be anywhere! You are a Targaryen, you have the right to show up when and if you want to. I already don’t like the fact that father’s making you do a peasant’s job, but the fact that you think you have to be somewhere is simply outrageous. And–”

“Sorry, I worded that wrongly,” you interrupt her. “I am making myself go to the Riverlands by tomorrow. I actually have more than a prison to wipe out.” once again, it seems you have a list. “Yet another revolt between Blackwood and Bracken broke out, and I can’t wait to see their faces when they see that their beloved Lord Tully has called for reinforcements. Besides, travelling throughout Westeros is fun,” you add. “You know, I’m getting to know all the lords — or better, their heirs, the one that when I rule will sit on their thrones. I have become good friends with Oscar Tully– Elmo’s grandson.”

You look between her and the babe; there’s something strange in your gaze, something that says you should be doing this instead of me. “I am doing us both a favour, mother. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve caught the Hightowers trying to poison grandsire? I already had him change his food tester twelve times and between the change and Otto managing to bribe them into poisoning the King there’s at most a week. It’s never something I can accuse him with, though,” you scoff, “It’s always the poor tasters that I have to make Nādrēsy eat.”

You shake your head as Aegon falls asleep, your mother having tears in her eyes. “Your hasty marriage to Daemon and precocious pregnancy have angered many lords that hoped to marry into the Royal Family. I am merely trying to help our cause.”

“What was I supposed to do?” she whispers. “Having Aegon born out of marriage? Having a real bastard this time?”

You were just trying to say that chastity belts existed and there are many things to do rather than to copulate with your uncle, but surely you’re not going to say that to a woman who has just given birth. “How many years has it been since Queen Aemma’s death?” you ask. You know, but you want her to understand your point. 

“Almost nineteen years,” she quickly responds. 

You raise an eyebrow. “And when did grandsire marry Alicent?”

“Seventeen years ago.”

“See?” you point out. “Grandsire respected the mourning period well enough, yet you still resent him for remarrying and hold a particular disdain for Alicent. And you’re trying to tell me that I’m not allowed to hold against you the fact that you remarried barely four moons after my father’s death?” 

She shakes her head vehemently, “That is not why–”

“It is!” you insist. “I have all the right reasons to hold my deepest disdain for Daemon and resent you for marrying him. Why?” you scoff, “Because as your daughter, I want what’s best for you. And that’s not a man who runs away as soon as he hears that his wife's labours have started. Jace, Luke and Joff may have not been father’s children, but he didn’t miss a single birth, and he was always just out of the birthing chamber.”

“Daemon has been through a lot,” she protests. 

“I have been through a lot too!” you hiss. “Yet I have watched you give birth twice, out of worry that it might be the last time I see you! And I’m how many years younger than him?”

“Your uncle has seen his second wife make her dragon burn her alive for the immense pain she was feeling during the labour,”

“And he also probably killed the first one,”

She sends you a look. “And I saw my father’s carbonised body,” you mutter. “Yet me and my dragon burn down to a crisp criminals for a living. Scratch that, not even for that, it’s just to make the lords understand that once the kingdom passes down to you or to me, it will be well taken care of.”

“My father didn’t have to prove himself worthy of ruling, so why should we? The throne will be ours by right, and the people will just have to accept it.”

The door creaks open, but you don’t turn to see who entered — by the steps, you know it’s Daemon, returning with his tail between his legs. “That’s where you are wrong, mother,” you reason. “Grandsire didn’t, but he is a man. Stop acting like people don’t doubt our capability of ruling simply because of our birth. My grandmother proved herself perfectly capable of being queen, yet she was passed down simply because she is, and will always be, a woman. And that, in our world, is one of the biggest disgraces to men.” you shake your head yet again — it seems this talk is full of disappointment on both ends.

“You could be the bravest knight of the Seven Kingdoms and still be looked down upon because they think your only purpose is to birth children. I am merely trying to change that perspective.”

“Is there a problem?” Daemon has now crossed the room and is right behind you, hand on his sword, hesitant gaze towards his wife. You have to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes. “No,” you reply, back on your feet and going for the exit. “I was already about to leave.”

He blocks you by taking you by the bicep, eyebrows raised. “Why don’t you stay for a while?” he asks. “I’m sure your bastard could take a day or two without eating criminals.”

You stare at him up and down. “I’ll stay for a while when you’re either gone or dead. By your inconsistency and age, it won’t take too long. And please, take a bath,” you shake his hand off of your arm, “You stink of dragon, and even if she doesn’t tell you that, your wife suffers the smell.”

It is glorious to see the Hightower’s faces fall — mostly, it is endearing to hear the Lord Hand’s voice stutter. Because he knows you’ve got him. 

“But– but the Princess is but a child!” his daughter protests, looking at your grandsire, outraged. Viserys shakes his head, “This was solely my decision, and I will not let any of you think that your opinion counts on this matter.”

“Aegon is much older,” Otto merely chimes in. He knows his case is weak. “And so is Aemond. They’re men, well experienced and highly educated. I am sorry, Your Grace, but I don’t understand your decision.”

“For starters, I don’t ride my dragon drunk,” you reply to him, the biggest smirk on your face. Alicent’s face reddens at the mention of her firstborn’s biggest problem; you only stand straighter, with now the eyes of the whole Small Council pointed towards you. “Nor am I missing an eye — but even if I was, my dragon listens to my orders. Did you hear about Vhagar's latest mishaps, Lord Hand?”

Her waking up for your uncle to climb on her saddle, only to fall back asleep as soon as he’s on, sleeping so silent that the dragon keepers thought she was dead for good — and then, once they had finally managed to reach the skies, a whole farm burned down when Aemond had simply asked her to land. Either she’s senile, or she doesn’t really like Aemond. 

“Also, I wouldn’t call Aegon highly educated nor well experienced,” you add. “Maybe, yes — if you need a good brothel in Flea Bottom, he’s the man you’re searching for. For political matters?” you shake your hand. “Would you rather him falling off of Sunfyre on the way to Winterfell while drunk, or not knowing a single thing about how he should act? Or maybe send Aemond, and have the possibility of Vhagar burning the entire place down?” you scoff.

“Please, Lord Hand. We don’t want any diplomatic incidents.” you just know Ser Tyland is holding in his laughter. 

“The Princess is heir,” your grandsire adds, and you pretend to act as if you don’t hear Alicent gritting her teeth from the end of the table, where you’re standing. “She is highly educated, as she is to be Queen, she knows her way with swords and with words, and her dragon is as loyal as can be. She is a skilled rider and has already ended other men’s lives via him. She is fit for this task, and as I said, if she does well, it will be hers for the time to come.” 

“She is but ten summers old,” the Queen objects.

“I’m still a better option than a drunkard and a cripple,” you raise an eyebrow towards her, then towards her father, who is just about to speak. “And I would be able to make a better evaluation than you, Lord Hand, if that’s what you want to suggest. No prayers could ever woo me.”

Otto’s eye twitches. Nobody else on the council tries to say anything; the decision is taken, and since everyone in this room values their life and you look pretty threatening with your hand on the grip of your sword, they are smart enough to keep silent. 

“And whose fault is it that my son is a cripple?” Alicent taunts. 

You laugh. “I’m not the one who raised an ungrateful brat. You should be happy I’m here, considering that if I wasn’t and it was his fault, his neck would have been cut. Next time you have a son, maybe teach him to differentiate between a friend and an enemy.”

“That is enough, sweetling,” the King says gently. He looks around the room, at his council members. “You’re all dismissed. Sweetling, would you mind accompanying me to my chambers?” 

You nod dutifully, moving to his side as the others get up and handing him his cane. “Ah, thank you,”

As much as he doesn’t like to admit it, your grandsire is getting old. He can’t walk as much as he used to, and he is getting easier to tire. Small Council meetings almost exhaust him, now more than ever, and travelling isn’t much of an option anymore. 

“How’s little Aegon?” he asks, as you help him climb the stairs towards his chamber. He has yet to reply to any of his daughter or his brother’s letters, preferring to take any information he can from you. 

“Growing steadily,” you reply. “He’s almost six moons now. His dragon hatched; Luke has called him Stormcloud. I went to visit them on Dragonstone last week, after settling the matters with the prisoners on Driftmark. He’s learned how to stand and babbles soundly all the time.”

The King hums as the stairs come to an end, two guards opening the doors of his rooms for you two. “That’s good. Maybe one day you can bring him and your brothers here — I haven’t seen them in ages.”

You hold back a grimace as he takes a seat by the table that sits in the main room, resting his chin upon the hilt of the cane. “I’ll see what I can do,” you promise him. “Mother isn’t fond of King’s Landing, but maybe she would let me bring them here. She has been particularly lenient these last few moons.” that’s just because she’s trying to win you back, but that’s another story.

He nods silently, gaze tender and warm as he looks at you. His eyebrows narrow, though. “The North is harsh,” he warns. “I’ve been there just once, and after I had a fever that lasted the whole way back home. Northerners are– different. Tougher, harsher, more brutal. I need you to understand what you are getting into, before I send you there.” 

“Cregan Stark is the rightful heir of Winterfell,” you murmur, warmed by his worry. “The North is one of our biggest allies. To me it is clear that Bennard Stark is an usurper. And as an heir to the Iron Throne, it is only right that we treat usurpers as the law commands.” you purse your lips, “By death.”

“Northerners like to take care of their own matters,” your grandsire murmurs, “we rarely get involved, but… well, Lord Cregan is barely a man. He is but Aemond’s age, and even if the Small Council insists on not sending anyone, I can’t help but worry. An usurper who manages to get on a throne will only get greedier and greedier as time goes on. One day, we could find ourselves against the North if he ever were to succeed.”

“He has three sons,” you nod, “Cregan is but five-and-ten. And seeing northern standards, he won’t get married for at least another five years. Yes, there are rumours going around of Bennard murdering his first wife, but… it’s not rare that a woman’s death is overlooked on the promise of stability.”

Your grandsire shakes his head, sighing. “Greedy men, always grasping at everything they can take, even if it means killing your own nephew.” he presses his lips against each other, then tries to smile at you. “We will have to send you to Winterfell well equipped. I will send servants down to the market to look for coats and cloaks, but for now– there’s something I feel like you should have.”

He raises from his seat, going for the bed, kneeling carefully by it and reaching for something under it. He takes out a long silver box, decorated with dragon carvings and ruby stones; he motions for you to come near him, and he opens the case. 

Inside, there’s Blackfyre. 

Blackfyre is House Targaryen’s longsword, made out of Valyrian Steel, and once it was his chosen weapon. It is passed down from king to king, a symbol of power and duty, and even if you’ve never seen your grandsire wield it, you know he uses it as a scepter while holding court. 

“‘Tis only fair that it passes down to you,” he says, holding it out for you to take. “Dark Sister would be more appropriate for a woman, as it is more slim and light, but unfortunately it is in the possession of my brother, and I am sure that even if I were to force him to give it to you, you would refuse simply because it came from him. Blackfyre is the sword of kings, though; and now it shall be of a queen, too.”

You shake your head, bewildered, “Grandsire, as much as I am honoured, you still need it.”

He laughs. “And for what? To hold it as a stick during court? Please, granddaughter of mine, don’t jest. With me as its wielder, it will just grow musty, as I can barely even raise it. I insist you take it.”

Reluctantly, you take it in your arms and observe it; it is as you remember, clean silver and dark handle, a ruby on its end and something resembling a dragon wing at the start of the blade. It is too long for you to wear normally, that is already clear, so you’ll probably have to wear it on your back and hope it doesn’t reach the ground. 

Your grandsire smiles. “A good sword for a worthy wielder.”

The next sennight is filled with fittings and preparations for your upcoming trip to the North — which will be the farthest you’ve ever gone from King’s Landing. It will be a harsh and long journey, but you and Nādrēsy are ready for it. 

The night before your departure you ask the servants for a bath; a hot one, with the water almost boiling, as Targaryens like it. You take your sweet time, sending away the maids and sinking in the bathtub, tasting a warmth you probably won’t feel for a while. Looking at the mirror sitting a few feet away from the tub, you can’t help but glare at the scar on your temple — and it seems to glare back. 

It has now turned pink-ish, a little red on some days, and looks a bit like a thunder going from your head almost down to your cheekbone. In a year and a half of having it, you have yet to get used to it. For your ninth nameday, your grandsire gave you a white gold coronet that you always wear. It’s some sort of replica of his own crown, as they are much similar — the only differences being the way they fit, the colours and the Great Houses emblems; in fact, in place of those, you have amethyst stones, a nice touch requested by your grandsire. 

The coronet is a great relief, as it hides most of the scar from others, and if anyone notices, it seems they value their tongue too much to comment about it. The only one who has protested is Alicent, who insists that since you are neither a king nor a queen, you have no right to wear such a thing. Your grandsire, of course, ignores her, almost as well as you do. 

You only take the coronet off to go to bed and to wash yourself, otherwise, it’s always on your head. It acts as a shield between you and your insecurities, and you’re more than okay with it, especially because it is one of the prettiest jewels you own. The fact that for most of your days you now wear your usual dragon riding attire doesn’t mean you don’t like pretty dresses and shiny things anymore — in fact, you thrive on the days where you can wear your beloved gowns and show off all your jewellery. You already plan on bringing your best pieces to Winterfell. 

A look at your scar is enough to bring back all the memories you only wish to bury deep in the sand — Aemond’s attack, Jace and Luke’s little faces covered in blood, your mother injured and the sight of your father's carbonised body, added to the screams of your grandmother. You really wish things had been different. 

You leave on the morrow, right after breaking your fast. All the things you’ll need are already loaded on Nādrēsy’s back, near the saddle, and your grandsire comes with you to the Dragonpit to be able to bid you his goodbyes. Surprisingly, Aegon tags along.

He’s yawning for the whole ride, falling asleep at some point. He already reeks of wine and has blood-shot eyes, yet you appreciate the gesture. You don’t have that much of a relationship, aside from him teaching you the right words to insult Daemon, but still. He’s not really a bad person, he’s just… lost. Something tells you that if your mother had raised him, he wouldn’t be drowning in his cups every day all day. 

By the time you all exit the carriage, he’s wide awake and a man on a mission. “Bring me the best wine you can find,” he says, with a lucidity untypical of him. You burst out laughing, “Well, uncle, I’m pretty sure they don’t make wine in the North. But I’ll look for the strongest ale I can find.”

He sighs dreamily. “Oh, sweet niece, what would I do without you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Without me always defending you your mother would have killed you a long time ago for the sake of the family — can’t really say I’d blame her.”

He pouts grumpily while your grandsire joins you, having just exited the carriage. “Farewell, sweetling,” he murmurs, tears in his eyes, hugging you tight. “Be careful, please.”

You laugh softly. “Don’t you worry, grandsire, I’ll make sure to come back all in one piece.”

He hugs you again, Aegon standing there awkwardly — Viserys has never really shown affection for him, nor for his siblings. You always reprimand him for that, but he’s a lost cause. You do feel pity for them, to only have Alicent to love them — and what kind of love it must be! Maybe she whacks them twenty times instead of the usual thirty when they do something wrong. 

After securing Blackfyre on your back again, you mount Nādrēsy’s saddle, and he roars happily, spreading his wings. “Be careful!” your grandsire screams, as your uncle yells, “Remember the ale!”

Soon after, the Red Keep becomes but a small dot on the ground, and you are to reach Winterfell. 

They had warned you that the North was cold, but not even in your wildest dreams you could have thought it was this cold. You’ve been in the Riverlands, and it’s cold there too, yes, but the North? Nothing the maids had said could have ever prepared you. 

It feels like years since you’ve seen a green speck of land; now it’s all covered in snow, and it’s a miracle that dragons have a particular high body temperature, because otherwise you and Nādrēsy would’ve been swaddled by the hailstorms and snowfalls, for they are violent and — have you already said cold?

The coronet by now is freezing, so cold that your head hurts. You’ve already damned enough Gods and Saints to grant yourself the ugliest spot in one of the deepest pits of the Seven Hells, and judging by his grumpiness and complaints, your dragon is suffering too. He’s constantly huffing fire in an attempt to melt the ice and snow, trying his best to protect you, and even if it’s not of much use you are thankful for him. You briefly think that Syrax would never be able to sustain such a voyage, as spoiled as she is, and despite everything it brings a small smile to your face.

Rhaenyra does treat her girls well. 

The thought of your mother warms you, despite your discrepancies, and you wonder how she fares; you had written to her about your journey to Winterfell, but had not stayed long enough to receive a reply. Hopefully, little Aegon and all your brothers are well and thriving and aren’t having too much trouble adjusting to another sibling learning how to walk in the house — you know a thing or two about that. And about that, Rhaenyra treating her girls well reminds you about something… 

“Ivestragon, valītsos,” Say, boy, “Ziry iksos nūmāzma jēda īlon rhaenagon naejot pendagon nūmāzma lī belmos syt ao, iksin nyke paktot?” It's about time we start to think about those rings for you, am I right?

Your teeth are cluttering against each other, but your smile is loud and clear, and your dragon roars happily. You should've gotten him those horn rings ages ago, before Joffrey was even born, but with everything that happened it just slipped your mind. You promise yourself it will be the first thing you think about when back to King’s Landing, as he has more than earned them, especially after this trip. 

Your mother once said that a trip from the Crownlands to Winterfell on dragonback would have taken two days, but it takes you and your dragon five whole days, as you two are slowed by the bad weather and the constant stops to just light a fire and warm up a bit. Even as Winterfell enters your view, the snow doesn’t stop, and by now the scarf that is covering most of your face is basically frozen and crusted with ice, as well as the hairs that escaped your cowl. 

“Ninkiot, Nādrēsy!” Land, “Konīr, ondoso se dōros!” There, by the walls!

You have no intentions of scaring the Starks — or, should you say, the Stark? — so, for now, as much as it pains you, your dragon will have to stay outside. As the huge door that brings inside Winterfell is slowly opened, you open the chains that bind you to Nādrēsy while in the skies, as he stirs his wings and lets out a big yawn — that to the guards probably seems like a threat, because they immediately sheath their swords, preparing to attack. 

As if our dragons didn’t melt enough swords to make a throne of it, already.

“Lay down the blades!” a voice comes in. “It’s the Royal Ambassador you’re pointing them at, and I’m sure King Viserys would be dismayed if a diplomatic incident were to happen.”

You recognize him instantly — ah, first love, always hard to forget. He’s grown, of course, and now resembles more a bear than a man, especially with all the furs he’s wearing, and you take immediate notice of the difference between him and Aemond. They’re the same age — your uncle’s a little bit older, if you’re not wrong — and yet he’s still skinny and scrawny, bony, even with all the food his mother forces him to eat. 

And, of course, Lord Cregan Stark is much, much taller than him. 

He’s on a horse, followed by what you assume are his guards and men, and he quickly dismounts, bowing. “Princess, it is an honour to be able to host you in the Stark’s holdfast. It is a pity that it must be under such dire circumstances.” 

You hide a smile. Ah, Starks. So up their asses. 

“Hopefully I am not late for supper, am I, Lord Cregan?” you ask, pulling down your scarf to be able to talk better. You take out the dagger tied to your waist, manoeuvring yourself to be able to cut the cords that bind your luggages to Nādrēsy. They fall on the snow below, surely without much damage. 

He gets up, shaking his head. “Not at all, Princess, we weren’t even about to eat. You have the time to change into warmer clothes before the food is ready.”

You nod. “Good.”

You easily slide off your dragon’s wing, not noticing the way the boy reaches out — afraid that you’ll fall or worse. Gods know what kind of war a dead princess in Winterfell would bring to the North. You look back at Nādrēsy, “Ōños iā perzys lo jaelā, yn umbagon kesīr!” Light a fire if you want, but stay here!

He roars, not happy at all, and you turn back at him, glaring. Your next words are yelled and incomprehensible to Cregan, as he doesn’t know a single thing about High Valyrian, but he knows well the way insults and cursing words are said, and those sound like a lot of them. It’s so scary that him and some of his men shiver — and it’s not for the cold. 

Once you are done with him, he’s grumbling, quietly opening his mouth to burn a tree nearby, then hugging it with his body with a huff. You scoff, “You think you have raised a decent dragon and he turns out to be spoiled. What’s next? I’ll have to cook and cut up the meat for him to eat like they do for Syrax?”

He roars again, but this time you ignore him, walking towards the Lord of Winterfell, who stands there with his mouth agape. You held out your hand expectantly, raising an eyebrow as he looks between you and your dragon. In the end, he takes your hand in his, kissing the ring with the Targaryen emblem that sits on your middle finger, trying to ignore your worryingly big dragon. 

Standing straight again, he motions over two of his men, pointing at the bags left in the snow. “Take those and bring them to the chambers we reserved for the Princess,” he then looks at you, “I took it upon myself to appoint you three maids, Princess. The King advised me to, as he said you would’ve come here alone, and as much as I would like to think that your travels were nice, the weather suggests otherwise.”

That’s because right now the wind is icy, freezing, with splutters of snow falling from the sky. You nod, “Thank you, Lord Stark. It’s warming to see such a welcome after the freezing journey.” Quite literally.

He winces. “Cregan will suffice. We’re both far too young for you to call me Lord Stark.”

You chuckle. “As you wish. I will not ask you to stop referring to me as Princess, though, I hope you know that.”

He frowns. “Of course. I would never ask Your Grace to do that.”

He gently gestures towards his horse, dark hair frizzled by the wind, “‘Tis best if we go back to the castle, Princess; yet another hailstorm is brewing. You can ride with me.” 

You don’t let him repeat himself twice, letting him help you up on the saddle then quickly jumping on behind you, manoeuvring the horse towards the gates, which close behind you. If he sees the dagger you stole from him, he makes no mention of it. “‘Tis cold in Winterfell, my Princess, but I assure you that you will have the warmest room of the castle. The maids will make sure to keep the fire going; I imagine that going from the warm temperatures of King’s Landing to the constant snowing of the North mustn’t be easy.”

His northern accent makes butterflies explode in your stomach in such a good way that you think that if all men had the same tone, dealing with them wouldn’t be so difficult. You swing your legs over the side of the horse, careful not to hit it, and you focus on your hands, trying to take your mind off from your warm cheeks. “Thank you, Lord Cregan.”

He raises an eyebrow at your sudden silence. “…Of course, Princess. Anytime.” 

Truth is, you haven’t seen Cregan in years. It’s now a bit more than two summers since your last encounter, when he had all but stood you up on the dancefloor, on your own birthday. And as much as you would like to feign anger, or disinterest in his regards, he’s just too… well. 

He’s young, yet he’s able to hold on his shoulder such a heavy burden, being the Lord of Winterfell and going against his uncle. You can act tough all you want, but you are too a little girl who likes to listen to the love stories the septa tells you, and you wish for a husband who will treat you right — not like Daemon, who ran away from Dragonstone as soon as your mother’s labours began. 

Something tells you Cregan would treat you right. (In truth that’s just your inner child's dream speaking. You’ve liked him since before you were even able to really see or remember.)

You raise your gaze, looking at the boy in question. “Are you perhaps betrothed to anyone, Lord Cregan?”

He stills, a bit awkward, the horse stopping in front of the gates of the castle, “Well, no, Princess. By northern standards I am far too young. Here, usually men marry well into their twenties, or after their eighteenth summer.”

You hum. “Not in the Crownlands.”

Cregan frowns a bit, “If you are suggesting a…” he hesitates, “Betrothal, between you and me, Princess — and forgive me if I’m wrong — I think you are far too young to think about that, and I am too. I don’t think it would work.” He’s trying to break it to you in the nicest way possible, because — yes. You are a kid, barely ten summers of age, who’s probably already doing too much for her House, and marriage shouldn’t even cross your mind yet. He doesn’t find you funny nor is he attracted to you, obviously, so there’s no way he’s ever going to marry you. Besides, princesses are expensive, known to be spoiled, and he isn’t sure if he would ever be able to fulfil your needs and listen to you whine all day. 

You glare at him — and if looks could kill, he would already be in the family crypt, right beside his father. “Fine.” you hop off the horse before he can protest, strutting over the entrance, scaring the servants who are asked to show you around the place. “Princess, I should be the one to do that–” he tries to protest, in vain.

“Nonsense, Lord Stark!” you yell, dismissing him with a hand, not even turning back to look at him. “I’m sure the servants know the holdfast better than you.” and then you’re gone, followed by a maid who sends him a pleading look, inside the castle acting like you own it. If he doesn’t want to marry you, you’ll make sure to make him regret that — not only in this trip, but also in the years to come. 

Ah, children’s ego. So big yet so fragile. 

Cregan sighs, getting off his horse, immediately joined by Ser Rodrick, heir to House Cerwyn and in Winterfell to support him in this battle against his uncle. “What did you do to make her react that way?” he asks, bewildered. 

The boy huffs, kicking a rock nearby. “I rejected her marriage proposal.”

His friend pales. “Isn’t she, like… ten summers old?”

The Stark laughs, even if he’s not amused at all. “She is.” he shakes his head, in disbelief. “Children acting like adults. The King, between all of his capable and loyal subjects, chose his petty and spoiled granddaughter who has never heard a no in her entire life to send here to help me.”

He sighs again, getting into a foetal position, commiserating himself. “She would be capable of threatening me to give Winterfell to my uncle unless I marry her.”

You ponder the option of giving Winterfell to Bennard Stark unless Cregan is at least betrothed to you, but then again, it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. Besides, you suspect he wouldn’t treat you well if you forced him to marry you. 

Maybe he’s right. You shouldn’t think of marriage right now, as you are simply here to prove yourself worthy of the honour of being Royal Ambassador. I’ll shorten the trip, you think to yourself, as the maids show you your chambers and strip you down, guiding you to a hot bath. I’ll deal with the Stark usurper after supper. Besides, all I have to do is hear him out and then kill him. That was what Viserys had told you to do — Bennard had proven himself guilty, and unfortunately had too many people to support him for you to let him live. You’ll depart tomorrow after breaking your fast, and let Nādrēsy play with his preys if he wants. You could visit the Riverlands, pass by Riverrun to say hi to Oscar, and then by Dragonstone to see your brothers and mother. 

One of the maids asks you if she can take off the coronet to tie your hair up, and when you nod she proceeds — only to quietly gasp at the sight of your scar. She immediately pales and apologises when you glare at her, quickly laying the coronet on a stool, going back to tying your hair up so that it doesn’t get wet. 

You know it’s hideous, but the least she could do is pretend it’s not. The urge to go away as soon as you can gets stronger. 

They dress you in the warmest dress you have brought, the purple one with embroidered pearls and fur sleeves, then braid your hair into a loose plait, delicately putting your coronet back on your head, hiding your scar. They make no mention of it, thankfully.

They guide you to the Great Hall for supper, and you are not surprised to see everyone already seated — you had taken a lot more than you normally would just to spite Cregan. The Hall seems to contain at least five hundred people, with four long tables and a raised platform for the Lord of Winterfell, noble guests and his closest men — you guess, since he doesn’t really have any family left —  banners with the Stark emblem on every wall, covering the stone. 

Cregan quickly gets down from his table, up on the platform, to greet you, offering his arm, which you — kind of rudely too — don’t accept. “I… I hope the chambers were of your liking, Princess.”

You snob him. “They could’ve been warmer. As could have been the bath.” 

He nods patiently. “I’ll make sure to alert the servants to burn more wood for the rest of your stay.”

“Don’t worry, Lord Stark,” he winces, “I won’t annoy you for too long. I’ll take my leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he asks, panicked. In all of this you are walking towards the platform, towards your table, and everybody is yet to sit down. “But– the King said you were supposed to stay for a sennight, Princess. The matters for the settlement of the succession must be–”

You groan loudly, “I know, don’t worry, you will have your throne by the time I go back to King’s Landing.” you sigh, “Men, always only caring about what is owed to them and what they want.”

That seems to shut him up, and without another word you go up the stairs that take to the table, him begrudgingly taking out the chair for you, sitting down quietly. Then everyone follows your example, relieved huffs echoing in the hall, immediately followed by a quiet chattering while waiting for the food. 

It seems that everyone is on their best behaviour tonight, because Cregan’s men are unusually educated and cordial for being soldiers and guards — you know that once out of this room, they’ll let out all the burps they’re holding back now, as they chug on beer tankards (but with their pinky fingers raised politely, no doubt a try at tea parties etiquette).

Roasted honey venison with olives, peas and beans is served, and as you eat the men start to get a bit impatient — having lasted most of the day without eating, they are starving, and it shows: they are scarving down the venison like eventually it’ll come back to life and run away. Cregan glares at them, even if it shows that he himself is a bit rusty when it comes to manners, since he has bread crumbs all over his tunic. That must happen when a boy not even six and ten is left in charge of an entire household, you guess. 

As dessert is served and dinner is finished, you are the first one to get up from your seat, looking at Cregan with a raised eyebrow — even now that you are standing, he’s taller than you, and he’s still seated. “Where is Ser Bennard Stark?” you ask him, determined to end this matter as quickly as possible. 

He raises his brows, confused. “In the dungeons, with his sons, of course. But– surely you don’t mean to go there now, Princess, do you? It’s late. The sun has already set–”

“And I am to leave tomorrow. I wish to see him now.”

Childish and petty, Cregan thinks. But that is what you are, no? A child. The fact that you will inherit the Iron Throne doesn’t change anything, for you are still ten, and him at your age was still playing knights with his friends, with barely a care in the world. How in the Seven Hells have the Targaryen raised you?

He surrenders to your will, sighing and getting up, bidding goodbye to his men and guiding you out of the hall. Two guards swiftly follow you without being told to, and the way to the dungeons is silent. Both you and Cregan know the problem well — you have been informed of it by the Small Council, who chose Ser Bennard’s sentence, while he had lived it himself. There was pretty much nothing else to add to Bennard Stark’s case, and it was only because of his status that he had the right to be heard, even if his sentence was already declared — not that he or Cregan knew of it. 

The Small Council said in the beginning that Bennard Stark had to be killed, but with him being the son of a lord, things could get messy quickly. You didn’t really understand the problem, but apparently in the North everyone’s pretty attached to the Starks, making it hard for them to… well, kill each other. A blessing by the King is needed, but yours will suffice too. 

The dungeons are dimly lit and cold, with guards standing in front of each cell, vigilant and awake. Cregan guides you in front of one of the cells, and kicks at the metal bars of it. “Uncle, you have visitors.”

Ser Bennard Stark is a gruff man, thin from his prison days, face unshaven and bleary eyes. “He looks like you haven’t been feeding him,” you comment. Cregan snorts. “We do. He just refuses to eat.”

A guard brings you a seat, and you thank him and sit down. The man in the cellar looks at you, forehead pressed to the bars. “Who is she, dear nephew? Your playdate?” he’s sarcastic, that much you can tell. You already don’t like him. 

“Uncle, this is the Princess firstborn of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velayon. She is here as Royal Ambassador to evaluate your case.”

His uncle raises his eyebrows, looking at you up and down. “I don’t believe that. She’s barely a babe out of the womb.”

You glare at him, tapping your foot on the ground. “And you look like the worst scum out of Flea Bottom. But I guess looks can be deceiving.” you sigh heavily, crossing your arms. “Ser Bennard Stark–”

“Lord Bennard Stark,” he interjects. 

You narrow your eyes. “I’ll call you whatever in the Seven fucking Hells I want to. You are no Lord, and I am a Princess, so you are to speak only when interpelled. Are we clear?”

He makes no sign of a reply. “I said, are we clear?”

“Please, uncle, you have already embarrassed this family enough,” Cregan reiterates. In the end, the man opts to make a small approving sound. You lean back in your seat. “Good.”

You take a small piece of paper out of your sleeve, having prepared it earlier. You open it, and show it to him. “This is the order of the Small Council– your three sons will be executed as soon as your matters are settled, with or without you. They have no titles and are young, so there shouldn’t be many against it. You, however…” you tilt your head, “Your life sits in my hands. You are a knight, crowned by my own grandsire the King, and you are the son of a lord — a lord that was well liked and loved by his people.”

You sigh again, a bit tired from your journey, passing the paper to Cregan for him to read. “So, Ser, give me a good reason why I should let you live.”

“For instance, my good for nothing nephew ruling Winterfell alone would make the castle crumble to pieces in hours.”

You turn around, feigning confusion, staring at the walls and at the ceiling. “What a strange thing to say. He’s been ruling alone for almost three sennights and Winterfell still stands strong.” 

The man narrows his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be playing with your dolls and learning the alphabet?”

You stay silent for a moment, your foot still tapping against the floor. “And shouldn’t you have died of starvation by now? It would have made a lot of things easier. Do you know that there are people condemned to die of starvation?”

Your head turns to Cregan, who stands by your side and tilts his face to look at you. “Have you heard about that lord in the free cities?”

He thinks for a bit, then nods, and your gaze returns to the prisoner, “I think it was in Qohor. They locked up a man in a tower, with his four sons, and just waited for them to die, as they were left without food or water. They say he was the last one to die, and apparently, he ate the remains of his sons once he went mad from hunger. Unfortunately you don’t seem to understand the situation you’re in. Have you got anything to defend yourself against the accuses of usurpation?”

He starts yelling, slamming against the bars, hands reaching for you and his nephew. “That throne is mine! I won’t let children take it away from me!”

You laugh. “I guess we’re done here.” you rise from your seat, Cregan standing beside you to block Bennard’s attempts at reaching you. “Thank the Gods; my dragon could really use some breakfast tomorrow.”

“It is northern tradition that the Lord of Winterfell executes the prisoners–”

“Do I look northern to you?”

“No, Princess, but–”

“You have to understand that if you ask for the Crownlands’ help, then the matters are going to be resolved in the Crownlands’ ways,” you mutter, glaring at him. Bennard and his sons are tied to a tree, screaming and thrashing around, as Nādrēsy stares at them hungrily — he likes his preys scared, even if they’re a bit too thin for his usual liking. He’s waiting for your command. “Besides, my dragon’s hungry.”

“But my uncle and cousins are still Starks,” he tries again. There are guards who are watching the exchange intently, stealing scared glances at your dragon. Some people of the smallfolk who heard about the execution have bundled up at a fair distance, not wanting to get near Nādrēsy. “It is best if they die in our ways.”

You raise an eyebrow, staring at him like he’s crazy. “Lord Stark, you do not realise that by trying to steal your right, they threatened the Crown. And by threatening the crown, they threatened me, and my whole family. It is right that I seek justice in the name of the Targaryens.”

He backs up a little bit, hesitantly nodding after a brief pause. You nod back. “Please never question my judgement ever again. There is a reason why I was chosen to be Royal Ambassador, and it is not because I am spoiled or the favourite of my grandsire.”

Looking at your dragon, eager to have a taste at his relatives, Cregan understands why you have been chosen. Nādrēsy is scary, and his reputation precedes him, surely making any exchange easier.

His uncle and cousins die screaming, swallowed like flies by the dragon’s mouth, not even chewed on. The northermen can just stare, realising that if they ever were to be confronted by that monster, they would stand no chance. They look at their lord then, hoping that he never angers you in any way.

The matter is settled, so you are now ready to fly to the Riverlands, and once the sacks with your things are tied to Nādrēsy’s back you are free from your obligations and can go. You bid goodbye to Lord Cregan, thanking him for the hospitality, and climb on your dragon’s back, taking a hold of the reins, before stopping.

“Oh, I almost forgot– Lord Stark!”

He perks up, worried. “Is there any problem?”

“No, no, everything’s alright. Just… where do I find your best ale?”

Necklace

c. 1775-1795

England or France

Cleveland Museum of Art