Chapter Text
The sky above the Reach is no longer the clear, azure expanse it was when the dragonseeds first departed for Tumbleton.
Now, it is choked with the heavy, lingering veil of smoke that marks the path of war. Laenera, Dayna, and Nettles urge their mounts forward, their bodies aching from the exhaustion of their desperate flight. Even from the clouds, they can feel the labored, uneven pulse of their beasts beneath them.
Seasmoke, Sheepstealer, and Grey Ghost are shadows of their former selves. Their scales are dulled by layers of soot and dried, crusty blood, and they move with a heavy, pained sluggishness that speaks of the brutal toll taken at Tumbleton.
As they bank toward the coast, a sickening sight spreads out beneath them. The landscape near the capital is scarred, the earth torn open and stained with the unmistakable ruin of a shattered army. The Tarbeck host, once fourteen hundred strong, lies broken, scattered across the fields near the incomplete curtain wall of Queen’s Landing. Great, blackened craters mark where dragon fire turned iron plate into molten slag, and the silence that hangs over the field is absolute, broken only by the mournful whistle of the wind through the wreckage of siege towers.
It is clear the Queens have already claimed their victory here. The fire they unleashed was not a battle, but an execution.
"They did not leave a single man standing," Nettles whispers, her voice barely audible over the wind. She pats Sheepstealer’s neck, feeling the dragon’s shudder as he sniffs the air, catching the metallic, cloying scent of the massacre below.
They push on, descending toward the familiar, jagged silhouette of Dragon Hill. As they approach the landing grounds, the dragons let out low, trilling cries of relief, their instincts screaming for the comfort of home.
They touch down on the blackened grass, the impact shuddering through the dragonseeds' weary frames. The dragons do not strike poses of victory; they collapse, their massive heads sinking toward the dirt, their wings splayed out in exhaustion.
Laenera is the first to dismount, her legs trembling as she hits the ground. She rushes to Sheepstealer, whose breathing is a wet, rattling sound. She places her palms against his warm, blood-streaked shoulder, murmuring soft words of comfort in amateur High Valyrian. Sheepstealer leans his heavy head into her touch, a small, pained chuff of smoke escaping his nostrils as he tries to shield himself from the cold night air.
Dayna and Nettles join her, tending to their own wounded mounts with a frantic, tender desperation. They check the deep, jagged lacerations along their beasts' bellies and the matted, torn webbing of their wing-membranes, their fingers working with the familiarity born of a shared, bloody campaign.
"You fought like gods," Dayna murmurs to Grey Ghost, her voice cracking as she brushes a clump of matted soot from the dragon's snout. "But you are done. You are done with the fights for now."
The dragons ruminate, their great chests heaving as they settle into the earth. The silence on the hill is heavy, punctuated only by the distant, echoing cheers of the city below and the rhythmic, pained breaths of the tired beasts. They have survived the forge of Tumbleton, but as the three dragonseeds look out toward the burning horizon, the uncertainty of what remains of their family hangs in the air, cold and sharp as a Valyrian blade.
The heavy silence of Dragon Hill is broken by the rhythmic, metallic clatter of armor. From the shadows of the stone archway, two figures emerge: Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy. They walk with the grim, measured gait of men who have seen the worst of war, their white cloaks pristine despite the ash that coats the rest of the capital.
Nettles, Laenera, and Dayna rise slowly, their movements stiff. Their nerves are visible, fraying at the edges. Perhaps the Small Council had heard the rumors of the fire they rained upon Tumbleton. Which may have been considered excessive, a butcher’s work rather than a soldier’s duty. They fear that the gratitude of the court is outweighed by the horror of what they were forced to become.
"My Ladies, Queen Visenya wait," Ser Arthur says, his voice devoid of its usual warmth, though his eyes linger on the fresh, weeping wounds of the dragons behind them. "Best not keep them waiting."
They are escorted through the labyrinthine halls of the Red Keep, the air growing colder as they approach the Great Hall. When the doors swing open, the vast space is packed with the lords and ladies of the court, their faces a sea of judgment. At the far end of the hall, the Iron Throne looms like a jagged mountain of black steel.
Visenya Targaryen stands before it, her presence a silent, suffocating weight that commands every breath in the room.
To her right, Daenerys watches with a terrifying, unblinking intensity, her eyes tracing the dragonseeds as if weighing the souls of the women against the cost of the recent war.
To her left, Rhaenyra holds herself with the regal, frozen grace of a monument, though her hands, clenched tightly at her sides, betray the restless, lingering phantom pains of the battle at Harrenhal.
Together, the Queens form a terrifying triumvirate of fire and blood, their unified gaze anchoring the room in a stillness so absolute that the flickering torchlight seems to hold its breath
The three young women kneel at the foot of the throne, their heads bowed. The court goes deathly still, the tension so thick that even the draft from the high windows seems to die in its tracks. Visenya does not speak immediately; she stares down at them, her gaze sharp enough to cut, before turning her back on them to address the gathered nobles.
"Across the Seven Kingdoms," Visenya’s voice rings out, carrying into every corner of the vaulted chamber, "bastards are seen as shadows to be hidden, untrustworthy souls born of vice and shame, meant to be shunned by the light of the nobility." She pauses, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade, her eyes scanning the uneasy lords who have spent weeks whispering about the 'dragonseeds' and their lack of pedigree.
"Yet, when the sky burned and the fate of the realm hung by a thread, it was not the highborn lords who faced the fire," she declares, her voice rising with a cold, ringing authority. "It was those whom you despise. I look upon them and I cannot think of anyone else I would trust with the dragons, nor anyone else I would entrust with the future protection of the Seven Kingdoms. They have done what blood and gold could not."
She turns back to the three women, her expression softening only by the smallest of margins. A rare concession to the gravity of their sacrifice. She draws a short, ceremonial dagger, not to strike, but to signify the authority of the crown.
"For your service to the crown, I remove the stain of bastardy," Visenya says, the words echoing with the finality of a decree. "I name you Lady Nettles of House Velaryon, Lady Laenera of House Arryn, and Lady Dayna of House Martell."
The court erupts into a confused, muted murmur, the shock of the announcement rippling through the nobles like a stone tossed into a still pond. Nettles, Laenera, and Dayna remain on their knees, stunned by the weight of the titles now resting upon their shoulders, their pasts erased by the stroke of the Queen's voice.
Visenya remains standing, her hand resting on the hilt of the new Valyrian steel blade she acquired at Harrenhal, waiting for the room to fall back into its fearful, obedient silence.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” The three dragon riders nod, their voices thick with a mix of exhaustion and newfound honor.
“Send word to all loyal lords, we will celebrate our victory with merriment,” Visenya says, her eyes lingering on the newly titled ladies before she turns toward the high windows.
“At once, Your Grace,” Maester Ollidar smiles, already clutching his scrolls as he moves to summon the ravens.
“That is all,” Visenya smiles, the rare expression softening the hard, predatory lines of her face.
As the Maester departs, the hall begins to hum with the frantic preparations for a feast that serves as both a reward and a distraction from the encroaching shadows of the West. Visenya remains standing by the throne, her fingers tracing the edge of the dark, rippling blade she holds, her mind already navigating the political chessboard of a realm that will soon realize its Queen is as dangerous as her dragons.
The Great Hall begins to empty as the nobility retreats, their whispers lingering like smoke in the high rafters. Daenerys and Rhaenyra remain near the steps of the Iron Throne, their gazes softening as they descend toward the new ladies.
Daenerys reaches Laenera first, her expression one of quiet, fierce pride. She stops before the young woman, placing a hand on Laenera’s shoulder to steady her, as the weight of the day’s events seems to finally settle upon the dragonrider’s weary frame.
"You did not just fight for a house, Laenera," Daenerys says, her voice steady and warm. "You brought honor to our blood. Your grandmother would have looked upon your flight today and seen a dragon truly come of age. I am proud of you, Lady Arryn. I'm proud to call you my daughter."
Laenera bows her head, her face flushing, but she meets her mother’s gaze with a newfound confidence. "I only did what the fire demanded, Mother. I am ready for whatever the realm requires next."
A few paces away, Rhaenyra approaches Dayna. She stops before her daughter, her golden eyes scanning the young woman’s face for the girl who left for the Reach, only to find a hardened commander staring back. Rhaenyra reaches out, gently smoothing the stray locks of hair away from Dayna’s forehead, her touch uncharacteristically tender.
"They look at you now and see a Lady of Martell," Rhaenyra murmurs, a faint, proud smile touching her lips. "But I look at you and see the rider who refused to break when the world turned to smoke. You have brought honor to both your houses, Dayna. The sands of Dorne have never known a dragon as fierce as you."
The two women look at one another, a silent understanding passing between the Queens—a recognition that the line between duty and family is thinning, but the future of their reign is, for this one night, secured.
Outside the throne room Visenya rests a hand on Dark Sister as Ser Arthur follows her out a moment behind. “Could you find Lady Nettles and send her to my office?” She requests walking away, her boots clicking against the floor
“Of course, Your Grace.” Ser Arthur says
In Visenya’s office, she sighs and settles into her seat before looking at the first letter in the pile. The air inside is still, smelling faintly of old parchment and the sharp, metallic tang of the Valyrian blade resting on her desk. She sighs, a sound that carries the exhaustion of a hundred years, and settles into her high-backed chair, the leather creaking under her weight.
Her desk is buried under a mountain of reports detailing the ruin Gargon the Butcher has carved across the Riverlands and the Reach. She reaches for the top missive—a message bearing the broken, soot-stained seal of House Darry.
“How the mighty have fallen.” she whispers to the empty room, the words heavy with a cold, detached pity.
She sighs, ripping it open and beginning to read, impatient motion, the parchment snapping under her fingers. Her eyes scan the lines, tracing the harrowing account of how the Darrys initially offered their swords to Gargon’s cause, only to be betrayed and have their ancestral seat turned to ash.
A moment later there’s a knock at the door
“Nettles Velaryon is here, Your Grace.” Ser Arthur says
“Let her in.” Visenya says standing up
“Your Grace.” Nettles bows gently
“Nettles.” Visenya smiles as the two sit down. “How are you?”
“I am well, and despite his injuries Seasmoke us faring well. I believe he will recover from the injuries. Ummm, you call for me. Is there anything I can help you ” Nettle asks
“Well first you’ll recall at the beginning of this war I promised you a castle with all its lands and titles.” Visenya smiles as Nettles face perks up. “Nettles I would name you Lady of Tarbeck Hall. I would also ask that you take the last surviving Tarbeck, Lady Ellen, as your wife.”
“Your Grace, you honor me.” Nettles smiles
“I would also ask for your advice. This terrible war has left a trail of death and destruction in its wake; widows, and orphans, broken families. I wish to help them and the Smallfolk as a whole. You were born amongst the lowborn. How can I do that?” Visenya asks
“The highborn can afford to repair damage to their homes which the smallfolk cannot, if you were to give the smallfolk the coin from highborn taxes they could rebuild their homes and replenish their livestock and fields.” Nettles says
“What would you suggest imposing a taxation on?” Visenya asks
“Luxury goods. Those with means can pay the harbor masters tax and those do not wish to pay it will not.” Nettles says
“You will do well as Lady of Tarbeck Hall, Nettles.” Visenya smiles
“Your Grace, could I bring my mother here?” Nettles asks
“Of course.” Visenya smiles
“Then might I leave for Hull to bring my mother here?” Nettles asks
“Of course.” Visenya nods
“Then might I leave for Hull to bring my mother here?” Nettles asks, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and genuine hope.
“Of course,” Visenya nods, with a subtle, approving gleam. “See that she is brought here with the dignity befitting the kin of a landed Lady.”
Nettles bows low, her heart swelling with the image of her mother, Marilda, arriving at the gates of Tarbeck Hall. As she turns to depart, a wave of relief washes over her. She already sees it in her mind, clear as the morning sun; her mother, dressed in the finest silks of the West, sitting at the high table, swelling with the child she always wanted to give her. It is the life she always wanted for her.
She pauses at the door, turning back with a shy smile. “She will be honored to take her place as Lady of Tarbeck, Your Grace. It is a home she has never known, but one she will rule with a steady hand.”
Visenya’s brow furrows, and she sets her quill down with a deliberate, slow movement. “Nettles. You misunderstand the nature of your new status.”
Nettles freezes, the warmth in her chest cooling instantly. “Your Grace?”
“Your title is yours by grant of the Crown,” Visenya says, her voice as sharp and cold as the steel on her desk. “It is a reward for your blood and your line. It is hereditary, meant to be passed down to your children, but it is not bestowed upon your predecessors. Your mother remains who she was.”
The disappointment is a hollow ache in Nettles’ stomach. She looks down at the floor, her shoulders slumping. She had thought this victory would elevate her mother in the eyes of the realm, but now she realizes the sting of the court would remain. The highborn lords and ladies would still look at her mother and see the woman from Hull, not the mother of a Lady of the realm.
“I see,” Nettles whispers, her voice tight. “I only wanted to protect her from their whispers.”
Visenya studies her for a long moment, the silence of the office stretching thin. She stands and walks to the side of the room, pouring two cups of wine from a silver flagon. She offers one to Nettles, her gaze lingering on the younger woman’s crestfallen face.
“You have a dragon’s fire in your soul, Nettles, and loyalty to one's kin is a trait I have always admired,” Visenya says. “While I cannot make her the Lady of Tarbeck by right of inheritance, I can grant her the title of Lady of Tarbeck by royal decree. It will be a personal honor. It will ensure that no noble dares to insult her birth without insulting the Queen who bestowed the title.”
Nettles looks up, her eyes bright with a sudden, intense gratitude. She takes the cup with a trembling hand.
“You have my everlasting thanks, your Grace,” Nettles says, her voice steadier now. “I will bring her to you.”
“Go then,” Visenya commands, turning back toward the maps spread across her desk “And ensure the guards escort her with the respect of a high-born woman.”
Nettles gulps down the drink, and leaves the room. She knows the path ahead is fraught with the dangers of a war-torn kingdom, but for the first time, she feels the true, terrifying, and exhilarating power of the title she now bears.
The high chambers of the Eyrie are quiet, save for the whistling of the mountain wind against the pale stone walls. Lady Sharra rests on a mountain of soft, downy pillows, the heavy velvet blankets pulled up over her hips. She looks down, Lysa, curled tightly against her side. Despite being 9 years old now, her legs long and her frame growing, yet she remains small and fragile in her mother's embrace.
Lysa’s eyes are closed, her small hands clutching at the fabric of her mother's shifted gown as she breastfeeds. Sharra looks at her daughter's pale face, a soft, bittersweet ache settling in her chest. Over the years, the maesters whispered warnings, and the high lords offered disapproving glances, but Sharra has never had the heart to deny her. In a world full of sharp edges and cold steel, this room is the only place where she can keep her child completely safe from the world.
Sharra lifts her hand, her fingers tracing the fine, soft strands of Lysa’s hair. She gently pets the back of Lysa’s head, feeling the rhythmic, comforting warmth of her daughter suckling. Lysa lets out a soft, contented sigh against her skin. For now, the politics of the Vale and the duties of the highborn do not exist. There is only the quiet warmth of this bedchamber, the steady beat of two hearts, and a mother who refuses to let her baby grow up too fast.
Lysa’s eyes flutter open, her gaze lifting to meet her mother's. A soft, milk-drunk smile spreads across her face. Sharra feels her chest tighten with affection, and she returns the smile, her thumb gently wiping a stray drop from her daughter's chin.
After a few more slow moments, Lysa finally lets go, her head sinking back onto the pillows. Sharra quietly pulls her shift closed, smoothing the heavy blankets back over herself to cover her breasts. Lysa adjusts her position, pulling away just enough to look her mother in the eyes. She licks her lips, a sudden, curious thought flashing across her young face.
“Mama, what’s incest?” She asks pulling away and licking her lips
The quiet warmth of the bedchamber instantly freezes. Sharra’s hand stills against the velvet blanket, the whistling mountain wind outside suddenly sounding much louder.
“Where did you hear that, sweet girl?” Sharra asks putting her still full breast away
“One of the servants said that Ronel would burn in the Seven Hells for committing incest with you and having me. I hope he burns.” Lysa says
“Lysa that’s… Ronel is your father” Sharra says with hesitation “and while incest is wrong it gave me you so how wrong can it be?” Sharra asks
“Is he really my father? He’s so mean to me. He made fun of my cock, told me that he hopes it doesn’t work.” Lysa says
“Well he is a bad person… so we’re not going to listen to Ronel anymore.” Sharra says
“But he’s my father… you said people listen to their fathers.” Lysa says
“I know but you don’t have to listen to him if he’s being mean to you… good fathers aren’t mean to their daughters.” Sharra kisses Lysa’s brow. “Now time for bed, sweetling.” Sharra wraps her arms tightly around her, pulling Lysa's long frame flush against her body.
They cuddle in the quiet dark, the steady rise and fall of Lysa's chest signaling she is drifting off. As Sharra strokes her daughter's hair, a bittersweet ache heavy in her chest, she realizes she cannot stop the clock. Despite the nursing and the coddling, Lysa is growing up so much, and the dangerous outside world is already bleeding into her innocent mind.
Away from the safe, suffocating warmth of the maternal bedchamber, the Eyrie’s high-altitude chill creeps deeper into the labyrinth of pale stone corridors. Light fades entirely where the torches gutter out, giving way to a secluded, shadow-drenched corner of the castle where the mountain wind groans like a dying man. In this dimly lit bedchamber, the innocent world of a childhood is about to shatter completely.
The flickering flames casting long shadows over the heavy curtains and worn silk sheets. The air is thick with tension, an uneasy blend of desire, duty and fear. Ronel stands at the edge of the bed, his hands trembling slightly as he looks down at the servant girl, Melarie, no older than twelve. Her eyes are wide, brimming with tears, her body stiff with hesitation.
“Please…” She whispers, voice trembling. “I don’t know if I can…”
Ronel swallows hard, glancing over at Ilysa, who reclined nearby with a dark, commanding smile, a glass of wine in hand. “My Queen.” He says quietly, reverence lacing his tone, “You want this… to happen.”
Melarie lingers before him, hands twisting in the folds of her skirt. She has served him for two years, and never once has she stood alone with him like this.
“You’ve a sweet mouth, little dove.” Ronel says softly, brushing Melarie. He steps forward and with a light touch at her elbow, guides her closer. “Kneel for me.”
Melarie shudders in fear. She wants to leave; she knows she can't. Ronel’s voice is threatening, it makes her stomach churn. After a moment’s hesitation, she sinks down onto her knees.
His hand threads into Melarie's hair. She leans in, lips parting, her breath has become shallow. When he enters her mouth, it is with a forceful intrusion, the motion makes her throat tighten and eyes water, and she gives a small, startled yelp. His quiet groan escapes as he finds a rhythm, each movement going deeper into Melarie’s throat.
He pulls out of her and begins to stroke his cock as hot thin seed blasts onto Melarie’s innocent face. It is warm against her skin, streaking her cheek and chin. She gasps softly, startled, tears run down her cheek.
“Beautiful.” Ronel murmurs, as if she is some treasured thing.
Ilysa’s gaze is sharp, unapologetic. “Yes, Ronel. It’s time. We need an heir. You will breed her.”
Meanwhile in Sharra's bedroom, Lysa’s eyes snap open in the dark, a sudden, uncomfortable fullness in her bladder rousing her from sleep. Carefully, so as not to wake her slumbering mother, she slips out from beneath the heavy velvet blankets. The cold mountain air hits her bare skin instantly, making her shiver as her feet touch the chilly stone floor. She grabs a small shawl to wrap around her shoulders and quietly creeps toward the heavy wooden door, slipping out into the dim corridors of the Eyrie to find a nearby privy chamber.
The hallways are maze-like at night, illuminated only by the dying embers of distant wall torches. As Lysa pads softly down the corridor, the silence is broken by a strange sound echoing from a secluded bend ahead. It is a confusing mix of muffled crying and breathless moaning, bouncing sharply off the damp stone walls. Curious and entirely losing her urge to relieve herself, she follows the unsettling noise, her bare feet making no sound. She stops outside a half-open door where the shadows grow thickest, her heart hammering in her chest as she steps forward to peek through the narrow crack.
The servant girl’s breath hitches, fear washed over her. She quickly wipes a tear from her cheek, trembling. “I -- I don’t want to… don't want to do this... I’m so scared.” She whimpers
Ronel steps closer, voice gentle yet firm. “You’re safe here. I will be careful. I promise.” His hands reach for hers, fingers brushing lightly. She gasps in surprise as Ronel’s fingers fill her cunt, pumping in and out quickly
Ilysa’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction at the display before her. “Good. Now, show her your strength. Make her yours, Ronel.”
Unnoticed, behind the half-open door, Lysa stands frozen, her breath catches in her throat. Her eyes widen as she watches the scene unfold, torn between horror and confusion. The weight of what she is witnessing presses heavy on her heart, her mind swirling with questions she dares not speak aloud.
The servant girl looks between them, heart pounding fiercely in her chest. Shame overtakes her, her innocence lost, taken.
Ronel takes a deep breath and begins, each movement slow and deliberate, carrying the weight of command, dominance, and the desperate hope for an heir
Ronel settles over Melarie, the heat of their bodies pressing close as he enters her with a forceful thrust, ripping her maidenhead, causing her to yell in pain. She feels the firm weight of him, every motion sending waves of pain through her that makes her thrash.
Behind him, Ilysa presses forward the tip of her cock on his back entrance, her hands gripping his hips as she enters him and matches his pace with her own steady, insistent movements. The servant’s senses blur between Ronel’s relentless thrusting shooting more and more seed into her and the new fire Ilysa kindles behind him, their bodies entwined in a despicable act.
"I'm cumming!" Ilysa screams as she sinks balls deep into his ass.
He feels Ilysa’s warm release flooding deep within him, the sensation spreading through his body as his belly swells, leaving Ronel breathless as he shoots more of his own seed into the girl. A torrent of Ilysa's seed escapes out of his lips, warm and thick, before falling onto the servant’s face, leaving her disgusted.
Lysa’s face twists in disgust as she leaves on silent feet, her heart thundering as she pushes open the door and jumps onto the bed. “Mama, mama. Ronel was doing things to one of the serving girls.” Lysa says shaking Sharra
“Mmmm… what is it? Sweetling, it’s the middle of night, what’s wrong?” Sharra asks sleepily
“Ronel was in his chambers, with Melarie, and the lady with a cock. He was hurting her, the lady with cock told Ronel he had to get Melarie pregnant to protect the Vale.” Lysa says in a hurried tone
“Come on, sweetling, back to bed.” Sharra says pulling up the covers revealing her soft see through white silk shift
“But Melarie…” Lysa starts
“I will sort it out… I promise.” Sharra smiles as Lysa snuggles in with Sharra
“Okay… Ronel is a bad person, isn’t he?” Lysa asks sleepily sucking her thumb
“He is… I think the Gods will punish him for his trangressions.” Sharra smiles as Lysa lets out soft snores
In the morning Sharra leaves Lysa in bed, her late nights escapades leaving her tired and still sleepy. She moves through the castle with grace as the maester hands her the vial of Moon Tea, she finds Melarie in the servants quarters, tears in her eyes. “My lady.” She curtsies and brushes her tears away
“It’s quite all right, Melarie. I have something for you…” Sharra places the Moon Tea down in front of her. “...I will not have my good and faithful servants carrying my son's bastards.”
“When Lord Ronel asks why his seed hasn’t quickened?” Melarie asks unstopping the vial
“Young girls bedded too early often have difficulty conceiving.” Sharra says as Melarie drinks the moon tea, gagging on the acrid taste
“Thank you, my lady.” Melarie smiles
The skies of Hull darken as Seasmoke circles overhead, he makes an excited call as Nettles urges him down, heavy wing beats stir up sawdust and dirt as the dragon heads for Marilda and Nettles’ humble cottage.
The cottage walls groan under the relentless assault of the Blackwater’s fury, the timber planks creaking like the bones of an old man. Inside, the air is thick with a different kind of humidity, a stifling, electric heat that has nothing to do with the hearth fire which has long since burned down to glowing embers.
Marilda presses her back against the cool, rough surface of the wall, the sensation doing little to quell the inferno raging beneath her skin. Her breath hitches, coming in short, desperate gasps that fogs the air before her lips. She squeezsd her thighs together, the wool of her skirts bunching against her sensitive skin, but the friction only serves to stoke the pulsing ache that throbs deep in her core.
Her hands, trembling slightly, slide down the front of her dress, fingers fumbling with the laces of her bodice until she can finally push the heavy fabric aside, exposing the soft swell of her breasts to the dim light. But her attention is lower, drawn irresistibly downward by the vivid, searing memory of her daughter.
Nettles.
The name alone sends a fresh wave of slick warmth pooling between her legs, soaking through the wool of her skirts. She thought of Nettles’ hands, those rough, calloused hands that can wield a sword with lethal precision or tend to a wounded bird with impossible gentleness. She remembers the way those hands had felt on her skin, the heat of her palms searing into Marilda’s flesh, the grip firm and possessive.
Marilda’s fingers dip beneath the waistband of her skirts, sliding past the barrier of her undergarments to find the slick, heated flesh between her thighs. She gasps as her fingertips brushed against her swollen cunt. It is hypersensitive, throbbing with a need that is almost painful.
She circles it slowly, teasingly, her mind replaying the memory of Nettles’ cock, long, thick, and impossibly hard, as it plunged deep inside her.
‘How deep it reached,’ She thinks, her eyes fluttering shut as she dips a finger inside her own wetness, ‘It reached places no one else ever had, splitting me open, filling me so completely that I felt it in my throat.’
She remembers the way Nettles had moved inside her, the relentless, driving thrusts that had claimed her body and soul. The sound of wet slap of skin on skin, the choked moans that escape her lips, the guttural growls that rumbles in Nettles’ chest. She remembers the way Nettles had looked at her during those moments, eyes dark with an intensity that stripped her bare, seeing every secret desire, every hidden shame, and accepting it all without judgment.
Marilda’s fingers move faster now, thrusting in and out of her dripping cunt, her thumb circling her clit with frantic urgency. She remembers each climax Nettles brought her to, how her body convulsed around Nettles’ cock. She remembers the way her hot seed had sprayed onto her own skin, coating her belly and thighs in a sticky, shimmering sheen, the scent of her arousal mingling with the musk of their sweat.
The memory is so vivid, that Marilda could almost feel the weight of Nettles’ body pressing her into the mattress. She can almost hear the whispered words that had accompanied their union, promises and the almost obsession to swell her belly with a child.
Her fingers work her clit mercilessly now, her hips bucking against her own hand as she chases the release that loomed just beyond the horizon. The storm inside Marilda is reaching its peak. Her breath comes in ragged pants, her heart hammering against her ribs, in anticipation.
Marilda feels her climax building, a tight coil of pleasure winding deep in her belly. She cries out, a low, keening sound that is lost in the roar of the wind outside, her body arching off the wall as the release crashes over her.
Her cunt clenches around her fingers, pulsing with rhythmic waves of pleasure, her wetness gushing onto her hand and dripping down her wrist. She rides it out, her body trembling, her mind blank except for the echo of Nettles’ name.
For a long moment, she stays like that, slumped against the wall, her breath slowly returning to normal, the aftershocks of her orgasm still sending shivers through her body.
And then she hears it.
It is a sound unlike any other, a rhythmic, thunderous beat that cuts through the howling wind and the crashing waves. ‘Thump-thump-thump-thump’ It is the unmistakable sound of massive wings beating against the air, the sound of a dragon in flight.
Marilda’s eyes snap open, her heart leaping into her throat. She scrambles to her feet, hastily pulling her bodice closed and smoothing her skirts, her mind racing. Dragons are rare in Hull, and the sight of one will send the entire town into a panic. But as she rushes to the window, she sees that this dragon is not descending in anger or to unleash fire and destruction.
It is landing, gracefully and with surprising gentleness, in the small clearing just beyond her cottage. The beast is massive, its scales shimmering in the faint light like polished pearl, its wings folding against its back with a sound like thunder rolling away. And on its back, clinging to a saddle near the base of its neck, is a figure.
Marilda’s breath catches in her chest, her hand flying to her mouth as she recognizes the silhouette. The figure slides down the dragon’s side with practiced ease, landing lightly on the ground, and turning toward the cottage.
It is Nettles.
But it is not the Nettles she has just been fantasizing about, the daughter whose memory has driven her to such desperate pleasure. This Nettles is different, maybe it is just the way the dragon’s presence seems to clothe her in an aura of power and mystery. She wears riding leathers that are way too regal for a girl of her station, a sword at her hip, and her hair is longer, tied back in a practical braid that swung as she walks.
Marilda stands frozen at the window, her heart pounding, her body still trembling from her recent climax, her mind struggling to reconcile the memory of the daughter she had known with the woman approaching her door. The dragon remains outside, a silent, watchful guardian, its golden eyes fixed on the cottage as Nettles reaches for the latch.
The door creaks open, and Nettles steps inside, bringing with her the scent of rain and dragon smoke and something else, something wild and untamed. She looks at Marilda, her dark eyes intense and unreadable, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Mother,” Nettles says finally, her voice low and rough, carrying a weight that Marilda has never heard before. “I’ve come home.”
“Nettles, what… is that a dragon?!” Marilda asks, her heart pounding behind her breasts as she looks at her daughter astride Seasmoke while shutting the door
“Yes, mother. It’s my dragon.” Nettles says pointing to the great beast. “His name is Seasmoke”
“What… so your letter wasn’t a joke? You really are a dragon lord!” Marilda says hugging Nettles tightly, her fingers brushing the fine silks of Nettles shirt
“I am and more than that, I am a lady. I have been granted the lands, titles and holdings of Tarbeck Hall. And a bride, Lady Ellen.” Nettles says kissing Marilda lightly
“Oh…” Marilda pulls away from the kiss. “... so you’re leaving me and Hull?” She asks
“No, no. Gods, why do you think that?” Nettles asks stepping closer
“Well why would you want your mother when you have a pretty fertile bride waiting in the Westerlands.” Marilda says
Nettles kisses Marilda, not a kiss that a daughter would give her mother but kiss that lover gives, Marilda gasps into the kiss. Nettles presses her into the dark alley between their cottage and the next.
Marilda moans as Nettles kisses down her body. “I’m going to cut these rags off you and dress you in silk and put pretty jewels on your neck.” Nettles says as she climbs under Marilda’s skirts. “We’ll trade with everyone, in gold and spices. And we’ll make the prettiest babies.” She says her tongue carving through Marilda’s wiry folds
“Gods, yes!” Marilda gasps, gripping the back of Nettles head as she feels her orgasm approaching. “When we’re ready I’ll have your children, you’ll have plenty of sisters.” She moans feeling her cunt tighten around Nettles’ tongue as her orgasm washes over her, her body trembling.
“So…” Nettles smiles appearing with slick lips. “... will my mother accompany me to the feast in Queen’s Landing?” She smiles
“I don’t think that a lady's mother can attend a highborn feast and ball in such rags.” Marilda says as Nettles guides her by the hand to Seasmoke
“We’ll solve that problem.” Nettles smiles as Marilda looks at Seasmoke apprehensively. “It’ll be okay.”
“Okay.” Marilda nods as she and Nettles mount Seasmoke
“Soves!” Nettles commands as Seasmoke spreads his wings and launches into the air
In the Eyrie, Melarie stands nervously before Ronel, her thighs still aching, a subtle reminder of the violation Ronel and Ilysa had inflicted on her. “So have you had your blood yet this moon? Or should I begin preparing to petition Queen Daenerys to legitimize my heir?” Ronel asks gleefully
“I have had my blood, my lord, it began yesterday.” Melarie says in a small voice as Ronel crosses the room and grabs her hair
“You are lying. My son and heir, is in your womb, tell me the truth.” Ronel hisses
“I’m… I’m not lying, my lord, they say if you bed a girl too early then she has trouble conceiving a child. I’ve only bled once before this… please don’t hurt me.” Melarie begs feeling Ronel’s free hand on her hip
“Get out of my sight.” Ronel snaps as Melarie runs away in fear as her chest fills with elation
In Visenya’s office she looks up from another report of bandits in the Riverlands to the door at the sound of knocking. “Come.” She calls out putting her pen down
“Ser Harwin Strong, Your Grace.” Ser Arthur says from the door
“Your Grace.” Harwin smiles as Visenya stands up and sits at the table
“Harwin sit down.” Visenya smiles
“Congratulations, Your Grace. You’ve crushed the rebellion and brought peace back to the realm.” Harwin says sitting down as Visenya pours two glasses of Dornish Red
“To peace.” Visenya toasts
“To peace.” Harwin says as the two take a drink, Visenya sitting back
Visenya sighs looking at Harwin. “If I told you to murder an infant boy, still at his mothers breast, say. Would you do it without question?” She asks as Harwin looks taken aback nearly choking on his wine
“Without question, no. I might be a brute, Your Grace. My father described me as the hammer in our family once but I have my limits.”
“That is good to know, Ser.” Visenya says with a smile. “I would suggest you prepare for additional folk in the city, all of the Wardens of Seven Kingdoms will be arriving soon.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Harwin nods getting up and leaving
The heavy wooden carriage trundles down the bumpy, makeshift road, its wheels crunching loudly over loose gravel and dirt. Outside, the wild landscape passes by in a blur of green and gray as the grand convoy of the high lords of the Seven Kingdoms makes its long journey toward the newly founded Queen's Landing. Inside the cabin, the atmosphere is a stark contrast to the rugged terrain outside. Bright, golden sunlight streams through the glass windows, warming the plush velvet seats and casting a soft glow over the occupants.
Sharra sits reclined against the cushioned wall, cuddling Lysa tightly against her chest to shield the young girl from the carriage's constant jolts. Lysa rests her head contentedly on her mother's shoulder, her fingers idly playing with the embroidery of Sharra's gown. Sharra looks down at her daughter's relaxed face, a wave of fierce tenderness washing over her. She presses a soft, lingering kiss to Lysa’s brow.
“Are you excited?” Sharra asks softly, her voice carrying easily over the low rumble of the carriage wheels.
“Of course, I can’t wait to see Jeyne again. She was really nice to me, not like Ronel.” Lysa says
“I know, maybe I’ll ask Jeyne to come and visit us. Maybe Queen Daenerys will bring her on Drogon.” Sharra says
“That would be nice.” Lysa smiles
The towering stone corridors of the Red Keep are loud with the echoes of heavy boots and distant shouting as servants rush to prepare for the arrival of the high lords. Princess Rhaenys walks with swift, purposeful strides, her silver hair trailing behind her. Her thoughts are entirely consumed by the politics of a realm broken by war, until she rounds a sharp bend near the lower bailey and nearly collides with two women walking in the opposite direction.
Rhaenys stops short, her hand instinctively checking the heavy fabric of her skirts as she face-to-face with Nettles and her mother Marilda of Hull. Nettles, flinches back a half-step, her dark eyes narrowing with instant defensiveness. Marilda quickly steps forward, her posture rigid but respectful, placing a protective hand on Nettles’ shoulder to keep the wild girl calm before the royal princess.
“Princess.” The two curtsies gently
“It’s quite all right.” Rhaenys says
“Mother, can I have a moment to speak to Princess Rhaenys alone?” Nettles asks as Marilda kisses her on the cheek while Nettles gives Marilda a slap on the ass as walks away down the corridor. “I want my mother to join me at the feast but she’s never owned nice clothes before.” Nettles explains, her gaze glancing to Marilda’s wide swinging hips. “She spent every copper she could save on me.”
“She sounds like an amazing mother.” Rhaenys smiles
“I wonder if you had a dressmaker I could take her to.” Nettles smiles
“Just a dressmaker?” Rhaenys asks
“Okay and someone who can make her pretty underwear.” Nettles says nervously
“Okay, so my dressmaker is in Liberty Square and my underwear woman is in the Square of Jesmyn.” Rhaenys says smiling at Marilda. “Tell them that Princess Rhaenys sent you and you’ll get the special treatment.”
“Thank you, princess.” Nettles smiles
Down in the bustling crowds of Liberty Square, the salty sea breeze carries the noise of merchants shouting and wagons rattling over the cobblestones. Nettles weaves through the throng with practiced ease, her small, calloused hand gripping Marilda’s tightly as she pulls the older woman along. Marilda stumbles slightly behind her, as Nettles points eagerly toward a brightly painted shop ahead, determined to drag her mother to see a dressmaker.
“Nettles, where are you taking me?” Marilda asks with a laugh
“Just trust me.” Nettles smiles opening the door to the dressmaker, bolts of cloth line the walls as a comely older woman walks out, a tape measure around her neck and thick glasses perched on her nose
“How can I help you?”
“My mother needs a new dress for the feast in a few days. I was wondering if you could assist us. I’ll pay whatever I have to so it will be ready and available as soon as possible.” Nettles smiles as the dressmaker looks at Marilda. “The Princess Rhaenys recommend you highly.”
“Princess Rhaenys, she’s a good customer, always pays despite my insistence that a princess shouldn’t pay. Of course, I can help. What were we thinking?”
“What about light blue silk?” Nettles suggests
“Sounds beautiful, any other specifics? I’m sorry I didn’t get your name.”
“Lady Nettles Velaryon. And I think it should be low cut, I’m sure there will be a few lords interested in marrying a dragon rider's mother.” She smiles
“I’m sure they’d much rather court you, my dear.” Marilda smiles as the dressmaker begins measuring her body, Nettles looks at the curve of her mothers hips and the swell of her breasts
“It should be ready for you tomorrow.” The dressmaker says making a few final measurements
“Excellent, what do I owe you?” Nettles asks
“I think fifty gold dragons is a fair price.”
“More than fair. I will bring your money tomorrow.” Nettles smiles
Outside the shop, Nettles pulls Marilda into the alley and kisses her. “You’re going to look beautiful in that dress.” She smiles brushing Marilda’s cheek
“Do you have any more plans for this little trip?” Marilda asks
“Well I promised to make you feel beautiful. I also want my mother to look alluring.” Nettles grins biting Marilda’s lip
“Lead the way.” Marilda smiles laughing as Nettles pulls her out the alley by the hand
Leaving the dressmaker behind, Nettles navigates the winding walkways until they reach the Square of Jesmyn, where she instantly spots the next shop on her list. Unlike the bright, bustling merchant stalls nearby, this storefront is shielded by heavy, dark lace curtains that cast deep shadows across the glass windows. The display breathes an alluring, provocative atmosphere, and thick with the scent of dried jasmine and sweet oils.
Nettles catches Marilda's eye with a mischievous grin, entirely captivated by the delicate lace undergarments and silk corsets peeking through the lace, pulling her toward the shop's mysterious, private threshold
“What… is this a lingerie shop?” Marilda whispers as they walk in
“I told you… you’re going to look alluring.” Nettles smiles
“Welcome, welcome.” The thin reedy woman smiles looking at Nettles and Marilda. “How can I help?”
“My mother has need of new underwear, I’ll wait outside, mum.” Nettles smiles kissing Marilda on the cheek
“What are we thinking, my lady?”
“Oh, I’m not a lady.” Marilda insists
“I just assumed… your daughter in such finerys… my apologies.”
“It’s all right. It should be lace… dark blue with slender straps and minimal coverage of my cunt.” Marilda says
“I can certainly do that… I’ll just need to take some measurements.” The thin woman begins measuring Marilda’s body, it takes a brief amount of time before she’s done
Outside the store, Nettles leans casually against the stone wall, her eyes tracking the movement of the street while her fingers deftly spin her dagger through her fingers. The lethal play of the blade stops instantly as the door creaks open and Marilda exits the shop's dark, jasmine-scented interior.
Nettles slips the weapon smoothly back into its sheath at her hip, a knowing, expectant grin spreading across her face as she waits to see what her companion purchased.
“All done?” Nettles asks sheathing her dagger
“I am… I can pick them up tomorrow.” Marilda smiles
“Shall we go back to the Red Keep?” Nettles suggests
“Indeed.” Marilda smiles linking arms with Nettles
Afterwards Marilda walks around the castle, her soft dark curls tumbling gently in the breeze, looking out the window as she contemplates how she feels about Nettles. She wants Nettles to take her and fill her up.
Continuing down the hall Marilda turns the corner and arrives at Jesmyn Tully’s chambers, perhaps one of Queen Visenya’s wives will have answers for her. Marilda raises her hand and knocks.
“Come in.” Jesmyn calls out as Marilda pushes the door open slowly. “How are you, my love?” She asks looking up expecting to see Visenya
“Apologies, my lady.” Marilda says curtseying. “I’m guessing you were expecting Queen Visenya.”
“It’s quite all right. Come in, would you like some wine?” Jesmyn smiles
“I had a question… well several.” Marilda says smoothing out her dress. “And, yes, please, some wine would be lovely.”
“Please… sit.” Jesmyn smiles while pouring wine. “Ask away.”
“Do you ever worry about her? The crown princess?” Marilda asks
“All the time… but I know that worrying is pointless when she has Meraxes just as Nettles has Seasmoke.” Jesmyn smiles, taking Marilda’s hand. “Your heartbeat will double every time you watch her take off and it won’t slow down until you see her come back.”
“Is it normal for me to want her… intimately?” Marilda asks in a hushed voice
“I know for a fact it’s not… my nieces are married to each other and I can see that the weddings we’ve already had in the royal family won’t be the last.” Jesmyn smirks, kissing Marilda’s hands. “So if you want to fuck your daughter… go for it.”
“I don’t just want her to fuck me… I want her child.” Marilda admits with a trembling excited voice
“You’re a beautiful woman, Marilda, and Nettles is handsome… I’m sure you will make beautiful children.” Jesmyn smiles awkwardly
“But what will Nettles’ people think?” Marilda asks, her brow furrowing with genuine anxiety as she glances toward the shop's front window.
“She’s a dragon rider and the daughter of one of the greatest lords in realms, she will be fine.” Jesmyn smiles, her tone reassuring but gentle.
"It is not her safety I fear for, Jesmyn. It is the gossip. The maesters write of dragons and bloodlines, but they know nothing of a love like this. A mother and a child having this type of relationship.” Marilda lets out a soft, heavy sigh, her fingers tracing the edge of a smooth silk corset on the table.
“I used to reject the idea of her putting a child inside, not just for fear of being shunned because it would be proof of our incestuous deeds, but because we could hardly afford another mouth to feed. But now that she's a high lady of the realm, all I want is to carry her child. I want to give her a legacy that isn't born of fire and war, but of a quiet home."
Jesmyn rests a comforting hand over Marilda's, her awkwardness melting into deep empathy. "The world is changing, Marilda. If a girl from the streets can tame a dragon, then the two of you can certainly rewrite the rules of the court. Go back to her, and build the future you want. The lords will just have to learn to bow to it.”
The tower windows of Queen’s Landing burn gold with the late sun, spilling long ribbons of light across the polished floor of Visenya’s solar. The air smells faintly of parchment and smoke. Maps of Westeros lie scattered over the great table, Queen's Landing, the Vale, the Riverlands, places recently soaked in dragonfire.
Daenerys paces by the window, her silver hair glinting as she runs a trembling hand through it. Every step is measured, restless, her boots clicking sharply against the marble. Beside her sits Jeyne, calm and steady, her fingers folded neatly in her lap.
“She will not harm them.” Jeyne says gently. “Visenya is stern, but she is not heartless. She knows your children are yours, and that is what matters.”
Daenerys exhales, slow and uneven. “You did not see her face when she spoke of the old ways. To her, bloodlines are sacred, and bastardy is a stain that no fire can cleanse.” She presses her palms to the window frame, staring down at the city below. “I’ve seen her pass judgment with less hesitation.”
Across the room, Cersei reclines in one of Visenya’s carved chairs, legs crossed, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Her golden hair gleams brighter than the firelight. “Sacred bloodlines.” She says, amusement curling through her voice. “You Targaryens love to speak of them, yet seem incapable of keeping them… contained.” Her eyes drift lazily toward Daenerys. “Bastards from dragonseed, bastards from fire and lust. You make it sound like a noble tradition.”
Daenerys stiffens, her reflection in the glass hardening. “Careful, Cersei.”
Cersei’s smile deepens. “Oh, I am being careful. I’ve only observed that for all your silver hair and ancient names, your House breeds scandal as easily as dragons breed flame.”
Rhaenyra, seated by the table with a book she isn’t reading, closes it quietly. “That’s enough.” Her voice is soft, controlled, but her eyes are sharp with warning.
Cersei tilts her head, feigning innocence. “I only meant that perhaps our good Queen should not fret so much over her sister’s opinion. After all, if Visenya burned every bastard in the realm, there would be no one left to rule it.”
Jeyne looks appalled, shooting a quick glance at Daenerys. “Cersei, you go too far.”
Cersei laughs lightly. “Too far? My dear, if I had gone too far, you would know it. I’ve learned that in this family, only those who roar loud enough are heard.”
The tension tightens like a drawn bowstring. Daenerys turns, her violet eyes flashing. “You think this is amusing, Lannister? That my children’s lives are something to jest about?”
“I think…” Cersei says, rising from her chair with deliberate slowness. “... that a queen who lies with her lovers so freely should not look so surprised when rumors take root.”
The sound of the door creaking open silences them all.
Visenya stands in the doorway, her presence filling the room like a cold wind. Her armor is gone, replaced by a high-necked black gown trimmed with crimson silk, but there is still a steel in her posture that makes the others instinctively stand straighter. Her gaze moves from Daenerys to Rhaenyra, pausing briefly on Cersei, who lowers her eyes with a small, knowing smirk.
Visenya walks to the head of the table, the soft sweep of her cloak the only sound in the tense room. She places her gloves down, her voice calm but sharp enough to cut.
“Sisters.” Visenya says, her eyes fixed on Daenerys and Rhaenyra “I believe that we must have a conversation about your former, I guess if we're being precise, illegitimate children.”
The room falls utterly silent, the fire crackling in the hearth the only witness to what is about to unfold.
"Okay?" Daenerys says nervously
“So... you sired bastards with Mya Arryn and Deria Martell… Dragon riding bastard, with the blood of the Dragon and royal blood.” Visenya says sternly
"We did, we know we made a mistake, but we'll never be sorry for it. Our daughters just helped save the realm..." Rhaenyra words are cut short when Visenya pulls them into a hug
"You know there were like seven, maybe eight different outcomes I was picturing for how this conversation was going to go... this, uh, this was not one of them." Daenerys says feeling Visenya’s arm around her neck
“Perhaps I was a little too harsh about bastards. But just promise me no more from now on.” Visenya says with a sigh. “We’re family. I know we have had our differences, but let them pass with the years.” She says
“Course.” Rhaenyra nods
“And what about Sharra?” Visenya asks pulling away from the hug
“I… uh… I don’t…” Daenerys stammers
“Daenerys I’m not going to be mad but… if… if Lysa is your daughter then I need to know." Visenya says
“I don’t know for certain, Sharra and Ronel were already doing it out of their own volition and certainly continued afterwards, but I did blow my load inside Sharra. Twice even while Ronel was fucking her.” Daenerys says
“So more than likely.” Visenya sighs
“It’s possible Ronel could’ve bred his mother.” Daenerys argues quickly. “The letter is technically right. I did order Ronel to breed his own mother…”
"It's true, my mother could never say no to her children, so if Ronel wanted to lay her and put a child in her, she would have just let him.” Jeyne says unaware of the truth that Daenerys knows
"So, maybe, I can't be sure, Lysa doesn't look Valyrian." Daenerys says
“Neither do Naerys, Viserra, Rhaena, Baela or Dayna." Visenya remarks
Daenerys starts to rub her temples as Cersei laughs in the background, almost hysterically a tear in her eye. "You really think that's all the bastards there are, for all we know there's an entire army’s worth out there." Cersei states sipping on her wine
"The more you talk, the harder I wanna hit you." Daenerys says angrily. Cersei merely returns a smirk only for it to fade as Rhaenyra shows indifference to the threat. Daenerys sighs in frustration returning to her sister.
“Look, I've had suspicion that Lysa might be mine, but she doesn't look like us and Lady Sharra has declared her as being Ronel’s.” Daenerys says choosing to keep Sharra’s acceptance to herself for now. “But I've seen doubts in Sharra's face, if Lysa is mine, the truth will come out... And I will deal with it." She states with finality
"Dear sister, we're three of the most virile women I’ve met. So Lysa is most certainly your daughter.” Visenya states sighing as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m not mad, I’m truly not, just… let’s make a promise now. No more bastards.” She smiles softly. “And now I understand why you two were constantly flying to Dorne and the Eyrie.”
“They’re our daughters, just because they are our bastards doesn’t mean we don’t love them.” Daenerys says
“I don’t dispute that and while you’re reckless as queens, you’re good and kind mothers to Dayna, Laenera & Lysa and I can never fault you for that.” Visenya says
The Royal Gardens of the Red Keep are a rare sanctuary of vibrant color against the stark, oppressive stone of the capital. Elia paces the winding path, the hem of her silk gown trailing through the soft grass. She rests a hand against the small, firm mound of her abdomen, her expression one of quiet, meditative focus. She is lost in the rhythm of her own thoughts, contemplating the life growing within her, when the atmosphere abruptly shifts. The ambient hum of the capital fades into an unnatural, vacuum-like silence. The vibrant warbling of the songbirds, usually so persistent, vanishes as if cut by a blade.
“Ah, hello Cersei…” Elia does not turn around, She rubs her bump softly, her voice calm and melodic, cutting through the stillness.
Cersei Lannister enters the frame, accompanied by a Gold Cloak who stands in for the late Ser Lorent, his armor clanking with a dull, heavy resonance. Cersei’s face is a mask of jagged irritation.
“I wondered why all the birds stopped singing.” Elia murmurs, finally turning to face the intruder. She offers a small, taunting smirk. “I suppose even nature knows when a predator has entered the garden.”
She smirks as Cersei glares, her jaw tightening until her teeth ache, her mind racing to conjure a retort sharp enough to wound. She opens her mouth, but the words falter, dying in her throat as Elia’s calm composure makes her frantic anger look like nothing more than a tantrum.
“Hmph.” Cersei exhales, a sound of pure, unadulterated venom. as she turns on her heels, her golden curls splaying out in a wave as her red gown swishing through the stagnant air as she storms toward the archway, the Gold Cloak scrambling to keep pace.
Elia’s features brighten instantly, the tension leaving her shoulders as Nymeria steps into the light, a hand resting casually on her hip.
“I see your pregnancy has done nothing for your soft touch mother.” Nymeria smirks putting a hand on her hip
“Hello, sweet girl.” Elia says, her voice warming as she crosses the distance to pull Nymeria into a gentle embrace, kissing her temple.
“And how’s my new little sibling?” Nyermia asks brushing her fingers across Elia’s bump
“Happy, healthy and active.” Elia replies, her smile radiant as she kisses Nymeria on the cheek. “I hear you’re going to be a grandmother yourself soon.”
“Yes, indeed. My daughter seems to have pleasured her wife very well with what you taught her. The line continues, even in these dark times.” Nymeria smirks
Elia steps closer, her hand sliding from her own belly to cup Nymeria’s face, her thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a slow, deliberate pressure. The distance between them dissolves into nothingness, and the heavy silence of the garden ceases to feel like an omen, transforming instead into the backdrop for a shared, private hunger. Elia leans in, her breath hitching, and presses her lips to Nymeria’s in a long, lingering kiss that tastes of promise and deep, enduring affection.
As the kiss deepens, a slow, languid exploration of mouths that tastes of sun-warmed citrus and the faint, metallic tang of fear that always lingered in the Red Keep, a fear that dissolves now into a far more potent heat. Nymeria’s hands, slender and strong, move with a possessive urgency that belies her youth, sliding down from the curve of Elia’s jaw to settle firmly against the soft, rounded swell of her mother’s baby bump. Her palms splay wide, fingers pressing gently but insistently into the silk of Elia’s gown, as if to guard the life within, to claim it as part of this secret, stolen moment. Elia shudders, a low, guttural sound vibrating deep in her throat, a sound that is half surrender, half demand, as she reaches up, her own hands tangling in the dark, silken cascade of Nymeria’s hair to pull her closer, deeper into the kiss.
Her fingers find the swell of Nymeria’s breasts through the fine, embroidered silk of her bodice, the fabric warm and damp with a fine sheen of perspiration.
She kneads the firm flesh gently, her thumbs circling the hardened peaks that pressed against the material, her fingers tracing the deep, tempting curve of the cleavage revealed by the low neckline.
Nymeria arches into the contact, a sharp, breathy gasp escaping her lips as her body pressed flush against her mother’s, the friction of their clothing a maddening barrier. Her own breath turns ragged, hot puffs of air ghosting against Elia’s mouth as their tongues tangle, the rhythm of their kiss growing more frantic, more demanding.
They move in a fluid, rhythmic press, their bodies molding together until there is no space left between them, save the swell of Elia’s belly.
Nymeria’s thumb brushes provocatively against the side of Elia’s breast, teasing the sensitive skin just above the edge of her bodice, while her other hand continues to circle the baby bump with an almost reverent, heated intensity.
The air between them grows thick and charged, heavy with the scent of jasmine from the garden and the musk of their own arousal, every touch igniting a deeper spark until the surrounding stone walls and distant threats of the capital faded into insignificance, leaving only the heat of their skin and the breathless, mounting friction of their desire.
Nymeria breaks the kiss, her lips trailing a wet, searing path down the column of Elia’s throat, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin just above her collarbone. Elia’s head falls back, her eyes fluttering shut as a moan, soft and broken, escapes her. “Nymeria…” She breathes, her voice a ragged whisper, her fingers tightening in her daughter’s hair.
“Shh,” Nymeria murmurs against her skin, her breath hot and moist. “Just feel.”
Her hands moves with deliberate slowness, sliding from the baby bump down to the hem of Elia’s gown, her fingers gathering the heavy silk, lifting it inch by inch.
The cool evening air kissed Elia’s bare thighs, then her hips, then the damp, heated fabric of her small clothes. Nymeria’s touch is sure, confident, her fingers tracing the elastic waistband before slipping beneath, her palm cupping the heated, swollen mound of Elia’s sex through the thin linen.
Elia’s hips buck involuntarily, a sharp, choked cry tearing from her throat. The pressure is exquisite, the heat of Nymeria’s hand a brand against her most intimate flesh.
Nymeria’s other hand comes up to steady her, splaying across the small of her back, her fingers digging into the soft flesh there as she supports her mother’s weight. She presses harder, her thumb finding the taut, aching nub of Elia’s clit through the fabric, rubbing in slow, maddening circles.
“Please,” Elia gasps, her body trembling, her legs parting instinctively to give Nymeria better access. The baby within her seems to shift, a soft, rolling movement that presses against her spine, a constant, living reminder of the life she carries even as she surrenders to this forbidden pleasure.
Nymeria’s fingers hook into the waistband of Elia’s smallclothes and drag them down, the linen whispering over her skin until it pools around her ankles. The air is cool on Elia’s bare thighs, and the glistening, swollen folds of her sex.
Nymeria kneels before her, her dark eyes lifting to meet Elia’s, holding her gaze as she leans in, her breath hot against the inside of Elia’s thigh.
Elia’s hands find purchase on Nymeria’s shoulders, her nails digging into the fine silk of her bodice as she braces herself. Nymeria’s tongue is a wet, hot shock as it licks a slow, deliberate stripe up the length of Elia’s slit, from the trembling entrance to the throbbing apex of her clit. Elia’s cry is sharp, her body jerking as if struck by lightning, her hips thrusting forward into the wet, searching heat of her daughter’s mouth.
Nymeria moans, the sound vibrating against Elia’s most sensitive flesh, her hands coming up to grip Elia’s hips, holding her steady as she feasts. Her tongue is relentless, swirling around the swollen bud of Elia’s clit before flicking against it with a teasing, maddening rhythm.
She sucks gently, her lips forming a tight seal around the sensitive nub, her tongue working it in firm, circular motions.
Elia’s head falls back, her eyes squeezing shut as pleasure, white-hot and blinding radiates from her core outward to every nerve ending in her body. Her breath comes in ragged, sobbing gasps, her fingers twisting in Nymeria’s hair, pulling her closer, deeper.
Nymeria’s fingers join the assault, sliding through the slick, wet folds of Elia’s sex, gathering the copious moisture there before circling the tight, fluttering entrance to her cunt. She presses one finger inside, slowly, carefully, feeling the muscles clench around her, pulling her deeper. Elia’s cry is a raw, animal sound, her body arching off the stone bench.
“More,” Elia begs, her voice broken, her body trembling on the edge of release. “Nymeria, please, more.”
Nymeria obeys, adding a second finger, stretching Elia’s tight, clenching channel. She curls her fingers upward, seeking the rough, spongy patch of flesh that would send Elia over the edge. Her mouth never stops its relentless work on Elia’s clit, her tongue flicking and swirling, her lips sucking with a firm, insistent pressure.
Elia’s world shatters.
A wave of pure, blinding pleasure crashed over her, starting at her core and exploding outward, tearing through her body in violent, convulsing waves. Her cunt clamps down on Nymeria’s fingers, her hips bucking wildly as she rides her daughter’s face and hand.
A long, shuddering cry tears from her throat, a sound of raw, unadulterated ecstasy that echoed off the hidden stone walls of the garden. Her body arches, her back bowing as the orgasm rips through her, leaving her trembling and breathless, her legs shaking so violently she can barely stand.
Nymeria doesn’t stop.
She continues to lap at the flood of Elia’s release, her tongue gentling but not ceasing, her fingers slowing but not withdrawing, drawing out the aftershocks, prolonging the pleasure until Elia’s cries soften into whimpers, her body sinking back onto the bench, her hands falling limp from Nymeria’s shoulders.
Finally, Nymeria pulls back, her lips glistening, her chin wet. She looks up at Elia, her dark eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied, a small, secret smile playing on her lips. She rises slowly, and leans in to capture Elia’s mouth in a deep, possessive kiss, letting her taste herself on her daughter’s lips.
Elia’s hands come up to frame Nymeria’s face, her thumbs brushing away the dampness on her chin, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The air between them grows thick and charged, every touch igniting a deeper spark until the surrounding stone walls and distant threats of the capital fade into insignificance, leaving only the heat of their skin and the breathless, mounting friction of their desire.
Rhaenys stands before the gilded floor-length mirror, her fingers moving in a blur as she corrects the fall of her heavy, embroidered silk skirts. She tugs at the bodice, ensuring the Targaryen crest sits perfectly centered against the dark fabric, then fumbles with the clasp of her velvet cloak. The fabric feels like armor, restrictive and cold against her skin.
Outside the heavy oak door, the rapping grows louder, sharper, and utterly impatient. Rhaenys lets out a sharp frustrated huff, her teeth catching her lower lip as she smooths the final pleat.
“I’m coming.” Rhaenys shouts as the knocking continues
Composing her features into the stoic mask of the Princess Regent, she takes a steadying breath and turns to face the entrance, her presence is that of an indomitable leader the realm expects to see.
“Seven Hells, I said I’m fucking…” She opens the door to see Visenya with Brightroar in hand. “Muna, sorry, come in.” She says with a sheepish grin
“It’s quite alright. I thought you’d already gone.” Visenya says as the two sit at the table and Rhaenys pours wine.
“Who’s the sword for?” Rhaenys asks
“It’s for you.” Visenya says putting it on the table as Rhaenys looks at it apprehensively. “I promise, you can take it out and have a look.” She smiles as Rhaenys looks at the silver dragon pommel with Citrine eyes, and a whitewood hilt. Rhaenys gasps as she draws the blade, the red smokey rippling metal makes it clear what it is.
“Mother I can’t.” Rhaenys says, hesitation heavy in her voice
“You can, you lead the battle at Maidenpool. The men called you The Future Queen to Be. Take the sword, it is yours.” Visenya says
“Okay then.” Rhaenys says sheathing Brightroar. Rhaenys pauses, fiddling with the pommel of Brightroar. She looks down at the intricate gold work, the weight of the blade suddenly feeling like a crushing burden rather than a reward “Might we take another moment to discuss something else?”
“Of course, what about?” Visenya asks, sipping her wine, then setting her goblet down and giving her daughter her full, undivided attention.
“Riverrun.” Rhaenys says, her voice barely a whisper
“It was a wonderful night, dear.” Visenya says with a slight smile. “Though the aftermath was less enjoyable, what with your grandfather’s Maester being ill prepared for a Queen and her heirs' needs.”
“Yes, speaking of those needs… you asked something of me when I flew Meraxes back to Queen’s Landing. You asked that I take the tea, I didn't. When mother asked if I needed the tea and I told her my blood had already come, I lied.” Rhaenys’ hands tremble, and she quickly grips the edge of the table to hide it. She avoids Visenya’s eyes, terrified of the disappointment she expects to find there.
The confession hangs in the air, thick and suffocating, and for the first time in years, she feels like a frightened child standing before the towering presence of her mother.
“You foolish girl. There is time for duty and a time for desire.” Visenya sighs heavily, the sound echoing in the quiet office. She rises from her chair, rounding the desk to stand before Rhaenys. She places her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, her touch firm and grounding, shedding the armor of the Queen to reveal the softness of a mother.
“I am not mad, but you have jeopardized our position.” She takes Rhaenys’ trembling hands into her own, her uncharacteristically gentle grip, stripping away the armor of the Regent to reveal the worried woman beneath.
“I wanted a child so badly. It is a thing I wanted since I was betrothed to Daenora. But I knew that it was childish in its own right to put my desires above the needs of the kingdom and my duty to it.” Rhaenys says as Visenya looks at her. “When I knew I was pregnant I asked Maester Ollidar for a draught and washed myself clean. I knew that if I had to fly again into battle I could not do so with child.”
“You carry the weight of the Seven Kingdoms on your back, my brave girl,” Visenya pulls Rhaenys into a fierce, protective embrace, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. For a heartbeat, the throne, the war, and the heavy mantle of the dynasty fall away. “You chose the realm over your own heart, Rhaenys. That is the hardest sacrifice a woman of our house can ever make, and I see the pain it costs you.”
Rhaenys buries her face in her mother’s shoulder, finally letting out a ragged, choked sob. “It felt like tearing a piece of my own soul away, Muna.”
“I know, my sweet dragon. I know.” Visenya strokes her daughter’s hair, holding her until the trembling stops.“You were wise in your choice, you chose sacrifice when your heart screamed for life. That is the cruelty of our bloodline, but it is also what makes you a queen in every sense that matters. I am sorry you had to make such a choice alone. But I think that one day when you do have children they will be a blessing and gift to all of the Seven Kingdoms.
“I’m sure they will.” Rhaenys smiles her posture straightening as she gathers her resolve
“And when that day comes, I will be there. You will not have to hide, and you will not have to choose between your crown and your joy. I will protect you and your legacy with my last breath.” Visenya lingers for a heartbeat longer, her hand resting over Rhaenys’ heart as if to ensure it still beats with the same fierce, Targaryen fire. “You are my blood, Rhaenys. Never forget that beneath the duty, you are my daughter.”
“Now come on,” Visenya smiles, offering a gentle hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Rhaenys' ear. “We have a party to attend. Let us show them that a dragon’s heart is as resilient as her steel.”