lwbu

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 12

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pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place—cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, canon character(s) death, canon divergence, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 6k

english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated.  also on ao3 and wattpad.

There was water in her mouth. It clashed onto the roof of it, swirling around her tongue before crawling down her throat. Alyssa choked on it, trying and failing to evade another wave. Her chest burned.

She felt a hard surface beneath her pliant body and something sharp digging into her neck like a splinter under the skin. Her bones ached, twisted awkwardly as though they'd been shattered and ineptly put back together. To change the angle, she attempted to move her head away, only for overwhelming coldness to grasp it into a tight grip. Like a rag doll, she went limp.

“Drink.”

Alyssa summoned no protests onto her chapped lips, too tired and too delirious and too lost. Empty. She'd never felt this empty.

Anxiety sat deep inside her body, wrapped around bones and flesh, and the crippling fear convinced her not to open her eyes. She could feel something solid beneath the tips of her fingers—hard and leathery and so unbearably cold to the touch that her hand went numb from the contact. Heard nothing but the sound of her own breathing, irregular and rustling and hungry for air. Felt pain in her ribs, burning and searing and radiating downwards, spreading like wildfire.

And the wetness on her lips. She wanted it gone.

She must have been lying there—wherever there was—for a long time. Long enough for her limbs to no longer feel like part of herself. Long enough to be stripped of control.

Hand on her jaw, forcing it open and mercilessly pouring what felt like litres of tasteless liquid down her throat. Ice-like fingers sinking into her skin, slim and long enough to engulf the entire width of her face. Strong enough to prevent her from moving an inch.

Struggling against the ache, mind seized by panic, Alyssa shot upwards with her eyes blown wide. The hand lost its hold on her, pressure now gone, and she knew that it must have left imprints behind. Her throat was given a moment of respite, freed and no longer constricting, and Alyssa almost wept in relief. Breathlessly, she blinked. Even her lids were heavy and shaking.

Only the darkness did not evaporate, nor did her surroundings clear from shadows. Seconds passed and Alyssa counted each of them with held breath, and still nothing changed and no clarity came, and she couldn't, she couldn't—

“I can't see,” she gasped.

Silence. Somehow, it felt all the more malicious when it collided with the darkness. Threatening. Like being lost in unknown corridors and trapped inside forever, and chased by shadows with sharp claws. Alyssa's skin tingled with trepidation, muscles spasming from pain, lips once more dry. But she wasn't alone. The hand had just been there—on her skin, scorching and blending into it, leaving Alyssa's jaw tender.

Her ears strained to find something else than the pounding of her own heart. She felt the wind brush her cheeks and braided curls, and heard a distant rustling of leaves whirling around, but nothing else. Dread blossomed in her chest. When at last she caught a low hum slicing through the silence, Alyssa went rigid.

“It'll pass.” A shuffle. Wetness returned to her lips, this time with an insistent sort of pressure she could not evade. “Drink.”

Realisation was a bitter thing. When swallowed down with the water, it landed near her heart, thousand of sharp blades waiting to strike and draw blood.

As Alyssa froze, so did everything else. Even time stopped, it seemed, now grains of sand suspended in air, waiting. Soon to be burned.

Her palms were trembling when she awkwardly, ungracefully plummeted them into Aemond's chest, solid beneath her touch, trying to push him away and lacking the strength to succeed.

“You.” Of course, it was him. He was always there to see her like this—tense and crumbling and almost broken. As though waiting to swallow down the cries and tears and bathe in her pain. As though basking in the glory that was her defeat. “Don't touch me!”

She needed to act—to do anything but sit there, disoriented and flinching and weaker than ever. Her limbs were heavy and even the slightest of movement hurt, but Alyssa refused to give up without a fight. Blindly, she reached forward in an attempt to grasp Aemond's throat, to squeeze it as he had squeezed her own, to strangle him and be freed from the shackles of his making—

He was faster. Stronger, too, with his lean but sturdy physique, and Alyssa felt the testament of it on her wrists. He was holding them brutally enough to leave bruises. Fingers long enough to wrap around the entirety of them twice, he held her tightly, a vice-like grip Alyssa could not escape. He might as well have put a dagger to her throat. She couldn't move at all.

“Calm yourself,” he hissed into her ear, so close the hotness of his breath engulfed her skin. She heard a small chuckle when she thrashed in his grip.

Blinded—both literally and figuratively, by madness and something else entirely, she spat, hoping that at least she'd managed to aim at him. Aemond tsked in annoyance, the sound echoing through the air, and his grip turned just a touch harder; her hands numb.

“Careful.” There was a hint of amusement in the timber of his voice. She wanted to claw all traces of mirth from his skin with her fingernails, even if she could not see it. One of his hands returned to Alyssa's face, but before she could bite into the flesh, he was squeezing her jaw. “Drink or I'll force you to.”

Alyssa hesitated for a second before complying, water pouring down her throat once more. Aemond's hand hadn't left her wrist, the other holding some vessel filled with liquid to her lips. She drank greedily, overtaken by a sudden burst of thirst and dizziness alike. Her insides burned. Everything did.

Careful not to alert him, Alyssa gulped and gasped and let her eyes fall shut in a vivid portrayal of relief, palm coming up to clutch at the vessel and tilt it just so. Briefly, their hands brushed; she struggled not to choke on the substance, water turned into flames pouring down her throat, scorching everything in its path.

Or maybe it was the touch that burned. Maybe it had always been him inflicting fire upon her bones. She chose not to ponder over it, hand falling limply to her lap, freed from unwanted friction. She still felt it. Felt him.

She wanted it gone. The traces his skin had left on hers and his fingers still on her wrist and the feeling of him—overwhelming and poisoning all her senses. Wanted to scorch it all until not even a memory of it remained. If she could, she'd tear her own skin into pieces, if only to eradicate the imprints he'd left. With her free hand, Alyssa reached towards her thigh. If there was something the nightmares had taught her, it was never to part with the dagger. Sometimes, though she rarely allowed herself to ponder over it, she'd awaken with the blade already clutched in fist, ready to strike. Sometimes, she'd cut herself by accident and welcome the physical pain. It was always a good distraction from the phantom one tormenting her mind.

“Ah. You didn't think I would have allowed you a weapon, did you?” He was closer, if closer was a thing that could be achieved anymore. Close enough that their cheeks brushed. Alyssa's skin prickled at the contact, only no longer did she know whether it was the coldness or simply him that elicited the response. As most times, Aemond's fingers came to tangle up in the wild strands of her hair. His voice dropped, no more than a whisper when he uttered, “I promise it's in good hands.”

His hands. Cruel and wicked and ready to snap necks. Hands with blood already staining them, long soaked into skin, crimson so deep it could never be washed off. Hands that had killed. Hands that would try to kill again.

Alyssa's face twisted, and she felt weaker than ever before when she let out a snarl. “Give it back.”

“I think not,” Aemond murmured. “I'd rather you didn't try to blindly slice my throat.”

She would have, had the blade not been stolen from her. They both knew it to be true. Alyssa caressed the place the knife had once been, a sheath sewn into the leathers, utterly empty now.

He had taken her dagger, but she still had nails and teeth, and not once had she ever considered yielding without attempting to bite into his throat first.

He must have expected it. Awaited the moment she pushed her aching body into his. When they crashed and fell back, just before she managed to pin him down, his hands wove around her cloak like ivy. Alyssa's elbow connected with something hard and solid, and she could only hope it was Aemond's face. She thrashed in his vice grip, and still his arms held onto her waist with a crushing force, hands tugging at the cloak to pull her away. Alyssa let out a dragon-like screech, fire disrupting the nothingness of her vision. When she heard him laugh, flames engulfed her entirely.

She scratched at his face, nails digging into skin, blood pouring down her fingers, swallowed by the want to ruin him—

“Come now, Alyssa,” he gasped, breathless under her hands. “You'll only hurt yourself.”

“Might as well try to hurt you in the process.”

“I suppose yielding is not in your nature.” One swift move and she was on her back, squirming underneath the weight of his body. His hand on her neck. It always was, in each of her dreams. Squeezing like now. “You should know that mercy is not in mine. Stop moving or I'll make you.”

Even though she couldn't see his face, Alyssa stared him down and hoped it was enough to burn him. One of his hands moved to grab her bloodied wrists, grip iron. He was fully straddling her now, pushing onto her chest in a way that restricted breathing.

“Go on, then. Finish what you started,” she spat. “Kinslayer.”

Aemond must have lowered his face. The ends of his hair tickled her cheeks. When he hummed again, as was his habit, the sound seemed to reverberate across her body, leaving havoc in its wake.

“Don't be ridiculous. You are of no value to me dead.”

She felt his breath on her skin. Her oxygen became him, him alone, his scent crawling into her lungs—

He let go. Alyssa's limbs fell onto the ground, freed from the embrace. Chest heaved, no longer weighed down by his body. Soon enough, she caught footsteps in the distance and knew she was alone.

Her head fell back to the ground with a thud. She was without a weapon and sight, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and Aemond's presence did little to calm her nerves. Whatever reason he'd had to chase her through the skies, she didn't doubt that this was the very result he'd been hoping for. He'd wanted her like this—defenceless and alone, imprisoned in an unknown, deserted place. Now that he had it, there was no predicting his next move. She wished the fog cleared from her eyes. It would be easier to defend herself from his wrath if she could see.

She needed to flee. This much was obvious, though the methods of achieving it were not yet clear. She searched for Blindfyre deep in her chest, somewhere in her bleeding heart, and found nothing. As if he was gone. As if he'd never been there at all.

No. Such thoughts were poison she could not allow into her mind, lest it overtake her entire being and leave her crumbling in pain. Wherever Blindfyre was—because she refused to accept the thought of him being just gone—she'd find him. She'd search the world for him.

Alyssa's mouth felt bitter. She wished there was no need to ever hear Aemond's voice again. But there was no one else around—no one to turn to at all—and so she was left without alternative options. She cleared her throat and almost gasped at the feeling. It was so dry even swallowing hurt.

A steadying breath. She forced herself to sound collected. “Blindfyre—”

“I saw him take off soon after you crashed down.”

Crashed down. Alyssa couldn't remember much aside from the dreadful sensation of falling. There'd been a storm. Heavy rain. Blindfyre must have lost balance, agitated by the sounds. He'd been bleeding, she recalled. Weak, as though no longer supported by the rune. Or had it been Vhagar that wounded him? It had certainly been Aemond's goal. His laughter still echoed through her mind. Alyssa scowled, choosing anger instead of the foreboding grief sinking into bones.

“He wouldn't leave me.”

“And yet that's what he did.”

“Where's Vhagar, then? Did you send her to chase after him?” It was a weak taunt. Lacking bite. She was too tired to conjure any more of her wrath, now no more than a flame.

He chuckled. It sounded hollow. “Believe it or not, it is not my intention to kill your dragon.”

“Of course,” Alyssa mocked. “Just like it was not your intention to hunt us through the storm.”

His anger was palpable. She felt it lick her skin like fire, boiling and relentless. Aemond had a habit, she noted, of attempting to intimidate her through touch. His hands always clutched at her body but never truly hurt her. Now, he did it again, fingers weaving through the braid on her neck. Angry breath hit her face. Still, he didn't pull.

“I did it because you broke your word.” One sharp tug was all he offered, and Alyssa bit into her tongue, if only to deny him the whimper that threatened to come out. His fingers travelled up the length of the braid, soon splayed across her scalp. It felt almost like a caress; she hated everything about it. Wanted him gone, gone, gone. “And look where it got you.”

If only she could see, her vision would be painted red. Hesitance long abandoned, she pushed into him. They'd never been close like this, she thought. So close that they blurred into one another. Close without drawing blood, even if she still felt his underneath the fingernails. Even if the scratches she'd left on his face were surely still oozing.

“I'm going to kill you,” she whispered.

She could almost hear him smile when he whispered back, “I don't believe you.”

She'd always thought him cold. Icy winds biting into cheeks and frozen waves crashing into skin, and even his eye itself was a statue carved from glaze shimmering in the night. Wherever he went and whatever he touched was a victim of frostbite, swallowed by angry rawness, last traces of warmth leeched off.

She'd always thought him cold, and yet it was warmth that disappeared when he moved away.

Alyssa swallowed the thought. Pledged to swallow every one that followed, too, if only it was similarly treacherous in its nature. Refused to entertain her own madness. It was all shameful enough that even erasing it from her foolish mind hurt.

“I am, after all, the only one who knows of your ailments,” he continued, merciless as ever.

“It was you who gave me the rune. You knew this would happen.”

“I didn't know you'd delude yourself into thinking one rune alone could reverse all the damage. Nor did I think you'd so easily give up on the beast.”

She couldn't listen to him anymore. Weakly, Alyssa attempted to stand, frail hands supporting weight, only to fall back to the ground as though her legs had forgotten how to walk. A scowl was now a prominent part of her face, expression full of creases and twists.

How pathetic an image she must have painted. A wingless dragon, she thought. Aemond must have been delighted, even though he kept silent. Was he standing above her, shoulders shaking with mirth, basking in the sight of her defeat? Had he been staring intensely enough for it to be long engraved in his mind, free to return in dreams?

“You did this to me,” fell from her lips, as bitter as her rotten heart.

His was rotten, too. She had known it for a long time. “No, Alyssa. You did this to yourself.”

She was so tired. Trapped. There was no way out of that wretched place nor Aemond's clutches. The severity of the situation downed on Alyssa like a wild tide, drowning and suffocating and aiming to kill. She wondered if they were indeed far from Stone Hedge or Harrenhal or anywhere else where her father had left footprints. He'd find her. If she was gone for too long—if a message came from Rhaenyra—he'd find her.

Only it might be too late by then. She could be long gone.

She wished to stop breathing, if only as a means to evade the constant waves of searing pain. She wanted to be swallowed by the dreadful silence; wanted her hearing to be as gone as her sight was. Wanted to disappear. Shatter into pieces.

He wouldn't let her. This much had been obvious since the very beginning. Since the first time he'd bled before her eyes. She still remembered that night. She wondered if he, too, had deemed it the beginning of whatever this was. Them, she supposed. Nameless and full of bittersweet rage.

“Drink up. We'd better move before it gets dark.”

She raised her eyebrow mockingly. “We? I'm not going anywhere with you, kinslayer.”

“No?”

Alyssa flinched when his finger touched her cheek. Just a caress, almost affectionate in its delicacy. Barely sensible. She wished she hadn't felt it at all.

“Would you rather be left all alone, blind and defenceless?” His voice was so quiet. She might not have heard it at all if it weren't for the proximity between them. Goosebumps rose across her skin.

He never let her go too soon. Always kept her immobilised in his clutches until he alone was satisfied. Fighting him was futile.

“I hear men in these lands have a great appreciation for silver. It's somewhat... exotic, if you will. Looks good wrapped around their fingers when they tug.” She gasped at the feeling of his fingers yanking. Her braid fell apart under his touch. “What do you think they'd do if they found you like this?”

They'd take. All men ever did was take.

But wouldn't it be a kinder fate?

She knew why she was there, in the middle of nowhere, with the shadow that was Aemond Targaryen. She wouldn't delude herself into thinking there was any other purpose to it. Her father had sent his men into the Red Keep to keep clean hands when blood was drawn, and so the Usurper now sent his brother in retaliation, too cowardly—or too deep in his cups—to take revenge himself. Alyssa knew how this would end.

Blood. It was always about blood.

“Tell me, Alyssa, do you want me to leave?”

She tilted her head. She thought their noses might have brushed against one another.

Fire. She was on fire.

“Is it really them I should fear?”

His hum was a knife to her throat. A promise of something unspoken. Darker. “I imagine not.”

Her sight returned in broken segments, as though shattered and needing to be put together again. She saw the grassy landscape and dark skies and fields full of nothing, and almost wept at each detail she managed to find. There was a disarray to the way the leaves danced in the wind; she counted each of them, if only to occupy her mind.

They'd began walking as soon as he noticed her taking in the surroundings. He was too perceptive, she thought, to be fooled into believing that she still couldn't see, and so she hadn't even tried. The distance between them was the only comfort, and so Alyssa cherished it in silence. Not once had he attempted to cross it.

She didn't doubt that eventually he would. She wondered if the moment would come as a response of rage or something different. She wondered why she was thinking about it at all. Mostly, Alyssa felt lost, and when she allowed her thoughts any freedom, they swallowed her whole and brought upon an overwhelming sense of despair. Out of desperation, she sought every reason for distraction as a man starved seeks sustenance.

Sometimes, the distraction was this. Leaves flying above, some catching in her hair, braid long gone. The wheezing of wind, oddly comforting in its chaotic nature. Grass underneath her feet; the way it crumpled and formed into prints.

Once, though, Alyssa had given in to the urge that plagued her mind. She'd been rigid when the question fell from her lips. It threatened to choke her. “Where are we?”

“In the riverlands,” he'd replied, all harsh tones and chilling sounds.

“In the riverlands, where?” Alyssa had inquired, only to never receive any answer.

The silence that followed was heavy. It made her skin itch and breath short, and something about Aemond had turned even darker. There was something akin to repetition in the way Alyssa forced her eyes away from his figure; each time, they found their way back, leaving an aftertaste of chagrin in her mouth.

She had long lost count of the times she tried to call out for Blindfyre. The emptiness inside her chest flickered like a torch, both gentle and brutal, and with each second it felt heavier. Alyssa carried the pain and anxiety in complete silence.

There were things she noticed now that her sight returned. Aemond walked as if he knew the path by heart. His hand never left the right side of his robes, which could only mean it was where he'd hidden her dagger. Everything about the image screamed pledges of a trap, an ambush, she needed to run—

She needed to wait. Blindfyre would come for her.

And she needed Aemond's rage. His fire. Anything other than the tense silence. If anything, perhaps if she angered him enough, she'd gain room to escape. And since the mere sound of her voice annoyed him so, she would speak.

“Why were you here?”

For a moment, she believed he wouldn't answer. He seemed intent not to, in any manner, humour her. She saw the twist of his lips and the glint of his eye, and all this spoke of danger.

But then he turned to face her, stone cold. The violet burned. And yet it was simplicity that coloured his words when he said, “because you were here.”

“How would you know that?” she demanded.

“You sent a raven, did you not?”

Alyssa stopped. Everything did. Neither the leaves nor the wind brushed against her body anymore, suspended in time, awaiting whatever would come next.

A raven. No more than two sentences scribbled in the dark. A piece of parchment small enough to get lost in the way; to be thought insignificant. She hadn't thought to mention it to her father, wanting only to notify Rhaenyra that she would be coming back. Coming home.

A bile rose in her throat. She had done it to herself. She'd done it time and time again. Each of her choices had led them to him.

“Sweet girl. You can't have thought that your letters would only ever be read by one pair of eyes.” He taunted and taunted and never stopped. Even his hand was but another way of tormenting her when it came to cup her chin. “So unwary. So childishly naive.”

The sound of a slap echoed around them when she hit at his palm. She needed him to stop touching her. The skin on her face had long turned raw, melded into a strange sculpture of his own creation. As though to accommodate each of the following touches. As though for his fingers to fit perfectly, splayed across it, painting it with blood.

Aemond's lip quivered before forming a smirk. There was a gash on cheek, shallow but scarlet red. His blood still underneath Alyssa's fingernails. She watched the scratch; his eye remained unwavering as it scanned her face. She still felt it by the time they wordlessly pulled apart and resumed walking towards the unknown.

It wasn't until the sky darkened that Alyssa acknowledged the ache of her bones with gritted teeth. If they had indeed fallen from the skies, it must have been Blindfyre who had suffered most from the impact, and the thought of him being in pain and all alone did nothing to calm her nerves. Somewhere along the way, she'd begun limping, knees weak, on the verge of collapsing. But Aemond couldn't know just how enervated she was, and so she walked forward.

When the landscape of fields blurred into woods, he halted. In another life, she might not have even noticed—he moved as deliberately as he did in silence. But her eyes had long turned a permanent presence on the back of his head, and not once had she thought of reverting them. He seemed aware of her gaze. His muscles twitched under its weight.

She'd never truly been in a place like this. Never left the safety of stone walls and looming towers. Even her escapades with Blindfyre were solely limited to the skies, both seeking refuge among clouds and not lands. There were grasses and trees and sandy beaches on Dragonstone, but nothing quite like this. A dreary place, she thought. Dark. Even the trees themselves seemed to whisper promises of demise, as though they'd decided her unworthy of entering. When she looked up, she found that the skies, too, were banned from accessing, as though their light could never shine upon this earth. They were barely visible anymore.

“We shall rest here.”

Her head snapped downward, eyes immediately finding him. Aemond had already moved from the previous spot, now perched upon a log, hands rummaging through the pockets of his black cloak in a manner so carefree Alyssa's blood boiled.

Rest. She'd never rest again until she found a way to escape.

“Call Vhagar,” she snapped. “Do it.”

His gaze was lazy, eye wandering over the length of her body before it settled upon her face.

“Why would I?”

“And why wouldn't you?” Her throat was dry again, each word falling from her lips another nail scratching through its length. He remained passive; Alyssa's hands trembled. “What's the point of this?”

“Why, it's your punishment.” Instead of shrinking under the pressure of her gaze, he shrugged. The smile that he offered was malicious. “I'm merely testing your limits.”

“Testing my limits,” she repeated, a hollow tone carried by the wind.

Inside her head, he was always swallowed by wildfire, both eyes bleeding, scars on display. Turning to nothing but ash swept by the wind, lost forever in the sky. Inside her head, she imagined him harmless. Vulnerable. Not the ever resilient statue of composure.

Not like he was now. It was intrigue that lingered in his eye, and Alyssa detested it most.

She wanted his anguish, not curiosity.

“Take out your blade, then. Test them,” she ordered.

She knew he wouldn't do it. He'd sooner slice her throat in the middle of the night when she was lulled into an unguarded tranquility. If there was something she knew about Aemond, it was that fair fight meant little to him.

“A wild beast,” he mused.

Alyssa imagined taking his other eye when it shone in mirth. His voice dropped, a low rumble against the rustling of trees.

“You're far from home. All alone. You cannot navigate through these lands. I quite enjoy watching you squirm as you ponder over your nonexistent options. As it is, we will not be leaving until I decide so.” He looked so pleased with himself. Pleased with the way her lip twisted. “How does it feel to be at my mercy?”

It felt like death. She'd never tell him, but it felt as if her heart had been torn from chest and stepped on. As if he'd crushed her lungs between his hands and let them break into tiny chunks. As if he had, at last, put more pressure around her throat and finally, finally stole the last of her breaths.

Alyssa decided to await the right moment in silence, wondering if it'd ever come at all.

She watched him light a fire without asking questions, even if they all but crashed upon her lips in an attempt to come out. She didn't ask who had taught him to do it, or why would he ever need to learn. Perhaps this was why. Perhaps he'd come prepared, as though following through a long-outlined strategy. It was odd to think him calculating, and yet that was precisely how she would describe him.

She watched him. Constantly. Obsessively, as though expecting him to strike. He never did. His eye remained focused on the flames, fire illuminating his face and painting it in warm hues. It didn't suit him, she thought. He was made of cold marble and harsh strokes of paint. Made for dark, deserted areas; places of abandon, long forgotten and mostly feared. Not for mere flicks of light that now brushed through his skin, but wildfire. Not the softness or tranquility around them, no matter how feigned.

The ground, uncomfortable as it was, managed to provide relief to her bone-tired legs. A shiver of anticipation crawled the length of her spine when she rested against a lone log, as far from Aemond but still close to the fire as possible. The night had fallen at last, and no longer was she certain a day would come again.

She thought of her father. Of Rhaenyra and the crown on her head, sharp enough that it might have been made of thorns. Of Rhaena's long lost laugh and Baela's sudden need to be close, as though starved for any proximity.

Mostly, she thought of Luke. Every time she looked at Aemond, she saw shadows of the life he'd taken.

Grief, it seemed, was a twisted thing. Mangled and broken and coming in times she wished to forget it the most. She wondered if Aemond's own grief was anything alike the ugly, rotten flesh of her heart; if it took the form of a parasite that could only ever grow, even when it wasn't being fed. If he felt it equally intensely. If her face, too, reminded him of what he'd lost.

“What was the point in giving me the rune? What is it that you gained?” Her voice cut through the silence like a dagger.

“Your gratitude, of course,” was his response. But there, amidst flames, she saw the slight tremble of his shoulders, as if they’d been joking around. Slowly, just a touch, he turned his head towards her. “Perhaps it's only ever been about the pleasure of your company.”

“Do not patronise me.” With their eyes once more in a battle of their own, Alyssa remained completely still. Frozen. Her muscles tensed, anxious fingers flexing. “Is this revenge? A war strategy? Or do you actually hope that my undying gratitude will lead to betrayal on my part?”

To evade the fire of his gaze, she reverted her eyes and, spurred by the moment, decided to braid her hair anew. The strands were all tangled, wilder than ever. It suited well with her current circumstances, she thought bitterly.

This night, the darkest of all she'd seen, was a stark contrast to the one from yesterday. Had it truly been so recently that she conversed with the utterly unremarkable Oswin Roote, a man so placid that he'd likely shrink from Aemond Targaryen's leer?

A soft cunt, her father had called him. And it might have been the truth of it, for what would the puny lord do when faced with a dragon?

Comparing him to Aemond was preposterous. A sign of her madness, she thought. She had long stopped making sense.

“Have you not betrayed already?” His words snapped her out of her mind. Brought a shiver down her body. “Has each of our illicit meetings not been a betrayal in itself?”

She hummed. “Then you are equally guilty.”

“I never claimed otherwise.”

She didn't want this. Didn't want them to have anything in common, be it guilt or something else entirely. Her heart raced in a pattern much like that of her braided hair.

She wished she hadn't opened her mouth at all. Still, as if with a mind of its own, it moved. “It's not betrayal if my aim all along was to kill you.”

“Ah, yes, kill me. You aren't very good at it, are you?” There was a trace of humour in his voice.

“Perhaps I am simply waiting for the right moment,” Alyssa quipped.

His laugh was so unlike him. Oddly warm. It made her blood boil.

“And perhaps that is precisely why we're here.”

Once, she had thought him a simple being. Stone cold and ice-like, made entirely of darkness. She'd been wrong, though. There were cracks in the facade, like the scratches she'd left on his cheek. If someone looked intently enough, they'd find flickers of light.

She never wanted to see it. Never wanted to see him as anything other than a lurking shadow.

A nightmare inflicted upon her tormented mind. A man of violence and brutality and war.

He was war.

“Was it your false king that sent you, my head his desired prize?”

“Our meetings remain a secret only we know of.”

And whether that was for the better or worse, she didn't know.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep. Had tried to eradicate exhaustion from her lids, rubbing at them until they turned raw. But then she had dreamed of hands squeezing life out of her, awakening with a loud gasp and her own fingers caressing her throat. He had watched. Of course, he had watched.

Upon sunrise, he had led them forward—away from woods and extinguished fires and maybe, possibly away from Blindfyre. Each step was a cut on her flesh, deeper and deeper until everything was covered in blood.

They’d been silent the entire way, as though none had any words left; both unwilling to break the stillness between them. Aemond had strode ahead, and Alyssa had imagined all the possible ways she could get her dagger back. She should have done it during the night. Could have, if only she hadn’t been an utter fool.

At last, Aemond’s goal came into sight. A pitiful thing, really. Desolate-looking. Entrance badly lit by oil lamps.

A tavern. He'd brought her to a tavern.

She inhaled. Held the oxygen in her lungs long enough to burn. Counted the colours around, imagining Rhaena’s voice.

When his hand clutched at her elbow, Alyssa flinched. He was expressionless as ever. “You should cover your head.”

Her scoff was bitter, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. She contemplated reaching for the dagger now, regardless of consequences. She knew he must have already seen the way she eyed his belts. Likely, it was but another game to him—awaiting her attack while knowing she stood no chance against him.

Just to defy him, she tried to move away.

It was with a vicious smile that he pulled her back to his chest. “Do try to stay close. I'd hate to chase you down again.”

But the glint in his cold eye told her the truth.

Chasing her down had long become an obsession.

#aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond x oc #hotd #daemon targaryen #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #house of the dragon #ao3 fanfic #targaryen!oc

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 11

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MASTERLIST

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place—cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, canon character(s) death, canon divergence, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 7.3k

notes: i’ve recently received so many likes it warms my heart. thank you so much for reading!

english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated.  also on ao3 and wattpad.

Breathing in the riverlands was easier.

Alyssa's chest heaved as she greedily inhaled, lungs no longer on the verge of collapsing. The air was fresh. Pristine. It must have been hours since she left the comfort of her tent and walked into fields of grass, bare-footed and heavy-lidded, awaiting the sunrise. Skies were different here, she decided, with their sunny spells and pearly clouds and shades she'd never seen before. She wanted to memorise them, if only for the image to haunt her dreams. If only not to dream of anything else. To be able to conjure it in times of despair; to rid herself from nightmares.

Eight days had passed and still her arrival remained the culprit for widespread distraction. Her father had rather rigorously forbidden her from leaving the tent without him by her side, and so Alyssa had been left to sneaking outside at the time when sleep was still a heavy cloud above. Most days, she'd obediently steer clear from interaction, choosing instead solitary walks across the fields. Usually, she explored the ground; only sometimes would she ascend to the sky, always begging for Blindfyre to keep silent, trying not to alert Caraxes. She found the lands pleasant enough, if not a little dull in their lack of variation, and the sense of safety that came with the reposeful lull lingering in the air provided a respite from the darkness, even if artificial and transient.

She didn't dream anymore. Refused to sleep at all, frantically battling against it, overtaken by excruciating exhaustion and more often than not succumbing into it forcibly, too strained to keep resisting. When her eyes closed, Alyssa's mind was too tired to torment her; no nightmares would come. This alone was a victory. She paid for it with bags under her eyes and the slight quiver of hands, and still it was worth it.

She hadn't even noticed the day beginning, too lost in her mind and the intricate details of the skyline. It was more blue than pink now, consistency in place of its previous various hues, birds fluttering around in fully-fledged formations. Chatter and clashing steel reached her ears a touch too late, and when she saw her father walking in her direction, no excuses managed to rise to her lips quickly enough. He gazed at her with a disapprobation that carried just a hint of poorly concealed amusement, and the heavy exhale of relief she let out in response was filled with composure.

He was different now. Different than Alyssa remembered; than the man who had left in the wake of tragedy, directed by both duty and rage. He looked like a man who chose to embrace the burning flames and scorch everything around. A man of war, indeed—and one who thrived in chaos. A man Alyssa had heard stories about long ago.

And lighter. He looked lighter.

Perhaps he, too, breathed easier in riverlands. It decidedly worked in Alyssa's favour.

"Lady!" One of the men, short and bulky and visibly sweating underneath the weight of his armour, waved his hand in Alyssa's direction, distracting her temporarily. Briefly and quietly, she admired his boldness, ill-advised or not. Not many dared lay their eyes upon her in the presence of her father. In fact, most men would steer away at all times. It could be he had not yet noticed the looming presence behind her.

Her fleeting grin was one of mischief. Innocent-eyed,  Alyssa turned to face the man, a questioning expression on her face. In different circumstances, she might have laughed at the eagerness she was met with. He was closer, now. Deliberately choosing not to acknowledge her father nearby.

Intrepid, to be sure. Mostly just witless.

"Will you be joining us on the hunt?" he asked, all charming smiles and dim-witted expressions of attempted charisma he so obviously lacked.

Alyssa's lip curled in amusement when she heard her father's loud, pretentious scoff. She rose to her feet and brushed idly against the leathers clinging to her thighs, and all along the stranger's eyes kept wandering about her body. He was now close enough for her to see them gleaming. It made her itch with the desire to step back.

No. She wouldn't.

Just a man. His hungry gazes mattered not.

"I hunt in the skies," Alyssa replied, back straightening just enough to exude firmness. Dominance.

He looked at her and did not see a dragon. He did not see anything at all—anything but her body, even if covered from neck to toe. She imagined his face on fire, burning and melting into nothing at all, the leering grin swiped away. If only she could set him ablaze, teach him a lesson about proper conduct, prove that he was just a sheep—

Daemon came to her side and soon enough they were staring at one another, a quiet battle without words, Alyssa snapped out of previous thoughts. He appeared to be wanting to scold her but lacking the required force, face soft and impassive. When Alyssa quirked an eyebrow, he let out a deep sigh.

The strange man must have left. Her skin no longer felt dirty.

A nudge against shoulder broke her reverie.

"Do not leave my sight."

With feigned serenity and indifference written over her face, Alyssa bowed deeply, fingers clutching the air where the fabrics of her dress robes would have been. "As you command, my Prince."

She left his side in quick steps and suppressed giggles, and soon enough was walking the perimeter of training grounds.

Admittedly, the numbers standing with her father were greater than Alyssa had expected. It would have warmed her heart to realise the extent of support Rhaenyra had, if not for the hissing whispers in her ear. They all hoped for gain, surely. This loyalty was borne from greediness and fuelled by conceit, and none of it would last against a better offer. How easy would it be for them to change sides, she wondered. To sway them into the other direction; to paint their banners green, if only the bidder offered high enough reward. Men such as them always thought themselves higher in importance than they could ever be. They believed to be deserving of more, too. Their greedy hands knew no limits; would readily take more and more until nothing else could fit into their grasp.

She watched them spar and thought of the past. Jace and Luke in the courtyard, both clutching wooden swords and mindlessly batting at each other. Rhaena's peeling laughter cutting through the air as they watched together from above, their hands steady on Joffrey's small shoulders if only to stop him from running straight to join the training. And Lucerys, always the first to land on the ground, cackling like a mad man, the sound echoing through the castle. More often than not, he would abandon the piece of wood in favour of attacking his brother with bare hands. Sometimes, Jace would cry in outrage, claiming he'd been bitten; sometimes, he would surrender altogether, too lazy to be chased around.

Sometimes, she thought about Jace. She wondered if the north was as unforgiving as she'd imagined it to be; if he found a piece of warmth at all. If nightmares plagued him and his grief evoked madness, and if his nights were equally as restless. If he'd forgive her, were she to ever tell him about her failure at revenge.

He wouldn't, she knew. And she would never dare mention it.

At last, her feet led her down a familiar path. Relief crept onto her face when she saw black wings and long tail. More often than not, she missed him. If she could, she'd remain by his side at all times.

But then she halted, confused.

His hair rays of sunshine, cheeks splattered with freckles, lips a red-stained contrast against light skin. He reminded her a little of that idle stable boy Baela had teased her about, only he wasn't nearly so tall nor self-assured. He would have been much like the others—a dot of little significance ruining the landscape—had he not been standing right before Blindfyre.

Close. Closer than anyone before.

Intrigued, she watched. Blindfyre's eyes were shut, flesh around the lids no longer wounded and scratched. Gone were the prints of sharp claws and scales torn apart; gone the stench of rotting flesh. Erased. Washed away not with water but blood; healed with yet another wound. The cut on her palm was now just a scar, angry and red and always on fire. A constant reminder of what she'd done. What she would do again, over and over until there was nothing left to be healed.

Healthy. Healthier, at the very least, than ever.

Freed from agony.

Yes. Yes, she'd do it again. She'd do anything.

"He cannot see you," Alyssa mused, hands folded behind her back. She saw the man flinch so violently he nearly jumped. Hiding her smile, she came closer. "But he might just smell your fear."

He offered a sheepish smile, letting out a ragged breath that might have been a laugh if not for the tension painting his face. From this close, she could see the light stubble on his jaw. His eyes were dark, she noticed. Warm. Like days spent under the heat of the sun; flowers in her hair and Rhaena's head in her lap. Like Luke and Jace and their silly swords. She stared him down unabashedly; his cheeks pinked.

As Alyssa's hand came up to brush affectionately against dragon scales, she saw the stranger cautiously step back. She snorted, not even attempting to feign composure anymore.

"You needn't run at the mere sight of me. I do not bite."

"But do you smell my fear as well?" He spoke silently, although in a less timid manner than she'd expected at first. There was a glint of humour in his eyes now; she watched them intently.

In response to his faint smile, Alyssa grinned.

"Perhaps. But I swear to you that my father doesn't," she replied, catching silver hair in the distance; catching the stranger search for it as well. Of course, Daemon was watching. His determination knew no bounds. Alyssa chose to remain blissfully ignorant. "No matter how many believe otherwise."

"It's quite rational for one to be cautious in the presence of dragons."

Her eyes scanned him anew, all golden hues and rosy cheeks. There was certainly something endearing about his entire demeanour, if endearing was what she searched for intently enough. But it were his eyes that had caught Alyssa's attention, warm like dragonskin, gleaming in an utterly unabashed manner. They were focused on her face and not her body, and this alone provided a short respite from the hunger she'd seen and felt on her skin.

In a blink, his gaze returned to Blindfyre. She wondered what glint lightened his gaze now.

"Wise words," Alyssa quipped at last, one, two, three steps closer. Even from distance, she felt the heat radiating from his body. "And yet it seems your sense of preservation has forsaken you. What was it, then, that made you come this close, lord...?"

"Oswin Roote, my lady."

Roote. Harroway.

Her smile grew just a touch wider.

"Simple men such as myself never get used to this sight. Most of us don't even get to experience it," Oswin continued, and Alyssa could detect the bewilderment painting his tone. "To us, these creatures are just stories. And now stories have become real."

She hummed. Decided to push further. "What do you think?"

His eyes returned to her. Brown. Golden specks, or perhaps just the sun's reflection flowing inside, bound by dark eyelashes. Wide and eager. So warm.

She'd never felt anything this odd. As though burned, she averted her gaze.

"He is... magnificent." He exhaled shakily; Alyssa saw his hands flail around as though he was unsure what to do with them. Then, as an afterthought, he added cheekily, "and quite large."

She found that her smile was genuine. "Yes. He grows fast."

"How odd of us humans to fight in wars and kill for gain. To think any of it matters at all, when compared to such mighty beings we are but mere dust.”

"And yet here you are. Fighting in a war and killing for gain."

Any remnants of smile were gone. He looked different now. Troubled. Weighted down by things Alyssa had long grown familiar with.

Duty, duty, duty. A fire burning entire cities and waves swallowing lands, and sometimes just a nagging headache that came and went but was never truly healed. Alyssa knew duty well. She'd come to know how to defy it, too.

"Ah, yes. Out of the belief that it is the right thing to do." His words lacked conviction, and this alone was further evidence of Alyssa's suspicions. Before she could voice it, Oswin jumped into another topic. A diversion. "What of you, my lady? Your arrival has caused quite the stir."

"Why?" she inquired, feigning interest. "Is it because of my name? Or simply my gender? This is no place for a woman, or so I've been told. Repeatedly."

Oswin nodded vaguely, scratching at his forehead. "Aye, that may be so. Although I think men were mostly impressed with the sight of you navigating through the air on top of a... well, I do not mean to offend you—"

Once more, Alyssa snorted, the sound so unladylike Baela would probably be delighted to hear it. Her fingers caressed Blindfyre's snout.

"You can say it, my lord. He is blind."

"How is it possible, then?"

She shrugged. "We are one being in two bodies. I see and he flies."

"Simple as that?"

"Nothing about it has ever felt complicated."

Again, the onslaught of warmth emanating from his eyes overwhelmed Alyssa's senses. Discomfort prickled under her skin as she forced herself to stay still, stay focused, do not run—

"Let me say, then, that I am deeply impressed."

There were dimples in his cheeks. She hadn't noticed before, too concentrated on the proximity alone. It felt like coming too close to the sun, its warmth no longer a caress but ruination coming with full force. Alyssa's feet were frozen, planted firmly in place, deprived of the ability to move. Perhaps she'd long melted away, too bewildered to even take notice. Perhaps standing in the sun provided too much comfort for her to actually want to move away.

Oh, but she truly was being pathetic this morning. Sun-dazed. Baela would love it; would bask in the glory of seeing Alyssa so out of sorts. Teasing her had, at some point, become Baela's favourite leisure activity.

"And let me say," she began, mind fogged and plagued by ridiculous thoughts, "that I might just be impressed by you. Not many would dare approach him."

"Then perhaps their sense of preservation is greater than mine."

Her own laughter startled her, and soon those warm, brown eyes were gleaming with something that hadn't been there before. His smile was small. Controlled. Shy, perhaps, though not in a conventional sense. Like a complete fool, Alyssa stood there and watched him, and she might have even stupidly said something more but—

Three men. Much older, their gazes like those of a hawk, entirely too confident in their stride. They were close enough to have overheard them.

Just like that, the warmth was gone.

"Have you come on the orders of Queen Rhaenyra, my lady?"

She didn't want to hear them speak. Didn't want to be there at all. She felt Blindfyre stir beneath her touch and irrationally—insanely—hoped that his jaws would open and breathe flames to scare them off.

They looked uneasy, eyes wide as they stared at the dragon. Good.

"Indeed. I intend to relay to her the stories of men who stand on the right side of war." No longer did she bother to make her voice sound pleasant nor mellow. If she noticed the curve of Oswin's eyebrows, she didn't acknowledge it at all. "Such loyalty is admirable and greatly appreciated. Our Queen deserves to hear of it."

She felt it before she saw it—a lazy blink of heavy lids, air growing muggy. The ground shook with the weight of strong limbs.

Emboldened, Alyssa smiled. "And the men here are loyal, aren't they?"

No longer asleep, Blindfyre's head brushed against Alyssa's side, the gesture affectionate in her eyes and threatening in those of others. She watched them rushing to step back, bodies colliding in the haste of it, and still they were too slow to make any difference. If she wanted to, she could have them burned. Flames would reach them effortlessly.

"Of course, lady. Of course! None of us would be here if not for our loyalty."

"Of course," she repeated, a hollow sound in the air. "Well, I do hope it stays so. Our way of punishment is fire."

The taking of Stone Hedge had been a quiet affair, and altogether quite the underwhelming experience for Alyssa. As ordered, she'd stayed in the skies to watch from above, and only returned to the ground when her father allowed it. Predictably, there was no need for battle. The opposing forces were nonexistent.

It seemed Lord Humfrey Bracken was every bit the old fool the council had deemed him, for his capturing had been quick and unchallenging. In a blink of an eye, he'd been pushed into his knees and begging for mercy. Next were his children, all four of them with gazes lost in the skies, silent awe as clear as the weather. Most don't ever get to experience such a sight, Oswin had told her, and his words had been written all over the chubby, boyish faces as they watched, completely mesmerised and red from excitement and fear alike. But it had been the women who truly caught Alyssa's attention. Because there had been two of them.

Before, she had thought she understood the workings of marriage well enough for a woman her age. Her father had been a married man since she remembered, once long before her birth, and each wife caused a different side of him to come into light. He alone was proof that marriage could be cruel; Alyssa had long acquired acceptance for this, growing with the stories of his crimes a constant echo following her steps. Such was the duty of a woman; such its merciless nature. Her septa had repeated the words religiously, hoping to at last make them stick. Had she been born a man, she would have no need to worry about it at all. Alyssa Targaryen was not a man, though, and so duty was her destiny.

But then came Rhaenyra, and somehow all previous sides of her father had blurred into something else entirely. No longer did Alyssa know what to believe about husbands and wives and the way they ought to operate around one another. Because her father's touches had grown eager and genuine and sometimes so pure Alyssa couldn't begin to comprehend it. Because there was a softness in his gaze she couldn't recognise nor name. Because he was happy, and aimed for his wife to share the feeling. Because his devotion was clear.

Because here he was, surrounded by fields aflame, raging a war against the realm.

Marriage was a concept of stark contrasts, Alyssa surmised. Her father had once killed to be rid of it and would now kill to preserve it.

There was stark contrast in the way Lord Bracken had watched both the women, too. And this was yet another side of marriage. One Alyssa abhorred with all her being. One she'd seen time after time; years ago, each time Rhaenyra's name had been uttered in Pentos.

Second choices. Had her father forced old Humfrey to choose between the wife and the paramour, his decision would without a doubt have come in a shouted conviction. She'd seen the way his eyes remained on the one clad in lesser clothes. Seen the pink hue of shame and anger on the wife's cheeks.

Second choices. Alyssa aimed never to become one.

There were things this war had taken from them. Things it would continue to take, again and again until there was nothing left. Things that, once stolen, could never be recovered. But sometimes—just sometimes—Alyssa managed to find glimpses of opportunities for gain. Sweet and honey-sticky and compelling, schemes bloomed in her mind and weaved intricate patterns, and soon blossomed into steel-shaped flowers.

Yes, she decided. There were things this war could bestow yet, none of them close to a second choice.

As was the case most of these days, Alyssa couldn't sleep.

Perhaps it was the fear paralysing her mind and forbidding worn out eyes from falling shut. It had long become a faithful companion, never leaving her alone for too long. Choosing to torment her instead, each attack more ferocious than the one before. Forming shadows in the corners, all with gleaming eyes and sharp teeth.

Still, falling into her habit of being obstinate, Alyssa blamed the restlessness on unfamiliarity of Stone Hedge. The chamber was small—suffocating. Her skin itched under the weight of obscure covers; missed the touch of those she owned. It was only this one night she'd be staying, but even this much proved too difficult to bear. Surrendering to the weakness, Alyssa left the too-soft bed and walked into the darkness.

She was surprised her father hadn't assigned guards to stand at her door just in case she would try to sneak out. It was likely a test on his part—and one Alyssa had already failed. It seemed she had long lost her ability to resist the temptation of entering the dark and unknown.

Alyssa remembered it well. It haunted her and didn't, and sometimes she was no longer certain of her own feelings about it. It went like this: a dark corridor swallowed by the night. Flickering lights serving as mere touches of reassurance. Pounding heart and dry throat, and a treacherous aftertaste of exhilaration. Steps. Close, close, closer.

It was like this now, too. A loop. No beginning and no end to the torment; a vicious circle of wanting to relive it and desperately wishing not to.

Only it was different. So different.

Not a shadow.

Golden hair, not silver. Dark eyes.

Oswin Roote with his soft, awkward smile, and gentle eyes and hands that weren't stained with blood. His presence far from a looming threat. The unknown she'd been seeking so.

If there was any disappointment to swallow, Alyssa did so without so much as flinching. Her madness—the one that appeared in short moments like this one and always sang of betrayal—did not control her. She wouldn't let it.

"Forgive me!" His eyes were blown wide, palms extended in a placating gesture. He was clad in the same clothes she'd seen him wearing the last time. Armour permanently attached to skin. A reminder, perhaps, that he, too, was stripped of freedom. "I didn't mean to startle you. In fact, I hadn't expected to see anyone here at all."

Oswin's hair was unkempt, a disheveled quality to the way he looked, and perhaps being deprived of sleep eradicated the previous shyness she'd found so endearing because he was now standing closer than he'd dared before. They breathed the same air. If he wanted to, he could lift his hand and put it on her throat and squeeze, cold fingers digging into skin—

No. Not a shadow. Not a shadow.

She needed to swallow this lunacy that so stubbornly fogged her mind. She was far from the Red Keep and desolate lands and rogue dragons. Safe.

"Neither had I." But she had. Only not this. Not like that.

A small smile lightened his face, soft and understanding, and it was so unlike anything Alyssa had lately been exposed to she couldn't help but gape at the man.

"Cannot sleep?"

"Most nights, sleep evades me," she admitted in response, wishing he hadn't asked at all. "What of you, my lord?"

"Oswin, please." And he must have noticed the shadow of doubt in her eyes, because his voice acquired a touch of reverence when he added a quiet, "I insist."

"Very well," Alyssa relented. To test it on her tongue, new and unfamiliar and not all unpleasant, she muttered his name into the darkness, a quiet echo of, "Oswin."

Oswin looked pleased; there was no hiding the way his eyes brightened. But then his shoulders slumped just enough for her to see, and Alyssa immediately knew that now came the time for late confessions she had no wish for.

"I haven't had a proper night's rest in a while. Since it started, maybe."

She could tell him, of course, of the things that plagued her. The opening was clear. Had she tried, it might have been easier, too—easier than pouring her heart out to ears that knew and judged her. Oswin was a stranger. He wouldn't know what she spoke of, and the words wouldn't reverberate through his mind as a song of betrayal. Most likely, they'd be forgotten before they even came; a whisper in place of memory, too insignificant to have been registered.

If only she were bold enough to say it aloud; if only her throat wouldn't constrict each time she even thought of trying. And she knew the truth behind it; knew wherein the fault lay. Shackled by chains of her own making. Bound with her own hands. Alyssa would rather never speak again—never at all—than speak of this. Of her weakness. Of the imprint Aemond Targaryen had left on her entire being.

His hands had never truly left her neck, even though they were long gone.

"Haunted are the eyes that have seen war. Mine might not have experienced the worst of it yet, but who's to say it won't come to that?"

Snapped back into reality and glad for it, Alyssa contemplated the next words. It wouldn't do to offend him, and yet she'd never been one for euphonious phrases.

Perhaps a little push would suffice without scaring him off.

His eyes were still so warm.

"So you allow the prospect of it alone to haunt you so?" She adopted a teasing lilt to her tone but saw the change in Oswin, barely noticeable to the eye.

He looked ashamed. Alyssa almost frowned; it wasn't his shame that she wanted.

"It is rather foolish." A scowl twisted his face. She could see the warmth turn into something else. Bitter. "Cowardly. I'm sure my father wouldn't take it kindly."

"I do not see it that way," Alyssa whispered. A brief touch of his shoulder and the grimace was gone, and she almost laughed at the simplicity of it all. "To fear it so greatly and still be here is a noble thing. It seems that you, Oswin, are a noble man."

"You are too kind, lady—"

"Are you noble at all times?"

Hesitation. It was brief but lasted enough for her to catch.

"I—I try to be."

"Good. I find it refreshing." As she turned to the pathway leading towards the bailey, she knew he would follow. And he did. Of course he did.

Perhaps it was his compliance or the loneliness poisoning her heart, or something else entirely that caused her to stop. Gaze back at Oswin, heavy-lidded. Unsure but firm as, softly like a lullaby, she muttered, "my name is Alyssa.”

They stepped into the fresh air of the night and she found she didn't mind the idleness of it all. Oswin kept himself at a respectable distance, but only just so, and more than once Alyssa caught his eyes taking all of her in.

At length, he described his life in riverlands. Revealed stories of childhood and his teenage years, not one to spare embarrassing details in the hopes of keeping his face, and Alyssa's delighted laughter was louder than it likely should. He mentioned the names of every person in Harroway, too, and then, when asked, provided a vivid description of it to satisfy her curiosity. They couldn't be more different, what with him being the only child raised by a dotting mother and her one of many children, utterly motherless. His life was that of peace and not chaos, and something about it was so unfamiliar and endearing that she couldn't help but try to soak it in. Alyssa offered little of herself, ever the enigma, choosing instead to listen and nod in appropriate moments. Not once did Oswin try to push.

When he insisted to walk her back to her bedchambers, she refused, citing all rules of appropriate conduct and the illicitness of their nocturnal meeting. He accepted the refusal with an easy pull of lips, going as far as to joke briefly about the scorching consequences of being caught. His cheeks turned crimson; she saw them colour under the lights of torches.

Once he was gone, she entered the chambers feeling oddly at peace. Light. If she tried, maybe she could even fall asleep—

And then she saw her father. The smirk of his lips was the image of vexation.

It had been a test after all.

"What is this, then?"

She quirked an eyebrow, pondering over her response. Even though he didn't look particularly amused anymore, this route was always the safest. She offered a smile that was obviously fake and curtsied, and immediately he scoffed in annoyance.

"It's me being a proper lady."

He cackled humourlessly, arms crossed against chest. "You should know, daughter, that a proper lady would never be caught in darkness accompanied by a man."

Her breath caught. It was unreasonable, she knew, to even think of it. She had ended it, hadn't she? Had broken from chains of torment and despair, and freed herself from the consuming wrath inside her rotten heart. Still, a flash of wildfire burned in her eyes; the memory of it nearly strong enough to force her to her knees.

Dark corridors and improper company. Such had been the beginning of her insanity.

She exhaled sharply. Willed her hands to still.

"But it was just Lord Roote." She saw him roll his eyes in response and rushed to continue, if only to spare herself from unwanted lectures. "He's a noble man. Dutiful. Quite obedient."

"A soft cunt."

It was her turn to scoff and she did so loudly, eyes ablaze. "I'd rather a soft cunt than a husband who has no respect for me. It was your own advice that has steered me into this path."

He pushed his back off the wall and stepped closer, and in his gaze she saw violet waves of fire. She wondered if her own stare was a mirror image or if, at last, she managed to outdo him.

"Yes, only I didn't expect my sagacious daughter to seek out the company of a halfwit." He didn't give her the time to respond. Before Alyssa could even think to repel the attack—to sink claws into flesh and tear it apart, to conjure fire—he was already cutting her off. "You said you wanted Harrenhal. I will give it to you, but this wimp will be of no support."

She had said it. Had pondered over the possibility long enough to sound sure of it.

Lately, all Alyssa thought about was any possible outcome of the war that brought at least a trace of hope for the future instead of misery. She was tired of being robbed; tired of the late acceptance that weighted on her bones whenever she thought about what they'd lost. She was struck by the sudden need to take, take whatever she could, take it all—

Harrenhal was a rotten place. She thought her heart might fit just fine in it.

And now there was this—the result of her thirst. This was familiar—two flames of differing nature biting at one another, each trying to smother the other. Each trying to grow.

Alyssa let go of last restraints of control. Felt her expression blend into one of quiet fury. Allowed fire to spread through the marrow of her bones.

"I want Harrenhal for myself." The air grew colder; perhaps she shivered from something else entirely. "I want my name to never come as an afterthought. I want a bland and forgettable husband who wouldn't presume to overstep his power nor think himself superior."

"You want a puppet—"

"I want to own!" The corners of her eyes dampened just so. Alyssa's fingers were rough when she brushed the wetness away, bitter and chagrin. Her words were dragon's screech and dying man's prayer and agony embodied. She blinked away the remnants of unshed tears. This was no place for them. "I want to own, not be owned."

His demeanour softened, even if only a touch. She saw it in the purple of his eyes, no longer ignited.

It was astonishing how often they ended like this—standing against each other and deep in a clash.

"And what I want," he countered, hand coming up to brush against Alyssa's head in an uncertain manner, "is for someone to stand by your side and protect you when I cannot."

But they both knew the truth. They always had.

Her father would continue battling against the greens, ever the fierce soldier—ever the man of violent mayhem. Protecting Alyssa was not the primary focus. It wasn't even secondary anymore. There were other things Daemon Targaryen needed to die for, even if he'd never come to truly accept it.

She clasped his hand into her own. "No sheep could ever protect a dragon."

The sigh he let out was a proclamation of defeat in itself. With his free hand, he rubbed at his tired face. She almost believed it was the end but—

"Pick another fool, then."

"Father," Alyssa snapped, fighting her way out of the embrace. "You said I only needed a husband for the satisfaction of the realm. Only for the council to shut up."

"No one in their right mind would believe I approve of this." He jabbed a finger accusingly when he saw the shaking of her hand. "You know it's true, Alyssa. You know that I'd never let my firstborn marry such a fucking twat—

"You think everyone a twat." She stepped back, lips curled downward, nails sinking into palms. "Just like you think each of my words senseless."

Soon, her back was turned on him as she feigned interest in the sombre design of the rooms. Alyssa was determined to ignore any of his following attempts to prolong the conversation.

When she heard the footsteps, she knew he was leaving.

"We fly at sunrise. The Queen will hear of your victory," she said before he reached the door. "And then I will mention Lord Roote, as well as my... affection for him. Unless you intend to break your promise already, you can at least try to listen now."

The deadly silence might as well have been the answer on its own.

"Go on, then," he hissed at last. "Have it your way."

There was a storm. She had waited so long to see the sunrise one more time only to be denied it.

Dark clouds and harsh winds had never deterred Alyssa from forcing her way onto the skies. Rain would cut through her skin and lightning almost touch it, and still she'd persist. Afterwards, drenched and shaking from the cold, face white and skin painted in blues and purples, she'd brush off Inid's voice of concern with a laugh.

Sometimes, she found a reflection of herself in stormy sky, her defiance painted with wild strokes in the eye of it, shape resembling a bolt.

Her siblings could never do this—could never be equally as free in a sky overtaken by storms. Their dragons were too weak; too reliant on their sight. It was different for Alyssa. Blindfyre was blind every day. Droplets of water in his eyes and wind in his face and lightning striking around in wild attacks could never affect him. Each time, they welcomed the opportunity to be alone in silent gratitude, soaring against the force of raging tempest. They'd always fared best in the worst of conditions.

The rain was unrelenting, beating against Alyssa's skin in sharp strikes, hundreds of blades cutting into her body. Blindfyre flew over riverlands in swift movements; with such speed, they'd be back on Dragonstone in no time. Her longing for it was quite ironic given her previous desires to leave it behind, but she did miss it.

She thought she might recognise the surroundings, having once crossed the same path. Planned to land by the river, too, and let her childish wishes come true just this once. But the weather was unyielding in its brutish force, and soon Alyssa's vision was so limited she decided to forgo her attempts at leading the way.

All would be well. It was a mere obstacle; a temporary hardship in the form of clouds darker than night. Blindfyre never needed sight to find his way home.

But Alyssa's eyes refused to remain shut. Some nagging sensation probed at her mind, a constant stream of shaky whispers that she couldn't make sense out of. Rigidity crawled into the length of her spine, and soon she was straddling the saddle pin-straight and uncomfortable. Her heart raced. Why would it race?

But why would it not, when she had dreamed of this just a few nights ago?

Hadn't she anticipated this very moment?

Dreams or not, there was no place she wouldn't recognise him. It felt odd to realise that she sensed him long before he came into sight. His voice came even sooner.

"Have you forgotten about our agreement, sweet Alyssa?"

A nightmare. A haunting echo.

Overtaken by dizziness, she held onto the chains. Clutched them tightly enough for her hands to go numb. Her lips drew into a sneer, teeth grinding, heart in throat.

He was close. He had to be close—just behind her, right there. Otherwise, she'd never be able to hear him through the sounds of storm. She didn't understand how he had found her. All she knew was the taste of terror on her tongue.

"Faster," she whispered. "We need to go faster."

Gone were the resonating waves of thunder and the persistent whooshing of rain, and gone was everything that wasn't him. His voice. His mocking laughter.

Blindfyre turned left, massive body in panicked disarray, only to be cut off by Vhagar. She was close enough for their wings to almost brush. Alyssa's heart sank.

"Don't you know it already? You cannot outfly Vhagar," he bellowed, ever so pleased. He looked it, too. Even from the distance she could see the cruel twist of his lips. "You cannot escape from me. Give up."

She wouldn't. Alyssa was sure he knew it, too, because he remained frozen in spot when she tugged at the reins to force Blindfyre to move. As though encouraging her to flee, if only to get to chase her.

She hated him. She hated him.

She wanted him dead.

"Faster!"

There was no grace in the flutter of wings. It was all fright and trepidation and the need to survive, run, leave without looking back—and Alyssa knew deep in her chest that Aemond wouldn't make it easy.

"Give up, Alyssa!" He was too close—he was too close—and there was nothing she could do to evade him. Blindfyre's screech cut through the air and was echoed by Vhagar's roar, and soon enough Alyssa no longer knew where one dragon ended and the other began. "Your little rune will not work forever! You'll always need more!"

"I need nothing from you," she gasped, all the oxygen in the air not nearly enough to satisfy her greedy lungs. Their bodies were aligned. When lightning struck, could see every detail of his face.

"But you do. And it pains you, doesn't it?"

Two beasts crashed into one another and there, high in the skies, she saw the wild gleam in Aemond's eye. It stole her breath and she tried to look away, to forget it altogether and couldn't—

She had to swallow down her wrath, blazing and burning the walls of her throat. Had to forgo the desire for revenge that returned with full force, Luke's face once more a vivid image before her closed eyes. Had to choose resistance—cling into it and sink nails deep into flesh and never let go, because losing it would be her own downfall.

There was no surviving Vhagar.

There was no surviving her rider, either.

There, in the distance, the sky was clearing. She watched and panted and tilted her body forward, grip on chains tightening.

"I thought you smart enough to be able to keep your word." Aemond sounded ever so calm, if not a bit vexed. As if he had any right to expect things from her. As if he weren't her worst nightmare. "Get down. It seems you need a reminder of what we want from each other."

"Kinslayer," she spat, and the word tasted like blood in her mouth. "All you want is battle."

Battle and victory and dead bodies falling from the skies, only to later be searched for by wailing mothers. Unfair games, constant and cruel and inhumane, never truly ending once they'd begun. He'd done it once, hadn't he? This was his way of fighting in a war. This was how he'd started it all.

It always began with a chase.

He wouldn't have her defeat. She'd rather jump from dragonback into the nothingness below than give it to him.

"Get. Down."

But she was tired. Tired of the sight of him; of the things he'd made her do. Of the betrayal that could only ever be his doing. He'd turned her into a traitor. Shaped her into a statue of fear and paranoia and overwhelming wrath.

And madness. Madness stronger than anything.

"I don't take orders from you."

And maybe it was this madness that had forced the word into her mouth. A distraction, she thought. An opening to escape. She had no time to plan nor think it through, but this was the way of dragons.

Haste and rushed and impatient, they burned.

It tasted like ashes; came out in a loud cry. Sounded like manacles falling off. "Dracarys!"

She knew the flames wouldn't reach Vhagar, but they were enough for the old beast to let out a startled shriek. Alyssa didn't wait to see the aftermath—didn't try to catch Aemond's expression, half-tempted by the idiotic wondering but strong enough to defy it. As soon as the fire extinguished, Blindfyre was diving.

Soon, the storm would end. As the skies cleared, so would her mind, and then she'd be able to think rationally, and then she'd be able to breathe—

Close. They were so close.

But then she couldn't see the blue skyline anymore.

She couldn't see anything at all.

Blindfyre's screech was echoing in Alyssa's ears, deafening and heartbreaking, and all breath was stolen from her chest. He was bleeding. Thick liquid poured over her hands, stench stronger than ever. She felt him shake wildly beneath her body. Heard his wings flap helplessly in the air. Heard them stop.

They were falling, she realised.

Not even the storm resounded in the background when Alyssa became one with the darkness.

#aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen #hotd #ao3 fanfic #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #daemon targaryen #targaryen!oc

[lwbu]

LOVE WILL BURY US

During the nights when sleep evaded her, Alyssa would lie wide awake, wondering how she could ever allow him to come this close to her. Like he was now—their cloaks brushing. Breathing the same air.

They did this often, she realised. Stood close enough to touch. Her body was on fire; drowning in ice-cold waters. Her heart was beating and long since stopped. There was nothing. Everything. His eye watching her.

masterlist | ao3

#aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #ao3 fanfic #hotd #aemond one eye #daemon targaryen #targaryen!oc

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 10

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place—cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, canon character(s) death, canon divergence, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 7.6k

notes: the semester hasn’t even started and i’m already exhausted send help

english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated.  also on ao3 and wattpad.

There were things Alyssa Targaryen knew the way a heart knows how to beat.

Now, high among clouds and stars and the brush of wind, she knew that the pain was gone. Blindfyre climbed higher and higher, wings strong and unrelenting; a peal of laughter echoed through the sky and Alyssa had no wish to stop it from escaping her lips. This was freedom, she thought. No longer restrained by bounds of agony. It came in the shape of a rune drawn in blood, stains invisible against the coal-toned scales, a looming presence. It came with a sacrifice, even if the price was insignificant for a desperate soul. It came, Alyssa realised and prayed never to utter aloud, in the form of dark shadows and cold hands and a man wicked and cruel.

No. She wouldn't spare him a thought. Not when her heart was flying—higher than stars, land long forgotten, life shackled to the ground left behind. Not pawns and soldiers and beings of misery.

A girl and a dragon.

It was too early for a day and too late for a night, and Alyssa found comfort in the ambiguity of it. Skies were painted in contrasting shades as they brushed through, a stroke of black surrounded by the faint flicker of stars. The moon, right there, just above their heads. Close. It was so close. Her body trembled, though she knew not whether it was anticipation or something else entirely. She could feel Blindfyre beneath her skin, his heat a reassurance. And she knew her heart was beating, but it felt as if it had stopped.

Mesmerised, she extended a shaky hand, reaching towards the gleam.

Sometimes, when she wasn't plagued by nightmares and troubled with anxiety, she dreamed of it. Climbing the skyline in a quick swoosh, chased by the wind, surpassing the waves of milky clouds. Elated laughter echoing through the night. Winged shadow bathing the ground beneath in complete darkness. And then, breathlessly, her trembling fingers touching the silvery surface of the moon. She would take its coldness and replace it with fire, and soon enough it would be burning as the sun burns. At home, at last. Where whispers of duty could not reach.

Those were just dreams. Her hand couldn't come anywhere near.

Her expression faltered just a little.

In the air, yes. Still floating. But never high enough to caress the moon.

Perhaps it should never be subjected to flames. Or perhaps, though a torn in her heart, Alyssa was never destined to evade the vicious clutches of expectations. It was a war, after all. She knew that war was nothing but cruel.

A sharp turn snapped her out of the fog, mind clearing. She squeezed her thighs around the beast in response, a breathless sigh falling from her lips, and the dragon found balance once again.

A cripple, they called him. Mocked him.

And yet, without sight, Blindfyre was the one who saw her most.

"Again."

A growl of exasperation came from her lips as she pushed forward, muscles aching, the sword in her hand heavier than ever. Her vision swam, a tide crashing over, and Alyssa swallowed the unease on her tongue.

The collar of her robes was too tight, clinging to skin persistently and squeezing hard enough to choke. Insistently, she pulled at it, only to be left with flushing anger and gritted teeth. It was warm—too warm, too much. But Baela stood right there, a smug pull to her lips and gleam in eyes, and Alyssa could not bear to surrender.

She clenched her jaw as the blades crashed.

Baela's eyes were burning with complacency when Alyssa's sword fell from her grasp once more. "Again."

Of all pains Alyssa knew, today's was the worst.

She couldn't remember abandoning the skies, though she knew it must have happened. Awakened by rays of light caressing her cheek, Alyssa had opened her eyes, only to see nothing. Darkness swallowed the whole world and stole her breath and brought shivers down her spine, and no longer could she find the strength to stand on her own feet.

It hadn't lasted long; the sensation had come and gone, and soon enough Alyssa was freed from its fetters. But the dread remained. It had crawled into the corner of her mind, a menacing spectre readying for assault.

Her left eye had gone bloodshot. She'd stared at her own face reflected in glass, waiting for it to turn back to normal. It hadn't.

It hurt still, even now.

Alyssa chose to swallow down any thoughts of it.

"Are you being this slow on purpose?" taunted Baela, the smile she wore a little too gleeful. "Little Aegon could wield a sword better than you."

Alyssa believed it to be true as another wave of pain crashed through her aching body. The muscles in her arm trembled, and yet it was the prospect of dropping the sword again that hurt most.

Failure was unbefitting but so was yielding, and something deep within her had broken out of the grip of iron manacles, a dark thing soaked in ardour and fiendish intent. It was this something that directed her hand; that lifted the hilt high enough to then come crashing into Baela's temple; that made Alyssa deliver the conquering blow.

Just like that, Baela lay in dirt, chest heaving, silver locks drowning in mud, face soiled.

Alyssa's heart sank, and perhaps it had ceased beating or jumped out of her chest entirely, or perhaps she didn't have it at all—

But Baela smiled. "Ah. There she is."

It was simpler after this. Even the pain had dissipated, no more than a forgotten whisper in the ear. Perhaps it had never been there, a mere creation of Alyssa's unsettled mind. Gone with the wind as soon as some life returned to her body.

They sparred well into midday, bathed in sunshine and covered in sweat. It was unladylike and improper and Alyssa felt freedom painting her body in its hues, even if it was meant to be washed off soon. Breathlessly, both on the verge of collapsing, they pushed and pulled until their legs gave up.

Their laughter reverberated through the air. Alyssa thought it sounded like a song.

"Just what are you two doing?"

Alyssa raised her head, palm covering vision from sunlight, and she watched Rhaenys storm in their direction. Baela groaned at the sight, hand attempting to clean some of the dirt from her robes, only to give up in the middle of the process.

"Training, of course." Baela's words were as innocent as her face looked, although the glimmer in her eyes did not fade.

Rhaenys's expression remained unmoved. She came to stand above them, tall and poised and every bit a dragon, though her fire had yet to catch. Alyssa saw the subtle furrow in her eyebrows. It was the only indication that she'd heard Baela at all.

"Whatever for?" Rhaenys inquired. "Fire is our way in battle. Not swords and daggers."

Vexation spread through Alyssa's veins like wildfire, scorching everything in its path.

They didn't understand. None of them did, even if Alyssa had fed her mind with poisonous lies time and time again in order to preserve the false sense of belonging. They could never truly know her heart, even when it drowned in desperation for another soul to reach it.

They didn't understand. There was nothing she could do to change it.

"My dragon is no fit for battle," Alyssa snapped. "But I am."

Lost in the depths of darkness, she felt the throbbing sensation return in full force. Spasms ran through her upper body like a string of blaze and she fell at their mercy, rigid and pliant. Corrupt. Overtaken with frenzy.

And if Baela hadn't noticed anything wrong about Alyssa's conduct in the span of the entire day, it had only taken seconds for Princess Rhaenys to squint dubiously.

Alyssa was standing. She couldn't even remember rising from the ground and yet there she was, eye to eye with the woman. A stranger. She shouldn't be wielding worry in her gaze. It felt like a knife.

"Do you feel well?" Rhaenys asked, voice demanding, and suddenly her hands were on Alyssa's face, finger holding her chin. It felt cold; Alyssa attempted to break the contact, shivering. "What is it with your eye? Show it to me."

Panic seized her breath. A sudden surge of strength allowed her to pull away from Rhaenys's vice grip, heart pounding. She reached for the left side of her face with a quivering hand.

"It is nothing." Even her voice wavered. Alyssa swallowed down the urge to flee. Feigning composure, although it hurt to even try to appear collected, one of her eyes met Rhaenys's expectant stare. A slow inhale. A spark of conviction. "I must have scratched it."

She could see the doubt; could sense it in the air, lingering, eliciting a shudder of exasperation. Alyssa bit her tongue. There were other places worthy of her wrath; desert areas filled with despair that only ever served to fuel the rage. People who deserved the might of her ire; who deserved to lick the wounds inflicted upon them with her hands alone.

She wouldn't speak names. Her heart already knew, and this alone was enough. A secret. A shame.

Rhaenys's hand on her arm. Alyssa tried and failed to control the flinching, and the look she received in response was one she could not decipher.

Then, the hand was gone.

She breathed. Urged her heartbeat to calm.

"You girls cannot possibly expect your father to allow you to rush into battlefield on the ground."

Baela snorted, and it was then that Alyssa realised her sister was standing closer than she'd ever been before. She smelled vaguely of flowers, even when she would never be found in the middle of grassy fields. It reminded her of Rhaena.

"I think we all know him well enough to find fault in this statement, Grandmother." Amusement sat deep in the corners of Baela's face, gleaming and overflowing. "As his daughters, we ought to take interest in matters of war."

"Interest, yes, but not whatever this is. I haven't seen you without a blade in days," she spat, the pull of her lip a proof of her displeasure.

Alyssa contemplated fleeing the scene, if only to evade a lecture. Before she could ponder over it, though, Rhaenys's eyes had found her once more.

"And you, Alyssa. I understand how arduous a task it is to change your mind, but I insist you stop this madness."

A short smile. There was no mirth nor sympathy in it. Alyssa fought against the wildness of her own fire so as to not shatter.

"Is it madness? We are at war. I thought it reasonable to prepare for it."

Rhaenys's lithe arms extended towards both Alyssa and Baela, and soon enough they were caught in a short embrace. Alyssa's skin prickled with discomfort. Would Rhaenys even have approached, had she not been with her sister? They were no family, she knew, and so understanding the woman's intentions proved more and more difficult with time.

But believing everyone to intend to in any way harm her would pave way for madness. Alyssa could not descend into it; she'd crawl her way back, teeth and nails tearing apart everything in her path. She'd preserve.

And surely—surely—Rhaenys had no ill intentions.

Her eyes were warm.

"Our way of preparing is quite different than this. If anything, I'd have expected to see you in the skies."

She watched Baela open her mouth, only to close it shut. Silent. She was so silent. And then Rhaenys turned to her and suddenly there was pity in those warm eyes and Alyssa no longer wished to be here.

No longer wished to be at all.

"Not all is lost. If need be, you may ride with someone else—"

"I will not," she interrupted. Breathed heavily, air suffocating. Blink to rid herself of frustrated tears. "Blindfyre will take me where I'm needed, should the demand for my services arise."

"Alyssa."

Her smile was bitter.

"It is my duty, after all."

There was a stench surrounding the Painted Table that reminded Alyssa of nights she'd spent inebriated, having sneaked out with Jace and Rhaena and carrying bottles of stolen dornish red. When she closed her eyes, she could almost see the moments long gone—palpable, the glass right beneath her fingers. They'd drunk and laughed and sung songs that were forbidden for such young ears, and that was freedom.

They hadn't known, back then, what the future would bring. Today, living a different life, it was all merely a bittersweet memory.

Now she sat amidst the smell of alcohol and watched the council members chatter amongst themselves, oblivious to her presence. Rhaenyra had yet to show up, although whether she'd do it at all was unclear. Rhaenys was close enough but did not attempt to converse again and for that Alyssa was grateful. There were no words she had left to speak.

Drunk. They were drunk.

Her wrath was a burning flame seizing her muscles, and she clenched her jaw as her eyes sank into one face after another. Flushed and simpering, as though they were not to discuss death and destruction, they exchanged jokes and roared with laughter.

Sheep. It would be easy to devour them.

Before her rage could manifest, Baela's hand grasped onto Alyssa's shoulder. Her face was equally grave, Alyssa thought. Wilfully, she chose not to acknowledge this newfound synchronicity that sparked between them.

Yielding, she watched. Some faces she'd come to recognise; others forever blurred, a splash of paint gone astray, ruining the canvas. There were names she knew and those she cared little for, and she remained rather unimpressed by the entire group. They were needed, of course. Supposedly, they assisted the Queen.

But she watched. She watched and saw their eyes ridicule each woman present in the room. And how could such men kneel before someone if they thought themselves so above?

It would be easy to devour them and easier yet to burn their bodies until nothing was left.

Alyssa waited.

It must have been half an hour later that the doors swung open and a figure tumbled inside, though the sight was not one Alyssa would ever associate with Rhaenyra Targaryen.

She still remembered watching her in Driftmark, surrounded by grief and fresh tears and salt rubbed over wounds, and finding herself mesmerised. Wishing to exude such power, if only for a fleeting moment. This power was gone now, last traces of it eradicated. Pale face in its stead.

Rhaenyra's body was twisted in pain.

"Your Grace!" Baela gasped, halfway through the hall, rushing to assist her.

Rhaenyra's smile was placating. "I am well. Thank you."

They should not see her in such state—should never be allowed to lay their eyes upon her weakened form. Alyssa wished to take her away or cover her body with her own, or demand that everyone left.

She did nothing.

Soon, the meeting began and Alyssa was forced to listen, each voice duller than the previous one, information far from eliciting a trace of interest. She should not be there at all, she thought, but in the skies. Or perhaps in lands unknown. Far from here.

"It is good indeed to know Ser Amos Bracken, who had refused to bend the knee to the rightful Queen, was slain." Upon registering the words, Alyssa searched through her mind for House Bracken. Riverlands, she believed. Stone Hedge. "Although we do know of his half-brother's escape. Undoubtedly he will attempt to return to his father's seat."

Bartimos Celtigar curled his lip in distaste. She watched him down another cup before he spoke. Baela was there to immediately fill it to the brim.

"Humfrey is an old fool and Raylon Rivers is a bastard. They stand no chance against our army."

Her fingers twitched. Alyssa held Baela's gaze, waiting for her inner monologue to die out, only for it to burn with more fervour.

Truly, if they expected her to keep silent, they should not have allowed her a seat at all.

She sat straighter. Eyes ablaze.

"Should one fear another any less on the basis of birth alone, lord Celtigar?"

His sneer was prominent, as it had been each time his eyes brushed through her face. It might have scared her, but Alyssa had been the receiver of harsher gazes. Darker shadows, too. This one could not harm her.

"I would certainly not know much about lesser birth, lady."

With a smile plastered on her face, she opened her mouth. The Sea Snake rushed to cut her off.

"We received word from riverlands. Prince Daemon marches for Stone Hedge. As we have intelligence on the Bracken forces being weak at best, the timing is in our favour."

She hadn't known much about her father's whereabouts for a while, too preoccupied with matters of heart. Lost deep in her own desires and battles. Too wounded, perhaps, to dwell on it at all, as if the mere thought of him could hurt. To know that he was still in riverlands—still alive—was a brief consolation.

"Has he sent any more word?" Alyssa asked without even intending to. She already knew the answer.

A shake of head. Of course. "No, my lady. Only that he expects the castle to fall into our hands promptly."

"Which would sufficiently weaken the greens' grasp over riverlands." Rhaenyra's hand brushed against the Painted Table, right where Stone Hedge had been carved into. "Very well. Thank you."

It went on in such manner, Alyssa's gaze gradually darkening as the evening stretched, bones aching. Sometimes, her vision would momentarily fade, only to return to normalcy as though nothing had happened. It must have been the rune, she thought. Perhaps it was better to repeat it, if only to ensure its efficacy. Blindfyre was no longer in pain now, but there remained much to be healed.

"There is the still neglected matter of Prince Daemon's daughters, lady Alyssa and lady Rhaena. Both are yet to be wedded."

Just like that, all thoughts were swept from her mind, Alyssa emerging from their clutches. Baela was stiff now, standing on the edge of the table, and Alyssa unconsciously sought out her eyes.

They were blown wide.

"Rhaena?"

"Of course, the circumstances are most grave. We all mourn the loss of the young prince Lucerys. But every woman of high birth must marry well to secure an alliance, especially in times of war, and lady Rhaena is a strong asset to our cause."

"An asset," Alyssa repeated, sounding hollow.

Her robes were on fire, or maybe it was her skin that was burning; a wave of vexation creeped through her body and would soon attempt to break out.

An asset. Nothing more.

Oh, how she wished for Blinfyre to burn this place to the ground.

Alyssa found her voice before she succumbed into yet another fit of rage. If she wanted to be treated seriously, she could not express anything at all. They'd take advantage of it, she knew. Another weakness to exploit.

"Surely the oldest daughter ought to be the one who marries first." It sounded like idle chatter and was anything but. She was certain they saw the glint in her eyes but kept them stubbornly open in case they didn't. "How terrible would it be for the realm to think me any less, what with my younger sisters being the first to be granted husbands."

"It is indeed a valid point," Princess Rhaenys came to her aid, attempting to sound eager. "Lady Alyssa is a woman grown, and a beauty nonetheless. Depriving her of priority she deserves would be preposterous, not to mention equal to questioning her position."

She found herself nodding along. "A grave offence, if I may say so."

Baela was there, right behind, palm once more resting on Alyssa's shoulder. She found she did not mind the proximity. When she closed her eyes, it felt like home. Like the past that had been stolen from them. Like another life in which they were sisters—true sisters—with no war looming over their heads.

When she closed her eyes, nothing hurt anymore.

"I am sure our father would see it in the same light," Baela added conversationally, sounding nothing but smug.

All eyes returned to her; some cowered under the weight of her glare. She offered another smile.

"We may, of course, return to this very matter, my lady," a man clad in endless golds rushed to say. "I mean no offence—it was to our understanding that you had no desire to be married just yet."

Alyssa locked gazes with Maester Aulis before her eyes found that of Rhaenyra's.

Her anger deflated.

"Desires change."

"Unless you've come to your senses, I will not discuss it," snapped the woman, a grimace still painted across her face.

"I have, my Queen. I swear it."

Rhaenyra's eyes were heavy; Alyssa felt a tingling sensation on her skin. Still, she did not look away. It was obvious that the woman was searching for something, though unclear what exactly. Alyssa hoped, heart in throat, that her face expressed no doubts.

"Very well," Rhaenyra decided. "Leave us."

"Your Grace, we have yet to even touch upon—"

"And we will touch upon it when your Queen commands it."

They scurried away faster than Alyssa had expected, echoes of their steps and whispers bouncing against the walls until they faded. Then, they were alone.

Alyssa remained seated in the uncomfortable chair, watching with unabashed curiosity as Rhaenyra stood. She was crossing the distance between them, Alyssa realised. Rhaenyra's gaze was still on her.

Soon enough, they were sitting arm to arm, shades of silver glittering against the darkness. Alyssa could no longer remember the last time they sat together.

"Sometimes, I think this is what my Visenya would look like." The confession was enough to knock all breath out of Alyssa's chest with a force she had never experienced before. Rhaenyra's voice was smaller than ever. "Will you let me braid your hair?"

Alyssa didn't trust herself to speak and so she only nodded, changing her position.

It was only Inid that braided Alyssa's hair. Rhaena, sometimes, though she could not bring herself to ponder over it now. Never before had it felt so affectionate; Rhaenyra's fingers were gentle as they separated one strand from another.

Trapped in a whirlwind of emotions, Alyssa held her breath.

She could not speak, even if she tried. She feared tears would choke her.

"Sometimes, when sleep evades me, I can hear her cries," Rhaenyra continued, and Alyssa wasn't sure how much time had passed. She couldn't feel the braids. "Visenya never cried. Not once. She didn't get the chance to cry."

It hurt. It hurt so much Alyssa wanted Rhaenyra to stop—

But this was a mother mourning two of her children. This was pain laced into words. This was, perhaps, the one and only time they mentioned it at all, and so Alyssa had to listen. This was sacred.

"Sometimes, I dream of them both. Visenya, so little, crying her heart out, roaring like a dragon. And my Luke. Holding her."

Alyssa wished she could dream such dreams. Wished her mind was capable of conjuring this very image, even if just once, so she could find peace. Instead, she was being punished. Driven to insanity by nightmares, each more vivid than ever before.

She didn't deserve to dream, she decided. Didn't deserve to see Luke one last time. She'd had a chance to avenge him and chose not to.

Rhaenyra's fingers stopped after a while, a satisfied hum in the air. Alyssa's hand brushed against the back of her head, dozens of small braids weaving through her hand.

"You haven't come once to consult me."

"I wouldn't wish to disturb you. One should not waste the time of a queen."

"Am I no longer your family now that I've become queen?" She sounded truly displeased and Alyssa's mouth filled with acrid regret.

"You are in pain," she murmured.

"All will be well. Some wounds need more time to heal. Some don't ever heal at all."

Alyssa hoped this one would. She could not stand the sight; wanted the strength she'd always associated with Rhaenyra to return.

They needed it. All of them.

"My Queen?"

"Yes?"

She swallowed another lump in her throat. "What do you think of river lords?"

There were times when Alyssa allowed her heart to briefly long for the years spent in Pentos, far away from Westeros and Dragonstone and the Red Keep, and all sense of obligation that was its inherent part. She would idly brush her fingers against intricate fabrics that had long since stopped fitting her body; sing songs she'd learned and near forgotten over the years. Attempt to conjure the warmth that had been lost. It was when her mind started to fail at summoning images of the places they'd stayed at that Alyssa understood all was gone.

Gone. Stolen by the wind. Taken by greedy hands washed in golden jewels and stained with blood. Ripped apart and turned to ash and stomped upon. Buried. Or perhaps—and how her heart was breaking at the thought—perhaps her memories were hiding behind the moon itself and this was why she wasn't allowed to reach it.

Gone. No more and no less.

The thought of flying above places she had never seen brought upon an odd shiver of anticipation that both paralysed and awakened her body. Pentos was the last true novelty. A city of riches and colours and poetry and life, and where she'd been a stranger but felt more at home than here. Her current destination was war and its spoils and burning grounds and ruined castles and death—and yet she longed.

She longed. For a refuge, perhaps. Whatever route leading away from Dragonstone's misery, too similar to that of her own, she would take. Suspended in the choking sense of displacement, there were no paths Alyssa would not cross, if only fuelled by sheer desperation.

Blindfyre roared and, for the first time in a while, the sound was answered by another. A screech slicing the air. Odd-sounding.

Familiar.

Alyssa felt a tremble on her lips.

She longed, and perhaps this was the most gruelling of her heart's desires. Longed for this. For what was to come. Just a little bit more.

She couldn't see Caraxes but felt him. Close. Not quite home, but equally at peace. No doubt he'd sensed them, too.

With a swift pull, Alyssa urged Blindfyre to go plummeting towards the ground. It was all so completely green; she considered the shade with a silent frown. Acres of fields spread beneath her feet, and just right there she could see the banks of a river, surface of its waters a polished glass. She imagined stepping towards it, feet bare and wet, legs submerged all the way to her knees. A feeling of abandon. The squeeze in her lungs disappearing.

Rhaena would love it, Alyssa thought, back when there were things she loved at all. Back when her heart allowed itself to love. To be loved in turn.

Back before it was taken away from her.

This close to landing, she finally found what she was looking for. Just a brush of wings away, close enough for her to count, hundreds of figures donned in iron and bearing banners spread across the grassland, as did an equally high number of tents. Rhaenyra's colours shone under the sunny spells, the three-headed dragon a splash of scarlet against black, flowing in the light breeze. Alyssa had never seen true warriors in preparation for battle; she watched with a curious gaze until she was forced to take her eyes off the sight.

They'd noticed at last, now swept under the enormous shadow. And it seemed that serving under the rogue prince himself was not parallel to growing accustomed to the looming presence of dragons. Alyssa observed the way their eyes widened; fearless soldiers hurtling to the sides as though they believed they could vanish from the beast's field of vision. Her fingers clenched against the chains.

It was silent, as though the entire area had been swallowed by trepidation.

Upon sliding off Blindfyre's back, Alyssa was greeted by a severe-looking man, his eyes stern as he kept them locked on her face. She could still sense the heat behind her; the man appeared rather determined to not acknowledge the looming presence.

"Take me to my father," she instructed at last, and immediately he nodded, beckoning her to follow.

The bystanders' unabashed leering was a burning sensation against Alyssa's skin. Still, she moved on, steps sharp and hands folded behind her back. Clang to her composure. Bit her tongue and sank nails into the skin of her palm, if only to stop herself from taking flight.

It was absurd—this pure, unadulterated sense of overwhelming apprehension that had risen in her throat. It was they who should bow their heads and cower under her stare and scramble away from flames.

Just men. So low beneath her.

Alyssa hadn't given much thought to what happened next. It had been a rather ill-considered plan, hastily orchestrated by her still enervated self, implemented in the middle of the night. She'd all but thrown herself onto dragonback, covered under the blanket of stars, quiet as still waters. It was then that she'd come to the realisation that she was good at this. Escaping. Leaving without being seen.

Most likely, there was no one trying to see her at all.

"I cannot say I'm surprised to see you here, dōna hāedar. Even if you're uninvited."

She saw him standing by the entrance of a larger tent, a lazy raise of his eyebrows, head tilted and posture relaxed. He was wearing his armour. There was a trace of amusement in the curl of his lip, though his eyes were not focused on her. Intrigued, she turned around to search for its source, only to find Blindfyre stomping nearby, well-nigh colliding with the puny figures in his path.

He looked the same. Barely any time had passed, after all, even if her heart had insisted otherwise. It was pounding now, a bruising sensation against her chest, and for the first time in a while her smile felt real. Genuine. She had suspected that he'd be changed. Expected to be met by a man she could no longer recognise. Burdened with the weight of blood on his hands; haunted by unspeakable sights.

And yet here he was, impassive as ever. Only his eyes were burning.

She watched her father with brazen wonderment, awaiting his next words.

Daemon inclined his head. "Come."

Alyssa followed him into the tent, the drapes flailing shut behind them. It was darker than she'd anticipated, and Alyssa was soon squinting in the darkness to see anything at all.

And then he was holding her. She always felt the smallest in her father's embrace. Safe. Even nightmares could not reach her here. She soaked in his warmth and held onto his arms and briefly, just for a second, felt at ease.

"Rhaenyra?"

She bit her cheek. It would be wiser to tell him the truth of it—to describe the way life looked like on Dragonstone while he was away. To make him truly understand what had driven her to arrive here in the first place. To let him see into her heart, too.

It would be wiser, but Alyssa had long been plagued by outbursts of insanity.

She shrugged. Her body felt heavy. "A crown suits her."

"Of course. A crown is her destiny." He moved to fill another cup, extending it towards her once full. His eyes remained on her. "What of your siblings?"

We are decaying, she thought. Rhaena is not herself anymore, and Baela's need for violence might just kill her. I cannot remember the last time I held Viserys or heard Aegon's laugh. We are barely siblings anymore. I fear that once day, there will be no more of past connection left. That our blood will no longer recognise each other.

Instead, she said, "you needn't worry, father. All is well."

"And yet you've escaped Dragonstone to come all the way here."

She had. She had, and she'd do it again, do it in a heartbeat, all to run away from the others, or perhaps from herself and what she'd done—

"What has possessed you to think you are free to roam the realm on your own?" He was sharper now. Slicing. She suddenly felt very cold. "Have you forgotten we are at war?"

Alyssa's face twisted into a grimace. How could she ever forget? How could she, when no one allowed her to do so? When its stench was strong enough to bring forth a bile in her throat, for her stomach to churn, for her lungs to collapse—

She hadn't forgotten. She never could.

"I have not," she said aloud.

"What if you'd been attacked?" he continued, deliberately ignoring her words. "Or better yet, what if the one-eyed cunt had hunted you down and delivered your head to Dragonstone in retaliation?"

"But he hadn't. I wouldn't allow it."

Daemon was seething, eyes ablaze. "Are you truly so witless to think for one second that your dragon could ever stand a chance against Vhagar—"

"I am here because we're at war!"

It was her own mouth that had moved, yes, but the words did not belong to Alyssa. She didn't even know why she'd come. To see it for herself, perhaps. The banners and heavy armours and sharp steel. To find proof that there were indeed matters of higher significance than those she'd been torn apart by.

But her father had finally, finally fallen silent, and now she could not back down.

Alyssa downed the wine, as though it could put out the fire rising within her insides. All it did was fuel the flames.

"I'm here because I cannot bear to sit, and—" she was pacing now, the emptied cup thrown at her father's feet, "and drink wine, and listen to drunken men who believe themselves wiser than anyone else, much less a woman, and forever await news while dreading that none will come."

And it sounded like truth, she realised. Maybe it was, and maybe now that she was here she could stop being bitter. Stop fire from burning her heart into ashes. Stop herself—and wasn't it the most important?—from making the same mistake over and over again.

She'd got what she wanted. Now was the time to let go.

Now, she had no reason at all to return to forbidden places she ought to rip apart inside her mind.

Alyssa's heavy breathing was the only sound within the walls; her father had gone still. She saw his curious gaze and wondered what it was he was thinking. If he would ever tell her at all.

"Sit," Daemon murmured. In this light she could barely see him pointing a finger at a chair nearby.

Her lip must have split open from her constant biting. She felt blood on her tongue. Reluctantly, and with a rather obvious signs of prolonging in her mannerisms, Alyssa moved towards the chair. She thought she heard something akin to a cackle, but she might have well imagined it.

They were close enough for Alyssa to see his expression. Daemon had always worn his thoughts on his face. She'd been told more than once that they were similar in this regard. She certainly saw the dangerous glint in his eyes; whatever it truly meant was yet to be discovered.

He sighed, sounding both bored and pained, and his elbow came to rest on the small table that separated them. Daemon waved his hand in an ambiguous gesture.

"Tell me, then, what do you make of all this? Is it everything you wanted and more?"

Alyssa chose not to take notice of the mocking tone of his speech.

Calm waters. She imagined drowning in them, her lungs swimming and burning and no longer there at all, and her following in their footsteps. Gone.

"The numbers are considerable."

It was a chuckle she heard now; she saw his lips curve. "Indeed. The victory is ours for the taking, I assure you."

"What happens after?"

"Have you truly come to discuss war strategy?"

She tilted her chin in an act of defiance, his mirth an echo inside her mind.

"I have. Though not in this particular context."

She saw the change in him; a wave crashing into pale face carved in stone, washing away all traces of levity he'd greeted her with.

At last, she was looking at a mirror image. The calculation in his expression might as well be her own.

Silently, he poured more wine into his cup, only to offer it to Alyssa. Grimacing, she accepted it, and it was enough for satisfaction to crawl back into Daemon's gaze.

"Colour me intrigued." Tapping a finger against the wooden surface, he grinned. "Go on, then."

With no time to ponder over it again, Alyssa sighed softly. Her eyes met his. "Riverlands are truly a sight to behold."

"You've spoken to Aulis. Good." He was nearly beaming, hand impatiently reaching for the wine. He drank straight from the dish, pointedly evading her bewildered eyes. "Come now, daughter. You can't have thought I had forsaken you."

But—

No. She didn't understand. Her fingers trembled as she fiddled with them and her breathing was shallow and surely the blood had stopped flowing and she didn't understand. He'd abandoned her. Left for Harrenhal, thrown himself deep into battle, ready to give up his life. He'd left. She was truly on her own—had been for a long time—and so her late error in conduct was justified.

But he was looking at her with unabashed smugness written all over his face and Alyssa knew the truth. Even if it tore her apart from the inside.

Her heartbeat spiked. It was good to know it was still there after all. She'd half-expected it to give out.

"Are matters of the crown not the most important now?" Her lips were dry, throat aching. She tried and failed to swallow, and surely it was blood that sat there, heavy and thick and threatening to smother her—

"As are the matters of my firstborn. The blood of the dragon."

All her thoughts and feelings crashed into one another, a tangled mess of everything and nothing at once, and all she could do was breathe until breath was stolen from her, too.

"I have instructed Aulis to be of service, what with the rest of the council being complete fools. He was wise enough to see it as a task of higher significance than his seat in Harrenhal."

Maester Aulis. The man who had listened and spoke with reverence unlike any other member of the council, who had supported her when no one else would. Guided her. Sparked new flames within her being.

Astonished, she watched her father's face, wondering why she was stunned at all.

A lone dragon, she had thought, but she wasn't. She wasn't.

"And so his advice—"

"—was mine." The confirmation felt like a pledge. Deep inside, Alyssa's heart swelled. "I have been too harsh. Consider this the testament to my willingness to listen."

And to be granted this much was perhaps a salvation.

Her voice was small when, after seconds or minutes or an entire eternity passed, she asked, "will you listen now?"

His answer was a curt nod. Alyssa twitched in anticipation. Eagerness grasped her into its embrace, the need to prove something—to him or to herself, she couldn't be sure—flowing through her body.

"Let me stay," Alyssa muttered. "Just until we've taken Stone Hedge. Let me be the one to deliver good news to the Queen. Let me see it for myself."

"Your dragon is a cripple."

"And I am not," she replied, oddly at ease. She could see it in his eyes already. Acceptance. This battle, she may have won. "I will be his eyes, and that alone will be enough."

"And if it is not? What if we are greeted by the greens? What if there are more dragons than just ours?"

She swallowed. It was one of her fears, too, though he could not know it. Hers stemmed from different places. Darker. Ones she'd never repeat aloud; that coloured her insides red with shame.

"Then you'll have to trust me to stay alive."

Daemon's palm rested atop Dark Sister's handle. Alyssa had always observed the blade in silent awe, though hers could never conquer that of Baela's. Her sister focused her gaze on the blade itself, and often she expressed her desires to wield it just once. Alyssa, though, would spend hours thinking of the feeling that one experienced when given such absolute power.

Elation, probably. Dark-toned and striking, mixing with blood and sinking into bones. Inseparable. Man and might living as one.

Sometimes, though, she thought about her father without the sword.

Sometimes, she believed this strength was all him.

He looked the part now, posture a little more rigid, gaze lost, and yet nowhere near weak. A man of competence.

And Alyssa wondered—oh, how she wondered—if there would be time someone looked at her and saw the same thing.

"Have you heard yet about the Usurper's heir?" The question would have caught her off guard if she hadn't awaited it. Daemon's voice did not waver. "I am a kinslayer. Will you ask why?"

"I need not ask," she answered simply, because she truly needn't. His eyes turned expectant, though. Alyssa inhaled. "It was proof that they have just as much to lose. A push to have them on their knees, as they had us, once. A reminder that nothing goes unpunished."

Words nearly died on her lips, and yet she could not let them.

"It was revenge for a son. He was a son to you."

"Would you have done differently?"

She closed her eyes and returned to the past, and the images sliced through her bones so harshly she almost whimpered. She had put a blade to Aemond's throat but failed to deliver the killing blow, and this was what would haunt her to eternity. She'd been so sure she could do it—driven by pain and loss and hatred—only to be swayed, once more a victim of his endless games. A fool. Nothing but a fool, and oh, how she loathed herself for it; the weaknesses of her heart heavier each day, dragging her down. Soon, she'd hit the ground and shatter at the impact.

Soon, if she didn't stop this endless circle of madness, it would bury her.

And yet it was a lie that came to her lips first.

"No, I would not."

He smiled. "No, you would not. Even if you are not yet sure of it. This is the only reason why I'll allow you to stay."

A refuge. It was a refuge from her own recklessness. From the dark shadow. From whatever insanity that had possessed her.

Later, just before she moved to leave the tent and walk around the perimeter, her father stopped her.

"Alyssa." His voice was soft. "Do ensure that there is no misconduct on your part."

A smile painted her lips.

"Of course, father. What do you take me for?"

"A terror, dōna hāedar. Absolute terror."

Even walking felt like flying.

It was raining, and still they crossed the skies, unwilling to leave just yet. Long soaked, Alyssa's hair clung to her forehead, droplets of water veiling her face. In the darkness, she stared into nothingness, a smile playing on her lips, chest heaving.

She was free to turn whichever way she wished to; Blindfyre roared and moved sharply, and even drained he was swift as ever. In her heart, she knew he was leading; she a quiet companion along the journey. There was no need to pull at the reins. He already knew the way.

Just then, another sound. Even the stars shook under its weight, and Alyssa's eyes caught one falling from the skies. Rhaena had once insisted one should make a wish whenever they saw it. Alyssa did not know what to wish for at all.

A shadow. Large enough to disrupt the clouds. The only thing on the horizon. Close enough to touch.

And him. Watching her already.

Right there, coated in night, they were back to the beginning, one beast chasing the other. In the rare moments their bodies were aligned, Alyssa's fingers would brush against his.

No longer were they cold.

When she awoke from the dream—nightmare, she told herself, and the cruelest of them all—it was as a traitor.

And she found that betrayal tasted worse than grief.

#aemond targaryen #aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond x oc #hotd #ao3 fanfic #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #daemon targaryen #targaryen!oc

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 9

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place—cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, canon character(s) death, canon divergence, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 4.2k

notes: it’s been AGES.

english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated.  also on ao3 and wattpad.

"He's been looking at you much too often to be considered appropriate," came Baela's giggle, the sound so foreign Alyssa's skin tingled.

Although she had no desire to humour the girl, Alyssa raised her head just enough to catch a glimpse of a lone figure, not too far in the distance. A stable boy, it seemed, and one who did not have enough workload if this was how he chose to spend his time. He expressed no shame nor remorse for having been caught watching her. His golden hair shone in the sun, a small smile playing on his lips. A scowl painted Alyssa's face, prompting Baela to laugh once more.

"Do you not think him terribly handsome, sister?"

Alyssa hummed, only for her heart to stop in her chest. The sound long engraved in her mind, it caused the blood to rush through her veins, beating against the confines. She shook it off, if only to find this feigned sense of freedom she kept clinging to. Then, face passive, she murmured, "I think Blindfyre could eat him in a matter of seconds."

"How boring."

It was odd, this sudden splash of shades of peace on the canvas of their lives. Dragonstone had become quiet—more than ever before, with Rhaena wordlessly slipping by and Lucerys gone forever. Outside, there was a war spreading across all of the realm; burned cities and bodies, and blood painting the ground. Here, though, was this: a moment suspended in time, and the odd combination of Alyssa and Baela together. They would clash, Alyssa had once thought. But they didn't. Not really. They were both Daemon Targaryen's daughters and, in spite of all differences, Alyssa kept finding more reasons to draw a comparison between the two of them. It was the fire, she decided. It burned inside them in the same tune.

This—whatever it truly was, the unexpected bond, for which Alyssa lacked a definition—was decidedly better than what she'd endured in the past days. During the nights, she'd close her eyes with her hand buried beneath the pillow, holding onto the old parchment as though out of fear that, if she let it go, it'd vanish. Sometimes she'd dream of cold hands and swords, always on her skin but never pushing with enough force to leave marks and cuts; sometimes, she wouldn't sleep at all. With heavy heart and trembling hands, she'd let her finger trail invisible letters across the soft surface of her bed, and they'd always form the same word. Somehow, even when time passed without mercifully stopping, Alyssa had become suspended and frozen and unable to move forward entirely. And these little moments there, with her sister—though she wasn't really the one Alyssa longed for—allowed her to breathe painlessly.

"There are things much more boring than that," Alyssa mused some time later, hand aimlessly tugging at the grass. "Discussions of marriage, for one."

Baela's spine straightened, silver hair dancing in the wind. "I didn't realise there was anything to discuss just yet."

"There isn't," she said. Her eyebrows furrowed. "There wasn't. But I have thought of a reasonable proposal, and so I shall bring it forth with the queen. Hence, boring discussions."

"And what is this reasonable proposal?"

"A man, of course."

A full minute of quietude passed; nothing but the brush of sunlight against the skin and their heartbeats. The warmth had never bothered Alyssa yet now caused discomfort. Perhaps it would be wiser to return to the castle, if only to find solace within the coolness of stone walls—and hide, maybe, from all the world, left to the misery of her soul. If she left now, she could feign a headache—

"You could be happy," Baela said eventually, disrupting all schemes that arose in Alyssa's mind. "You could. I know you find it all boring and dull and unnecessary, but when you meet your intended, you might find your hearts fit one another."

Her chuckle was humourless. "Do you truly believe it?"

Do you think me capable of it, she thought, finding happiness in love? The answer was not one she wanted to hear, and so her mouth stopped moving.

She saw Baela's lips quiver, but the girl remained silent. Alyssa knew the truth. Baela would never understand her heart, no matter how many similarities between them Alyssa counted. She did not know her longing for freedom; had never thought to taste it, to seek it, to find it in darkness and dubious motives. Perhaps Baela's fire was never meant to be wild. Perhaps Alyssa was touched by insanity. Whatever it was, this—the one distinction, more significant than all the resemblance—prompted the conversation to die.

The boy kept watching. He looked tall, long legs and arms, but strong. Solid. A man, she thought. And shouldn't she want it? To be desired, and desire in turn. To feel something, anything more than the scalding anger. This was what she should spend nights thinking of—a man who could look in her direction and offer a smile. But it was all wrong; the boy was a soft shape and warm colours and golden lights flickering in the distance and wrong. Not silver. Not cold enough.

No. It wasn't warmth that she wanted, but it had never been coldness either. It still wasn't.

Terror spread through Alyssa's bones; she chose not to know why.

Life in court was a maze and each decision a turn, always accompanied by the possibility of being fatal. When Alyssa learned it, she'd done so reluctantly. Consequences had always been a distant concern; a matter of little value.

Maester Aulis saw it differently. And because he understood the ways of royals more than the royals themselves seemed to, he had been more than willing to jump into a lengthy lecture on acts of war. Alyssa had listened half-heartedly, bones tired and aching, vision somewhat blurred. Inid, however, had seemed overtaken with curiosity.

In a dark corridor, as Alyssa so often found herself in the middle of, a strategy had been born.

If there was a need to sell herself, it was better to do so to those far beneath her—weak and fragile, and easily burned. Feign compliance; charm and enchant, always keep the heat restrained. Act the part.

And then—slowly, suddenly, a whisper in the wind—strike. Take as they took, until they were ripped into pieces. Strip them off lands and titles alike; make it all her own.

Such was the way of war, after all. The weak would fall to their knees at the feet of the strong.

In her dreams, she returned to this place. It always looked the same, as though carved in ice, forever unmoving. Waves came, and with them storms, and yet all remained pristine. Even the sense of dread in her body, existing within the confines of sleep, felt real. Palpable. Overwhelming, to the point of waking up covered in sweat. To learn how to live with it was to accept it, and Alyssa refused to be the one who lost. With nothing left to do, she fought. Against the terror of images inflicted upon her brain; against her own heartbeat, long surpassing stability. Against the darkness—and this, sometimes, felt like fighting against herself.

But this place existed outside of a mind lured into the trap of nightmares, and the darkness that came with it never quite belonged to Alyssa.

He was already there, as always. It no longer caught Alyssa off guard to find him standing in the centre of nothingness, a lone figure surrounded by night, tall and dark and dangerous. She watched him from the skies; this high above, he seemed small. Insignificant, just another grain of sand in thousands of them. She could almost believe it—and oh, how she wanted it to be true. For him—this man who brought nothing but despair and bloodshed and death—to be worthless. A negligible existence not warranting a second glance. Just a man.

Aemond Targaryen had never been just a man. A son of a wretched mother; a brother of a fool. A person of his own, too, and that had always painted him in the darkest of all colours. A murderer, a kinslayer. The first crime in war. Remorseless, too—because she'd never seen a smallest hint of regret in his cold eye.

And did such a vile life deserve to be at all? Would it not be a kindness to mutter the word that stuck to her throat, heavy and poisonous and excruciating?

Dracarys, she always thought and never said.

In her mind, he always burned to ashes.

Her muscles trembled when she slid off Blindfyre's back, even as she tried her hardest not to express any ailments. The beast's entire body came crashing down onto the ground the moment Alyssa stepped away, a long wail following.

It hurt. Lately, everything hurt and ached and throbbed, and sometimes she wished to explode into pieces if only to make it stop. She could see him watching her intently, a tilt of his head, a lift of his lips striking against the pale skin, all the more visible as she came closer and closer. Sometimes, she resented herself for this weakness. If he wanted her dead, she had no doubt Aemond would strike in one, swift movement. And yet there she was—wanting and longing, heart bleeding with the desire to take him down, to wipe this smirk off of his face, to drain him of blood and turn bones into a pile of ash—hesitant. Bitter. Because she needed him. This thought only ever fuelled the hatred she bore for herself, and so Alyssa forced it out of her mind. She needed all of her rage to remain focused on him.

She hadn't heard of the war, choosing instead to lock herself inside the bedchambers, plagued by thoughts of parchment and death. It was not the war she cared for. What meaning did it have in face of the inevitable death of her dragon? What would she fight for without him, either way? Surely, if he were to fall, there's be nothing left of Alyssa Targaryen. War was the last thing on her mind. It would last and, without her, Blindfyre would not. Complete detachment seemed reasonable enough and so she would cling into it until she managed to do what others couldn't.

She did know things about it, though, all of them written on his face. War was bigger than fire, she realised. More vicious. Less controlled. Aemond looked as if he'd aged since the last time she saw him, and that was only days before. If he was in any pain, wounded or otherwise injured, he did not show it. She never expected him to. Like a moth to a flame, she was drawn to the hollowness of his face. Eye burdened with sights Alyssa's mind could never even conjure up. Haunted. She decided she enjoyed him in this state: devoid of any and all artificial composure, at last. Unhinged, frenzied, with heartbeat rapid enough to match hers.

There was madness in the violet of his eye. She was close enough to see it clearly.

To regain any resemblance of poise, she rushed to speak before Aemond could even open his mouth.

"What does it mean?" Voice demanding, Alyssa decided to draw the dagger, if only to tempt her further. His glee at the sight was unmistakable. "What does it mean? Runes?"

As always, Aemond was not intimidated by the sight of a blade. His smile—not a smile, too malicious in its curve—was sharp enough to cut, sharper than the dagger itself.

"All demands, no gratitude. My half-sister is a terrible influence." He hummed. Stepped closer. Bowed his head just enough for their stares to meet. "Or perhaps it's just you."

Face twisted with annoyance, she pushed her arm into his chest, hard enough to make him stumble. Even when he did so, there was elegance in the way Aemond once more found balance. She resented him for it all the more. When he wordlessly scanned her, no answer coming from his wretched mouth, Alyssa pushed against him once more.

"Why? Why give it to me at all, if you have no intention of explaining?"

"But I do, Alyssa. I gave you my word, after all," Aemond replied, voice low and rumbling and biting at her skin. Closer, now. Dangerously so.

"Your word means nothing to me."

There had been times, long enough to be nearly forgotten now, when Alyssa would watch her father's expressions. Daemon Targaryen always wore his thoughts on his face—a clear mirror to the mind. He never cowered from showing distaste or wrath, even when chastised repeatedly by the late Lady Laena. His scowls and frowns were prominent, engraved into Alyssa's memory. As a little girl who followed each of her father's steps, she would imitate the way his face twisted in displeasure and anger, hoping that one day she could bring men to heel with a stare alone. It had worked, to some extent, when she grew up. She'd catch people watching too intently, only for them to rapidly avert their gazes as though they'd been burned. Unfit for fire, always trying to escape it.

But Aemond was fire, too. Her eyes, no matter how scalding, never seemed to work on him.

During the nights when sleep evaded her, Alyssa would lie wide awake, wondering how she could ever allow him to come this close to her. Like he was now—their cloaks brushing. Breathing the same air.

They did this often, she realised. Stood close enough to touch. Her body was on fire; drowning in ice-cold waters. Her heart was beating and long since stopped. There was nothing. Everything. His eye watching her.

"I am a patient man. It's a quality you seem to lack entirely." His hand came to catch a strand of curled hair; he wrapped it around one long finger, not quite tugging. Aemond pursed his lips, a low sound coming from his throat. He kept his grip on her hair. "Very well. Since you appear to enjoy games, I propose another one."

She tried and failed to step backwards; his hand now tangled fully in the curls, Aemond held her close. A sound of frustration escaped her before Alyssa thought to remember how delightful he'd find it. "Do you take me for a fool, kinslayer? I will not waste time—"

A sharp tug, dull pain of her scalp; Aemond pulled her body closer.

"I insist." His lips brushed against her forehead—a feather-like sensation, enough to make her skin prickle with horror. "For each answer I give you, you ought to give me one in return." He must have sensed the protest rising up her throat, because he chose to push more. "Unless, of course, you've decided the beast is no longer worth saving. I certainly couldn't fault you."

If there was any testament to his cruelty, it was the way he threw this weakness in her face.

She knew it could very well be her downfall. She was at peace with this—the thought of dying fighting. And there he was, forceful and merciless, happy to torment. Mocking her. Turning the ways of her heart against her. What should have forever remained a reason for pride and warmth, this ability and acceptance towards sacrifice, became a foundation of shame and nightly escapades.

There was no backing down anymore. Alyssa saw it in Blindfyre's milky eyes, his wings failing to support his body, the long, disturbing screeches. This night, before she sat upon the saddle, Alyssa saw blood seeping from his eyelids.

She could save him. She would. Or she'd die trying, truly content with having forgone her life for the beast.

They were one and the same��always had been. It was only logical for things to remain the same in death.

"What are runes?" she asked at last, swallowing any and all crumbs of pride she had left.

Aemond was pleased. Finally, his touch withdrew; warmth and coldness aligned gone, Alyssa could exhale. It was odd to see him lazily pace, unaffected by the tension and intensity still lingering in the air around them. He moved slowly, fluidly—a stark contrast to his usual roughness.

Instinctively, her grip on the dagger tightened.

"Our blood is not ordinary. It is power in itself, and therefore may be wielded as such." He moved as he spoke, words and steps a wave crashing into her body with full force. He still watched her, now visibly pleased with the way she was listening attentively. "Runes are a means to direct this power. Like a dagger."

"How—"

"Do you wish to kill me?"

Alyssa forced her face to remain blank, a paper with no words for Aemond to read. He knew the answer. She knew that he knew it. It was a waste of a question. She could answer it in sleep. "Yes."

The lack of any hesitation had him finally halting his movements. If Alyssa's expression was impassive, his was aflame. Whatever it was she saw in his eye, Alyssa could not interpret it. Some things were never meant to be understood.

Eventually, without a word, he nodded.

"How do runes direct power?"

"They are carved into flesh," he explained, any and all delay in communication between them eradicated now, answers immediate, "drawn in blood. Runes are symbols and shapes, and each has its own meaning."

Then, there was silence—it stretched, and with it Alyssa's gaze intensified, as though she could force the man before her to elaborate just by looking hard enough. It would work, perhaps, if this was another man. Someone who didn't seek to torment her; to sink claws into her soul, attempting to tear it to shreds. Someone who had an ounce of morality, as opposed to his rotten heart.

She waited. Refused to ask, to allow him the opportunity to demand that she kneel and beg. Didn't look away, gaze still as the waters around them.

He sighed, somehow sounding both annoyed and amused.

"Meaning is intent, and intent can direct power, even that of our blood." Then, fast enough that she could merely blink, his hand came to grasp at her hair once more. He was back into her personal space, pushing and pushing and pushing. Aemond's voice dropped, now almost a whisper. "How would you do it? How would you kill me?"

Alyssa inhaled sharply and then wished she hadn't; all she could smell was his scent, heavy and dark and overwhelming, clinging to her skin and clothing. Surely, everyone she met after this would be able to smell him on her. She'd have to burn it all, even if it meant smouldering her body.

"Slowly." It came out as a breathless mutter. She should have screamed in his face, if only to prompt a reaction. "I'd give you enough time to see me. To know I was your downfall."

Aemond appeared engrossed, face beaming briefly in delight, as though happy she'd chosen to entertain his depraved mind. "For Lucerys?"

"For all of my family," she spat. "But mostly for myself."

At last, so far into this corrupt game between them, Aemond looked astonished. It lasted only a moment, but Alyssa was watching him too earnestly to miss it.  A victory, even if small.

"Impatient and vengeful." Another tug of hair, accompanied by a pained gasp. A full smile, cruel as the man who wore it. "Curious."

When he freed her from his wicked embrace, Alyssa moved on instinct, distance between them growing into something that felt safer. More appropriate. Less suffocating, even if his smell had long left an imprint on her body.

She held her head high. Dignity, feigned or long gone or not, was all she could wield against him when steel failed.

"I didn't mean to evoke interest, kinslayer. Nor did I ever need it from you."

"And yet you have it."

She grimaced, bitterness on her tongue. "Why are you doing this?"

Alyssa was no longer sure what she was referring to. Her thoughts, it seemed, always became a tangled mess when facing Aemond Targaryen. It must have been his violence that reduced her to such chaos, she decided. His rage.

To him, this meant the entire ordeal. "Whatever the outcome of this war, I intend to stay alive."

"What does it have to do with any of it?"

"Ah, but it's my turn."

The game. She'd long forgotten.

As Aemond stepped closer, Alyssa's feet moved backwards. He smiled. It was poison.

"Do you believe you could succeed?" he asked.

Shoulders squared, Alyssa chose to answer his poison with her own. A mere lift of the corner of her lips. Enough for the violet of his eye to darken. "Do you want me to try?"

His body shook as he laughed, the sound so unfamiliar it made Alyssa's heart stop. She couldn't look away, caught in this moment of madness and peculiarity and something she never wanted to know the name of. Aemond held her gaze.

"I seem to no longer know the answer to this question."

Then, it was all gone. Perhaps it had never truly been there.

Aemond pushed something into her hand. She frowned, regarding the paper, confused. He was already walking away; unconsciously, she reached out to grasp his cloak. It was just a sleeve. Fabric. And yet, maybe foolishly, she trembled. His skin was close—if she chose to, she could easily slide her hand downward. It would take seconds to find it; to feel the scorching heat.

Eyes wide, she withdrew her palm.

"What is it?" Because her voice sounded foreign, Alyssa cleared her throat. A beat before she attempted to speak again, if only for all fire to die out inside her veins. "A rune? It does not look like anything Valyrian."

"Because it is not."

His answers always seemed to elicit more questions. She knew better than to ask them all. Instead, she chose one. "What does that mean?"

"Do you not trust me?" A ridicule, surely, even when his face remained a stone. "Carved into flesh and written in blood. This one is for healing."

After that came heavy wings and waves. Blindfyre no longer reacted to Vhagar at all. To ponder on this meant acknowledging the sudden shift in everything, and it was easier to leave it untouched. Undefined. A nothing.

With one last look in her direction, he halted. He was all darkness. "Weapons suit you, even if you won't use them."

His own had remained sheathed the entire time.

To heal was to give.

Blood was a sufficient gift provided that the intent was pure. Blood shared willingly. Blood drained in silent pain.

The words kept ringing in Alyssa's ears. She'd read them three times, and twice aloud; they echoed through the pit.

The written instruction was all she found on the parchment. Above them, a crimson drawing, resembling nothing she'd ever seen. Symbols and shapes, Aemond had said, and there it was—right before her. Ready to be used. Waiting.

If there were any doubts, this was no longer the time for them to surface. Hadn't she decided long ago?

To heal was to give. She had been prepared for a long time—whatever the sacrifice.

The dagger felt heavier than ever before when she put it to her palm. One last look at Blindfyre, his head resting at her feet, body shivering, made her bite her tongue as the steel sliced through skin. In silent pain, she stopped the whimper rising in her throat.

She ignored his wail, even when her entire body shook. With a steady hand, she forced him to open his jaws, pushing at the scales until he stopped fighting. She never truly thought of the size of the beast until now. If he chose to, Blindfyre could devour her. It would be so easy—terrifyingly so—to sink the sharp teeth into bone. When she stood there, it was easy to understand those who could never know dragons the way a Targaryen did.

To heal was to give. She put her bleeding palm into the dragon's jaws, fingers caressed by heat. With her left hand, she brushed against his snout. It warmed against her skin, deep rumble from the dragon's chest reverberating against stone. When she squeezed the palm, blood dripped onto his teeth and tongue, droplet following another.

To heal was to give, and there was nothing Alyssa would abstain from.

When it was done, she removed her hand. Blindfyre couldn't see her—had never been able to—but she swore she felt the heaviness of his gaze. Slowly, she breathed out.

She had a rune to draw.

#aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen #ao3 fanfic #hotd

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 8

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place—cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, canon character(s) death, canon divergence, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 6.1k

notes: so… it’s been a while. i hope you’re all still here, though.

english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated.  also on ao3 and wattpad.

It was the smell that hit her first when she mounted the beast—the stench of rotting flesh and smoke so heavy it nearly made her retch.

When she put her hands on the hot scales, her fingers found torn pieces of skin still dampened by fresh blood. With a bile in her throat, Alyssa shut her eyes. Not seeing the damage didn't seem to make it hurt any less. Blindfyre reeked of death; if she chose to look, she'd see it, too, and nothing filled her with dread more than that thought.

She forced herself to stay still; forced her body into submission, fighting the urge to flee, if only to find fresh air. Within her mind, she travelled back to the warm days in the middle of summer and endless fields where she'd sit with Rhaena, grass staining their dresses green, flowery scent providing solace. Her sister would spend hours trying to teach her the names of the flowers, never discouraged by Alyssa's repeated mistakes. There, under the sun, they'd braid each other's hair and weave delicate petals into the plaits. Fingers dirtied with soil, they'd laugh and sing and be, and nothing could ruin it. They were safe and together, and together felt invincible. There had never been any spilled blood, then. Their hands and minds had been clean, void of permanent stains. Alyssa wished it had stayed like this forever; wished she'd never known the unbearable smell of copper and shade of crimson beneath her nails, and fear so overwhelming it squeezed her chest, claws digging into her heart, attempting to pull it out.

Days like that were long gone; now, it felt as though the sun would never shine again. Now, all the flowers were dead. But they were alive, she reminded herself, eyes focused on Blindfyre. They were still alive.

There was no icy wind to bite into her cheeks, and yet they hurt nonetheless, perhaps burned by the scorching tears that left wet trails behind. It felt, she realised, just like her very first time on dragonback had—unsteady breath, racing heart, trembling palms. She had been crying then, too, although the tears hadn't tasted of bitterness. It felt like her last, when Blindfyre's wings seemed too weak to slice through air. They shook as they moved, any balance and stability forgotten; without the security of straps, Alyssa would have long fallen off. Ages ago, she would ridicule them, always so full of the desperate wish to not be separated from bare dragon scales, the want to feel them underneath her skin. She'd demand the saddle be removed, if only for one flight, to truly become one being with Blindfyre. Her father, though, never allowed it, adapting the kind of tone that Alyssa couldn't quite muster the courage to disobey. Now, the saddle between their bodies she had once hated became a promise of safety. It was more than a little ironic. Almost everything these days was.

Once, what now felt like a mere whisper of not yet bloodied past, too distant to be clear anymore, the sky had been a safe haven. Now the air shook, the swaying no longer comfortable; even the moon, so enchanting in the way it brushed through the coal wings and silver strands, seemed to mock her. Alyssa never looked away from the pale, shining spot—not if she could help it, too mesmerised to pay attention to anything else but the way her heart swelled, reaching higher, always higher, to one day touch it. But the moon was no longer a companion, only a stranger, and even with thousands of stars lightning up the skies, Alyssa was all alone.

The arrival at the remote island was almost entirely separated from reality, as though Alyssa had become caught in one of her nightmares, awaiting an escape from its clutches. Blindfyre had moved on his own, not once demanding her assistance, driven by motives that remained unspoken yet understood by them both. She had sensed his desperation; had felt it deep inside her own chest, in the way her breath would hitch in sync with his. He had been fast—faster than ever before, and than she had known him capable of. There had been no grace in the way he moved; no illusion of composure, for he never needed to act in front of her. His heart was her own, after all.

And when they touched down, the feeling that came in crashing waves was unmistakable—could not be taken for anything else. Hope, Alyssa realised. The dragon, all pure heart and burning blood, and on the verge of falling, still breathed with hope.

And if there was any indication that she ought to feel the same, it was this—her and the beast, two pairs of eyes forever connected, a touch so brief it didn’t even feel real if not for the fluttering of her skin.

For a short moment, there was only peace. For a short moment, Alyssa believed that his hope would become her own.

Stupidly, and only for a second, Alyssa wished to remain in this place; away from all the duty that had left its dark mark on her heart and soul; away from her family who, recently, only ever made her miserable. And away from grief and hurting, for there was so much of it—too much, perhaps, for her soul. Only the two of them, safely hidden from the rest of the world, and still breathing. But then she remembered the nature of the island and the threat that was to come. She remembered the wrath that had made her nearly blind; the anger that had forced her hand to push the dagger further; the shame that had been her only companion in the last days. And she knew—of course, she knew—that the island was no refuge; no shelter, nor a safe place. It was her doom. It was a downfall, a ruination—a true disaster. Hope tended to shatter in places like this, too fragile to persist.

It was all the more real when her eyes, at last, caught sight of a lone figure. Even though she'd known the purpose of the travel, seeing him still made her heart stop, a bile of unruly wrath in her throat.

Aemond Targaryen, she noted, moved as swiftly as smoke. His steps were as sharp as they were fluid; a constant motion, unwavering and confident, and so, so full of composure. It vexed her; made her mouth twist in a heavy grimace. His head was still held high—ever confident, always self-assured. He could have been long dead, she remembered; could have fallen by her hand alone. It was her own mistake that had allowed him to live. It was her weakness, the weight of it nearly unbearable, that had made her fail. And there he was, proud as ever, still breathing when Lucerys Velaryon was gone. This thought, she knew, was better kept tucked away deeper within her mind. There was no more time for recklessness and mistakes.

It was a vicious circle—thoughts of doubt and betrayal turned into rage, and then once more leading to utter weakness. She was tired of it—tired of herself, and so thought it best to focus only on Blindfyre. He was the one who had brought her here, and the one she trusted most. If her heart and mind were to remain in one piece, it was only through the belief she had in her dragon. He, of all beings in the world, would not lead her to death. He, alone, would not become her downfall. Her soul had long since been torn into pieces, but he remained the only part of her that was still untouched, not yet corrupted by the darkness. And for him, she would fight—hundreds of battles, if need be, for he was worth every drop of blood.

If Alyssa were to search for any semblance of comfort, she'd find it in his face. Aemond looked paler than ever, the uncovered eye weary, the skin around it dark and purplish, as though he, too, could not sleep, haunted by nightmares or, perhaps, hating himself. There was something different about him now—a sense of unhinged, fierce chaos that was evident in the way he looked at her. The violet had a touch of wild fury about it; it was so intense it could burn. They said, after all, that all still waters had a danger to them; that the safety was but a scheme to lure fools in. Now, without the distance, the waters started to thrash. And Alyssa watched him in silence and forbidden fascination, because the sight of him gradually stripped off the feigned composure gave her, at the very least, crumbs of victory.

As always, he was clad in black. It was somewhat amusing that the man who had begun the war—who had first spilled blood—did not ordain himself in rich greens he represented. The leathers clung tightly to his lean body; they fit him perfectly, as skin would. And his hands—the stupidly long fingers—were calloused and still, with only one of them covered by a glove. She recognised it, for it was she who carried the missing one. It remained inside her pocket—a reminder of the lack of limits he held when it came to abusing her privacy, inserting himself into her life with a ferocious force. It seemed so long ago that he had entered her chambers in the Red Keep, as though a lifetime had passed; as though they were now completely different people. And perhaps it was the truth of it, because Alyssa no longer felt like the girl who had sneaked through dark corridors. And this game—the one bloomed between them like a forbidden flower, and for their eyes alone—had taken a different turn. No longer a mere children's play, but something more. Something dangerous.

“You came.”

“Did you hope I wouldn't?” There was no trace of a fight in her voice. She knew she sounded like a fallen soldier; someone long defeated. Weak, and no longer burning. Aemond seemed to enjoy seeing her this way, for his lip twitched, as though pleased with the sight. She wouldn't allow him to cherish it in silence, and so pushed further to break it. Break him. “Kinslayer?”

The word, even when spat and accompanied by the coldest of stares, did little to cut him. Alyssa saw it in his eye—the violet remained unfazed, a polished, perfected statue frozen in time.

“Oh, I knew you would.” He drawled the words almost lazily, but there was a rasp in his voice, a glint in his eye, and Alyssa held onto it with utmost care, desperate for the reminder that he was only a man, not one of her nightmares. “You are many things, but not a fool.”

She hated the way he spoke, as though above any and all emotions. She wanted him to break. She wanted to be the one to break him.

“No.” Her voice was loud enough for him to hear, or maybe he came to stand close enough. As always, distance was not something Aemond Targaryen seemed to have much desire for. Not in her presence, at least. She recognised it for what it truly was—an act of intimidation, a desperate want for her to shatter underneath the weight of his intense stare. She wouldn't give it to him. She wouldn't. “Only one of us is a fool.”

Alyssa's anger only grew stronger, a wild wave in the storm or a lightning itching to strike or both at once, when she noticed a trace of silent, unspoken amusement on his otherwise impassive face. She had no intention to entertain him. It seemed, though—like always, when it was just the two of them—that her intentions and wishes mattered not.

When he moved, all she could do was watch and wait, breath held in her burning lungs, words dying in her mouth. His cloak brushed her knees and thighs, his body looming over as he circled her. It was less than seconds and more than decades, calm and chaos, before Aemond stood right behind her. He was close—so close that, even if Alyssa had only ever associated him with dreadful coldness, now the warmth radiating from his body nearly pushed her to her knees. Whatever sound tried to escape her throat, she stubbornly held it in. When Aemond's hand came to brush through her hair, Alyssa bit into her tongue.

It seemed that they were still playing the game, then. She wondered what victory would taste like.

“Brave girl,” a mere whisper, but spoken right into her ear, long fingers tucking silver strands behind it as if to gain better access. She hated when he called her that, for it always sounded like an insult. “And yet... I cannot help but wonder what lies you've fed your family with.” His hold tightened, barely so, but enough for Alyssa's head to involuntarily move. Their faces were too close. “Do they even know you left your tower?”

Alyssa was tired of many things, but the reminder of what had become of her family—what secrets she had come to keep from them all like a filthy traitor—wearied her down the most. She knew that, if they ever found out, she'd be long locked inside the castle, all remnants of freedom stripped away. They'd take Blindfyre from her; take the very last thing that offered solace and kept her sane. And though the chains around her neck and wrists would be invisible, she'd feel them with every step and breathe until she'd grow tired of breathing altogether. Maybe it would be better. Wherever she went, either way, she was trapped.

“The most scandalous act for a lady, sneaking off in the middle of the night to meet with a man she should fear,” he continued, and so did his hands. Bewildered, Alyssa noticed that, somewhere in the middle of his speech, he'd started braiding her hair. His breath was hot on her cheek. “Do they know?”

She hated him. She hated him and still stood frozen, his hands on her and why, why would he touch her? Why wouldn't he stop? Why wouldn't she step away?

“Why?” Finally, finally her mouth moved. Alyssa was ashamed to notice her voice cracked; ashamed to know that he noticed, too. “Have you lured me in here to kill me?”

She both heard and felt the hum that came from his throat, low and deep and scorching, his chest moving against her spine.

“It is tempting,” Aemond murmured. His fingers stopped moving and, for just a second, she could breathe once more. “A firstborn for a firstborn, yes? And it would be so easy, having your pretty little head delivered to your father.”

Alyssa was indeed not a fool, and although his words made little sense, she could think of an explanation. She knew her father; knew what he was capable of. She knew his rage, for it was in her blood. Something must have happened—a crime, perhaps, committed in secret, with the advantage of being away from Dragonstone. A firstborn for a firstborn.

It seemed Daemon Targaryen needed no permission from the Queen, then. Perhaps Alyssa was wretched—evil and beyond redemption—because something sick and twisted that seemed a lot like satisfaction crawled around in her heart.

Make them hurt. Make them feel the pain, all of it, until there's nothing more. Make them fall.

And what hurts more than the pain of losing a child?

“Oh, but you don't know, do you?” There it was again, the mocking note in his voice, encouraged by her silence, the vicious squeeze when his hand abruptly found her throat. “Has he not mentioned his crimes, then? Kinslayer. You do seem to enjoy the name so much.”

If only she could reach the dagger she'd hidden underneath all the suffocating leathers clinging to her skin; if only she could take his tongue, never to hear his voice again. It was the same voice that would haunt her in dreams, the one that whispered in her ear when she felt the weakest. In the nightmares, she could never escape it—it seemed to echo through her entire body, as though long woven into bones and flesh, sunken so deep there was no way of destroying it. She could run and scream and cry, and he'd laugh and claw at her throat, leaving her voiceless, always whispering and humming, a low vibration taking over all her senses.

In her dreams, he'd always win. But this wasn't a dream and his hand, although just as cold as the one from her nightmares, wasn't squeezing with enough force.

“Do not,” she rasped, somewhere between breathless and caught in a foolish hope for victory, “speak of my father.”

“Why not?” His grip tightened and Alyssa knew that his fingers would leave prints, all air escaping her chest, panic seizing her thoughts. “Does it hurt, sweet girl? Knowing he's every bit the murderer I am? Are you still so repulsed?”

Repulsed. Oh, how little he knew her. Perhaps one day he'd understand just how delighted she was to know that they paid—that they'd keep paying for what they'd done. But his hand wouldn't stop squeezing, forcefully grabbing at her neck, still and harsh and greedy, and yet… the pressure was not enough to truly hurt her. As though the whole act served the purpose of proving something. Proving that, if provoked, he could attack. And he would.

“Whatever it is he did,” Alyssa spat, “you started this. Every drop of blood that follows is on your hands.”

Finding the courage, she slowly tilted her head, enough to find his gaze, cold and already on her—always on her. Alyssa knew that staring would do little to make him falter. Still, she refused to look away. He had started this game, just like he'd started the bloodshed. She wouldn't let him think he was winning.

When his hand fell down, only to be next replaced with a sword at her neck, so rapidly she had barely noted the movement at all, Alyssa betrayed no surprise, for it was all so predictable she wanted to laugh and cry and make him fall, make him lose, make it all end.

She couldn't—wouldn't—panic. She refused to give him any indication that he'd managed to frighten her once more. If there was something that Alyssa understood about Aemond at all, it was that he wouldn't kill her without a purpose. Their game had yet to end—he seemed to be enjoying it too much to free her now. He wouldn't hurt her; not here, not this moment.

“Step back.”

It was a small mercy that Vhagar was nowhere in sight, but a mercy nonetheless. Blindfyre screeched loudly somewhere in the background; she knew that if the other beast was present, the battle for dominance would be lost. Blindfyre was already falling, collapsing, disappearing—leaving her all alone, just the way everyone else had. But she could still stop this. She still had time.

“Only if you ask nicely.” He was taunting her again, moving to stand in front, tall and dark, the tip of the blade still on her throat. “All you have to do is say please.”

“I don't beg.” Not him, never him; she'd die before giving in, before the shame and darkness and guilt swallowed her. “And I'm not afraid of you.”

Aemond smiled; the sight made Alyssa's fingers tremble. Still, as always, he seemed satisfied with her answer, for he lowered the sword, taking a step back.

“No, you're not.” It lasted only a short moment, but he looked away from her face to watch the blade instead, and it was enough for Alyssa to force the suffocating panic out of her mind. He was still smiling, thin lip lazily curled, face carved in harsh lines and sharp angles. He spoke silently, and she was once more reminded of how close he still was. She heard every single word falling from his mouth. “But you will be.”

It had become a habit, she realised—the repeated promises of violence they exchanged. Sometimes, when her eyes refused to shut and mind desperately grasped for consciousness, fighting against sleep, she would wonder whether said promises were empty. Sometimes, she'd dream of fulfilling them.

She hadn't even noticed his hand reaching into one of his pockets until Aemond was holding something. Alyssa squinted, only now reminded of just how dark it was; how late, how far from any living soul. How foolish she had been to come. How she could have been long dead, left at his mercy because of her own stupidity. But her heart was still beating, and whatever it was that Aemond was holding between his long, pale fingers wasn't a weapon.

“Here's a token of our newfound friendship,” he drawled, something odd and unfamiliar and more than a little unsettling sparkling in his eye. “You may keep the book for now. Either way, it is of no use to me.”

It looked like—

“A piece of paper?” As another wave of anger erupted from her chest to spread through veins, Alyssa briefly wondered if Blindfyre felt it, too, and with equal intensity; if his hope was gone. “This is not what I came here for, Kinslayer.”

He shook his head, silver strands moving around, brushed by the wind. His sword disappeared in its sheath; gloved hand flexing, as though debating whether to once more close around her neck or not. When his eye found hers again, Alyssa didn't flinch.

“You came here because you need me.” The words felt like a little death; silence disturbed by striking lightning. They sounded like truth. Alyssa decided, then, that she hated the truth, too. “I came because I enjoy seeing you desperate. So conflicted… hating me and knowing you cannot stop coming back for more.”

More. There was always more, wasn't there? More pain and fear, more nightmares to come that Alyssa was sure would take the shape of Aemond as he looked now, staring her down. More yearning for his downfall, as well. More hoping that one day, he'd be gone.

Aemond's gaze moved to Blindfyre. Only then did Alyssa realise the beast came closer, so close that if he chose to spread his wings, they'd brush against her side. She couldn't look at him; not now, when she still remembered his blood and wounds, and how his condition only seemed to worsen. Even when she held her breath, Alyssa was hit by the stench.

“Look at the state of him.” Aemond was not foolish enough to come closer to the dragon, tilting his head instead, eye narrowing. “Can you smell death, too?” His wicked grin widened, all sharp teeth and cruel sparkle, an image as sinister as it was violent. He was enjoying this. Enjoying her pain. “No need to be greedy, Alyssa. You'll be back for more, will you not?”

If only he'd choke on her name, her soul would be freed. How ridiculous it was—the realisation that she had willingly allowed him to trap her in the middle of whatever this mess meant, if it had any meaning other than death at all. Alyssa grimaced but said nothing, watching the proud smirk, imagining dragging her nails through the length of his face, drawing blood. He was right—of course, he was. Aemond Targaryen, always the one with upper hand; forever two steps ahead, all her responses seemingly long carved inside his mind, predictable and awaited. He needed no answer.

“You'd do well to run off now.” The gloved hand reached her cheek without any hesitation. It was ice and fire and nothing and all, and Alyssa couldn't, wouldn't understand. It seemed smarter not to. “I cannot promise I'll behave if you stay.”

Her mouth twisted, a heavy bile in her throat.

“You'd do well to remember I want you dead.” Alyssa refused to yield, to lower her gaze, to let her voice shake. “And you will die. The moment you stop being useful, I'll slice your throat.”

Just like she should have; just like she had failed to do.

Aemond looked like he was remembering her last defeat, too; he let out a short laugh that made her blood freeze.

“Your sweet promises have little meaning.” He was moving away, out of her reach, and if only she had enough courage to once more take out her dagger— “And yet I always want more.”

As a child, Alyssa feared the night; the loneliness and the darkness, and the onslaught of gloomy dread. Now, though, it was only then that she was given freedom. As she held the paper in her trembling hands, she knew she'd never be brave enough to look at it in daylight.

It was an old parchment, eaten away by years and splattered in dust. So fragile a simple touch could ruin it.

A crimson print right in the centre, as though someone had pressed a cut finger to leave a mark.

Letters, now faded and blurred, the penmanship nowhere near what Alyssa had been taught was acceptable. Her septa would most likely grimace at the sight, lamenting over the lack of propriety and elegance, and such blatant disregard for the noble art of literacy.

Only one word, right below the blood stain.

Runes.

“Rhae—Your Grace.”

It was odd to see her; Alyssa didn't even realise how many days had passed without Rhaenyra's presence.

It seemed all people did lately was abandon her. She had no right to feel it, none at all, and yet irritation burned through her skin in growing flames. Her father had left, Rhaena had learned to lock the doors to her chambers, and Rhaenyra had disappeared completely. Now, days and nights and what felt like entire lifetimes later, she stood before her with no trace of remorse on her face.

But she'd lost a child, and Alyssa was not hers. She wasn't anyone's, and so any demands she carried in her chest had no right to exist at all.

“Walk with me?” It was not an order, not really, but falling from the lips of the Queen herself, no protests could ever have come from Alyssa's lips. “Have you eaten today? You look so pale.”

Alyssa hated the way her heart jumped in delight when Rhaenyra's arm linked with her own, urging her to join in the seemingly aimless stroll through the corridors. She'd been gone, yes, but now she was there. And she cared. She still cared.

Maybe, just maybe, Alyssa was hers, too. Not in a direct sense; not how a child belongs to a mother. But by choice. Perhaps it meant something.

Or maybe she was deluding herself so as to not crumble and shatter completely, alone, alone, alone.

“I'm well.” She saw Rhaenyra silently raise her thin eyebrow, as though challenging her to confess what was on her mind. But she couldn't. “Truly,” Alyssa insisted. “And… I doubt this is what you wish to discuss.”

For just a moment, she wished it was. She selfishly wished Rhaenyra's only goal was to check on her, to hold her hand and brush a hand through her hair and promise everything would be alright. The realisation of just how greedy she'd become for any affection left bitterness in her mouth. It tasted like shame.

“I spoke with Rhaenys. She's told me of your dreadful ideas. Alyssa, how could you even think of it? Do you have no care for yourself?”

“It is to my understanding that whatever I decide, it ought to be worth it. And would it not be worth it, having such forces on our side? We need this.”

“We need to stay alive.” Her voice was so cold Alyssa could barely recognise it. “This is our priority. I will not lose more. No more.” Somewhere along the way, they’d stopped moving, now frozen in an unspoken battle of gazes. Rhaenyra’s lips were downturned, her eyes wet with tears she refused to let go of. “I look at you and see him. Every time. You have all his rage, and I fear it will ruin you.”

Shame and guilt, still there, heavy on her shoulders; Alyssa lowered her eyes.

“Rage might just keep me alive, even in the hands of a Greyjoy.”

“No. Your father would never consent to this, and neither do I.”

She was so tired, so tired.

“Your Grace—”

“I will not give you to him. Not to him.” And oh, what a fool she’d been to think she could ever argue with the Queen herself and win. “Are you truly this opposed to Winterfell?”

Sometimes, she wished for Winterfell and House Stark to burn, if only to free herself from the overbearing sense of duty and everyone who tried to force her to accept this. A dutiful lady, thrown away from the warmth of her castle, pushed to her knees in front of a lord who would own her. A wife—no longer a woman or a dragon, living the rest of her days in the shadow of her husband who would win all the battles in exchange for her heart.

There was no place for flames within snow.

“What would you have me do?” How pathetic it was to hear her voice crack; how disappointing to know she’d lost all control. She felt so small, so weak and fragile, and yet would not yield. “A dragon in the north; a Targaryen singing songs of both fire and ice?”

Rhaenyra froze. Alyssa watched the rigidity of her body with silent curiosity, waiting for her next words, knowing that she had not yet lost. Perhaps, at the very least, she could delay the inevitable.

“Just—think about it. Time and time again, if need be. Discuss it with the council; write your father.” The Queen moved slowly, looking at her over her shoulder, eyes cold and hard and belonging to a true ruler. “Alyssa. Swear it.”

And in spite of the shame and anger, and the constant urge to flee and never return, Alyssa knew it was not wise to stand against the Queen herself any longer, and so she whispered, “I swear.”

Before the Queen left, before Alyssa was—once again—all alone, she managed to speak, the words uttered without much thought.

“Is this all I'll forever be reduced to? My father's rage?”

There was something in Rhaenyra's eyes that reminded Alyssa of the forever burning wildfire, confined within walls and never spreading but always burning, too strong to fade.

“You want to be more?” The small smile that appeared on her face was touched by a sense of secrecy Alyssa yearned to understand, as though Rhaenyra knew something she herself did not, and cruelly chose not to say it. “Prove it.”

She'd spent most of the day with Baela, cherishing the silence that seemed to be the dominant theme of their relationship. It was nice, she supposed, to not talk and be forced to listen. There was nothing to say anymore, and words had long ceased to be a comfort, or even matter at all.

The thought of old parchments and blood stains and words she couldn't understand gradually drove her to the edge, a constant chattering in her mind that Alyssa tried her best to ignore. This was what Aemond wanted—he'd planted a seed of insanity inside her mind, waiting for it to become a wildfire and eat her from the inside. Waiting for her to burn and fall, all to win his own game.

She hated him. Sometimes, in moments like this, she hated herself, too. She hated Blindfyre and the weakness of her own heart. She was full of despair. And rage. Always rage, so sweet and enchanting, flowing through her veins, beating alongside her heart. But her rage alone could not win a war. It hadn't even been enough to ensure a victory in one battle.

Runes. She had no idea what it meant, but knew it must mean something; more, perhaps, than she realised. Enormous and rich as they were, the libraries of Dragonstone had no answers to Alyssa's unspoken questions. She'd searched through the books and archives, desperate to understand, left instead with more crippling doubt and blooming anxiety. She knew what would come next—she had known from the beginning. Her head hurt, a dull ache against her skull, at the thought of Aemond's triumphant grin that was sure to grace his face when she returned to the island, a willing prisoner, a martyr begging for more pain.

Before it came to that, though, there were still other fights she could try and win. And so, just like she’d planned, she left Baela’s side with a short goodbye the moment her eyes landed on the person she’d awaited to see. Her steps were nearly frantic, she realised, but there was no time to dwell on the thought. As always, both her limbs and mouth moved faster than her own brain, as though her body had decided to make all the necessary decisions without allowing for any doubt.

“Maester.”

He looked startled enough to cover the following unease that washed over his wrinkled face, but the one second it lasted for was enough for Alyssa to notice it. She furrowed her eyebrows, pondering over her next action. Maester Aulis kept watching her, frozen in a spot. She wondered what he thought of when he looked at her; wondered if he felt dread over what'd come next. Perhaps he feared her in the way ordinary men feared dragons. Perhaps he thought he'd burn.

“My lady,” he said, only a short moment too late to be appropriate, nodding in greeting.

She could do this. She would do this. Swallowing her pride meant little when it was her own life she was fighting for. There was no one else to do it for her; a battle against execution, and it was hers and only hers. Alyssa squared her shoulders and fixed her posture before stepping closer to the man.

“I wish to speak to you, if you have the time.”

If Rhaena had been there to see the expression on his face, she would have burst out laughing, chuckles echoing through the walls and eyes widening, a dance of warm violet and scorching light. Rhaena wasn't there, though—hadn't been in a long time—and Alyssa never enjoyed laughing without her.

“O-of course, my lady.” He nodded eagerly. “I admit, I did not think you'd wish to talk to me, what with my… unacceptable behaviour.”

“I will speak honestly with you, as you have done with me,” Alyssa said, fumbling over her own words, spoken so quickly that, for a moment, she feared the man couldn't understand them at all. But his expression softened, if only a bit, and it was enough for Alyssa to feel lighter.

“I would appreciate that.”

Unacceptable behaviour, he'd said, as though expecting her to chastise him or announce a punishment. But Alyssa knew the truth—even when it hurt. She couldn't afford to live in blissful ignorance anymore.

“A room full of men who have named themselves council, and you were the only one to speak the truth.” There were tears of silent anger in her eyes and she blinked them away. “Rhea Rhoyce was not my mother, and neither was Laena Velaryon. It is true that I was born a bastard. And it is true that the King's word tends to fall upon deaf ears, especially in those who have bent their knees to the usurper.”

When he remained silent, Alyssa knew that she'd have to admit to needing his help—however much it stung; despite the crimson sneaking up upon her cheeks.

“You were the only one who didn't fear the truth, and this is why I come to you for advice.” She was certain her lip had started bleeding from the pressure of her teeth. But she couldn't stop. Not now. Perhaps not ever. “Whatever you say… I will try to listen.”

Maester Aulis looked equally surprised and intrigued, and Alyssa sensed that, somewhere deep inside, the man was proud of himself. Once more, he nodded; the gesture seemed all the more genuine when, for the very first time since she'd met him, he offered a smile.

“Very well.” As though overcoming his own anxiety, his eyes finally met hers. “Know, my lady, that it is an honour.”

And there it was. A testament of the bittersweet more—more than just rage, more than a mirror image of Daemon Targaryen, more than a bastard or a dragon or something between the two. She could only hope this more would prove to be enough.

#aemond smut #aemond x oc #aemond fic #hotd #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #house of the dragon #targaryen!oc #daemon targaryen #ao3 fanfic

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 7

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MASTERLIST

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place—cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, canon character(s) death, canon divergence, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 5.7k

notes: i wish you all merry christmas! stay safe and healthy<3

english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated.  also on ao3 and wattpad.

Alyssa had been aware of her father's presence long before he spoke.

Her chambers had allowed silence to descend upon them, a place turned desolate but for the lone figure now constantly surrounded by unnatural darkness, and so they had subsided into the stillness that did little to calm Alyssa's disorganised soul. The room was suspended in a pristine state, chaotic and peaceful both, and the only mess indicating anyone's residence was visible on the bed she had not left for a long time. She was tired—so tired—yet she dared not let her eyes fall shut. Whatever nightmares would plague her, they were surely more foreboding than the troubling fatigue.

For three nights, she'd remained awake.

In the rare moments weariness had managed to successfully shatter her defences, the images she saw were ones of eternal horrors and emerald flames. And blood—an endless flow of it—both her own and of those she loved. It would fall in heavy drops on her skin and sink inside, somewhere underneath it; steal away both sight and smell, destroy the last of her senses, and push her to her knees. She would stay like this, trapped and unable to move, robbed of ways to escape. A laughter would reach her earshot—always the same, and one she knew well. Cold hands would come to her throat and mercilessly choke; squeeze harder and harder, enough for the sensation to become real. Only when the last of breath left her lungs would she awaken.

A premonition of imminent disaster; a prophecy of suffering. The nightmares were heavy with a message Alyssa understood and wanted to forget, and although she was no dreamer and could not foresee the future, she'd kept fighting against sleep.

No one but Inid had come to her chambers since her return to Dragonstone. All of the residents, she suspected, remained within the confines of their rooms, struggling with demons of their own. She was not ready to face her family, and so the sense of solitude was welcomed with silent gratitude. Alyssa had no desire to once more watch Rhaenyra crumble under the weight of loss; Rhaena give into darkness. Staying away from reality was easier. Escaping the pain was less complicated.

Here, in her bed, forgetting about what had happened was relatively simple—if such thing as simplicity existed anymore. Halls and corridors were too suffocating, still carrying the remains of Luke's memory. It was as though he'd never truly left—as though he remained trapped in a phantom form, a prisoner to the castle, a haunting reminder of grief. And Visenya, her little sister who had never been allowed her first breath—she, too, stayed within the walls, her soft cries that had never come now echoing through stairwells. With every step came agony; with every move, a striking shame of failure. Because Alyssa had failed—had lost the most significant of all battles. The tip of her dagger had sank into skin deep enough to draw blood; she had been ready.

And still, instead of slicing his throat, she had allowed the once more victorious Aemond Targaryen to live.

Foolish girl and her traitorous mind, and will weakened by affections of heart.

The defeat felt all the more real with her father inside the chambers. There were not many things in the realm Alyssa cared much for; she'd never been the one to allow others' opinions trouble her mind and poison thoughts with weakness. But her father—the first person she'd come to love, the one she always sought to have swelling with unmasked pride… to let him down felt like a knife to the chest. If she had told him of her utter failure, would he have looked at her with palpable repugnance? Would his displeasure have taken the form of ice-cold gaze, chilling to the bone and stripping her off of any last semblance of comfort? Would it, instead, have come as a burning flame of rage? If her guilt was admitted—confessed to him alone, here, where they could not be overheard—would he come to regret the fondness he'd given?

“Is there something you wanted to say, Father?”

She desperately wanted to remain stone-faced, perfectly within the poise of indifference. But, as always, the act fell short in front of him. Her voice was shaky and breathless, and so, so small; her hands trembled as she buried them beneath the blanket, ashamed of the visible torment; ashamed of herself.

“I will be leaving to Harrenhal.”

Harrenhal. Of course, he would leave. She had known it would come to this; it was not at all unexpected. This—fire and blood and chaos all over—was war. Whatever sacrifices would be asked of them, they'd do well to push forward and try their hardest not to fall. Victory, after all, was not ensured. Nothing was anymore.

And yet the thought of him being away, slaying the enemy, engaging in battles and schemes and crimes–

Alyssa bit her lip to cover the noise of despair.

“When I'm gone, you are to take my seat in council meetings.”

At this, she couldn't control the way her eyes snapped wide open, lips parted in a gasp. Surely, he didn't mean it; surely, she wouldn't actually be allowed to be present in the most significant of all chambers on Dragonstone. This was not another part of her duty.

Just a pawn, she remembered.

And yet…

“You will listen and learn,” Daemon continued, his steps unwavering as he came closer. The light radiating from the torches warmed his hair, now a golden whisper around his face. “You are to let them advise you, though I have no doubt you will not make the task easy. And when you're ready, you will have what you wished for: a choice. Only yours to make.”

There it was, Alyssa thought bitterly. Would she ever learn to stop letting her greedy, imaginative mind feed her with false sense of hope? Would it ever cease to betray her?

“Of course.” Her words were no longer silent and unsure when she spat them out, eyes regaining some of the lost blaze. “Of course that's what it's about. Everything is about this. You have, after all, made it clear that I have no use outside of the bed of some noble lord.”

Although his face remained rather impassive, the closeness between them allowed Alyssa a glimpse of uncertainty in his eyes. It meant nothing, had no true importance, but still made her feel just a bit less abandoned; less lonely amidst ashes of demands and obligations, and the waves of expectations that seemed to have no limits.

“I do not wish to depart in quarrel.” Her father's hand briefly raised to the crown of her head, long fingers brushing through the unruly curls that had fallen to her forehead. “This defiance of yours must end now. Accept this and forgo your anger. It will be easier.”

“Have you ever forgone yours?”

It must have hurt, she realised, because he visibly flinched and his palm fell down.

And she knew he hadn't; not even once in all his life, perhaps. Because anger was the very essence of their souls; wrath and fire, veins always burning, minds full of tangled thoughts and visions of smoke. They had always been alike—a father and his firstborn, a mirror image, fragments so similar they could easily fit into one piece. She liked to imagine their hearts to have the very same shape. She wondered, now, if she, too, was doomed for a lifetime of consuming wrath.

“If I had,” spoken in a mere whisper, “perhaps things would be different.”

Once more, she was cold, and the sudden chilliness made her cover her arms underneath the blanket. Her father looked ready to leave. It meant battles and death, yes, but to her, most of all—it meant he was truly abandoning her.

And it hurt. It would, perhaps, forever hurt to know how easy it was for him to walk away; how there would always be things that could separate them.

“Be my eyes and ears. I trust you to take care of your family.” He looked at her with something unspoken, rarely expressed—and still, she understood. After all, Alyssa felt it, too, and with equal intensity.

Love, she thought when he placed a small kiss on her forehead. Both weakness and strength. Salvation and downfall. And fire. Always fire.

“A dragon has no need for fear. Do remember this.”

He crossed the distance to the door so quickly she'd barely blinked. Alyssa watched his hand on the doorknob, wishing not to see it at all.

“Stay safe,” she murmured, tearing her eyes away to not see him leave. “Please.”

“Always, dōna hāedar.”

And she prayed his words were not just words, but a promise.

There was a routine in the way Inid brushed Alyssa's hair; a schedule according to which she created intricate plaits on top of her head. This day, she left them mostly to their own devices—a mess of curls uncontrolled in the way they fell down onto her back. The maid hummed a silent song that had, over the years, become familiar to Alyssa. It was the only thing she remembered of her older sister, Inid had once confessed, and offered no other words on the matter.

The melody was pleasant enough to calm Alyssa's nerves—a short-timed refuge from the constant stream of ambivalence. As long as Inid's voice echoed through the room, Alyssa was allowed a moment of peace and freedom. It was a shelter; it kept her safe.

But it, just like all things good, couldn't last.

She didn't even bother to hide the frown that appeared upon her face when Inid stopped humming. The sudden silence was not a pleasant one; accompanied with the foreboding dread flowing through her veins, a squeeze of anxiety in chest.

Leaving the comfort of her chambers meant facing those she had failed.

“—although servants say the Princess Rhaenyra has yet to leave her bed,” Inid chatted conversationally, brush laid atop the drawer.

At this, Alyssa froze. With furrowed eyebrows, she turned her head just enough to catch sight of her maid's tan face. “She is your queen.”

And it was instant—the way all misfit thoughts returned to wreak havoc inside her mind. She was back to holding a bloodied dagger; back amidst the graveyard that had become of Dragonstone; back with smoke, smoke, smoke. And Inid—her friend—stood with her face blurred, no longer warm and recognisable and familiar. A stranger took her place, clad in darkness and threat. Alyssa tried to pay attention to the way Inid's face twisted into an expression of sheer fear—she failed, for she could no longer see anything but black and green.

“Forgive me, my lady. The Queen, of course, I meant the Queen.”

But whatever the stranger wearing her friend's face had to add fell upon deaf ears.

Once more, she felt utterly alone. The solitude had become the only thing she breathed these days; it terrorised her heart and soul, and broke bones repeatedly to then mend them back with false sense of optimism.

“Your septa is outraged,” Inid said some moments later, perhaps to rid of the uneasy silence. “I have never seen her in such distress. There is no one to listen to her complaints, so now she has made a habit of finding me each day, if only to chastise.”

“And does the septa realise it would be wiser to keep her mouth shut?” Alyssa murmured in response, though her gaze remained unfocused. “We are at war. I should think there are things more important than practicing embroidery. Unless, of course, she hopes our enemy will be swayed by my needlework.”

She was tired; of the reality, of herself and her conflicted conduct, and of those who thought themselves outside of the reach of swords. How stupid was the old woman to still think of adorning fabrics? Did she not yet understand?

“We may be at war, but the world does not stop,” was Inid's answer, “and neither does time. You will marry soon and—”

“You may leave.”

Just like that, Alyssa was spiralling back into the disorganised state of her consciousness. Just like that—so easily—she was once more reduced to a pawn in the big game. Inid must have realised it was wiser to do as she bid, aware of the coldness of Alyssa's tone. She gave a soft exhale, her fingers brushing through Alyssa's hair one last time before she left. After that, breathing was easier—if only for a fleeting moment.

When, some time later, she finally appeared inside the hall others had been waiting in, she immediately saw Baela. Her sister did not look much better than herself—eyes lowered, shoulders slouched, hands anxiously twisting and turning. She stood by Rhaenys, near to where Corlys Velaryon sat by the long, wooden table. There were more faces, too—those she knew and those she didn't; some of them maesters who had been living in the castle for years; some only recently having fled King's Landing to pledge their loyalty to the Queen Rhaenyra. All of them, though, looking very assured of themselves. Feeling, without a doubt, highly confident and sanguine.

She knew what would come now. Long conversations and plans; choices that could either save them or make them fall; ignorance of all pain, for there were things more important than grief. It was the time of true battles, for those carried by written words had long since faded, stolen away by Aemond Targaryen's strike. And now, whether by choice or birth, all of them were soldiers.

Pawns, pawns, pawns.

As instructed, it was she who sat down where her father would. Emboldened, or simply deprived of sleep for too long, Alyssa urged Baela to take the seat by her side, making it a point to unabashedly ignore the looks sent in their direction. Only when the silence stretched over, making her sister take a sharp inhale of discomfort, did Alyssa mutter a silent, “do continue, my lords.”

And if she were to judge by the quirk of Rhaenys's lips, the woman was at least a little amused by the commotion.

It was the fourth day since her return from the isolated island, and the thoughts of her betrayal had yet to vanish. They were still clear and coherent, all sharp lines and visible shapes, and the only thing that seemed understandable within her mind. His words still followed each of her steps—echoed through walls, buried themselves within her earshot, kept her awake amidst darkness. Only I can help you.

And the same words tuned out all mentions of Jacaerys and his travels to the Vale, White Harbor, and—at last—Winterfell. The prince had written to his mother and grandsire, all of his letters now collected and laid out in the centre of the table. Baela watched the paper with clear interest, as though just looking at it intensely would make Jace appear in the place of his penmanship. Alyssa knew it would be easier for Baela to have him here; it would serve as a reassurance, especially now that their father had left. She wondered if Baela, too, stayed awake at nights.

Then, she wondered if Rhaena kept evading nightmares that were sure to haunt her.

Facing Baela was relatively easy. Perhaps it was due to the years they had spent separated—the time they had been given to grow into their own beings, to find their true selves and explore their souls. They were sisters, but above all—they were two separate people, equal in some ways and completely different in others. Baela was not the one who had slowly, hesitatingly opened her heart to Alyssa; not the one who had gradually become something more than just a constant presence in her life. It was easy to sit by her side now, because where the torment and anguish would have been easily noticed by her twin sister, it went unseen by Baela.

To be forced in front of Rhaena, her sweet Rhaena, would hurt as much as a sharp dagger.

Failure.

One she'd forever remember; one which's weight she'd be forced to bear every night. One that left a permanent stain.

“—and there remains the matter of Lady Alyssa,” a voice stated, this time loud enough to break her out of the trace.

Still as stone, posture rigid, Alyssa turned her head to face the man who had spoken.

“It is to my understanding that we ought to seek a political alliance through marriage.” The man, she finally noticed, was maester Aulis, the one who had long since gone bald and whose whole face was eaten away by deep wrinkles. He was one of those who had arrived just after fleeing the capital and the reign of usurper. “However, we must remember her upbringing—”

“And what does that mean?”

Alyssa willed her voice to remain steady; expression to not betray a hint of anger. She had so much of it—so much—and yet knew it was better to preserve it.

“I meant no offence, my lady,” maester Aulis replied, his bony hand coming up and smoothing the skin on his forehead, “only it is crucial to consider that many in the realm still look down upon you. The matter is the most delicate one, and should be treated as such.”

The moments when Alyssa felt small were a rare occurrence. Whether a dragon or a pawn, she was always in the middle of whatever chaos had been thrown at them—and she was always Daemon Targaryen's daughter. She believed times when her name had been questioned to be gone; thought the matter long resolved, as dictated by the late king. And yet now, amidst crushing silence and pressure of the hot stares on her neck, she felt like a little girl once more—the same one who had caught servants spit her name in distaste. The one who could not understand—who begged her father for explanation, who wished to know why she'd ever be considered anything lesser.

Though the old man's words were subtle and carefully crafted, and ordained in soft-spoken poise of care, she recognised them for what they were—their true meaning, masked behind all the pretty politeness. A loud, public claim: he did not see her as one of those he came to serve.

Before she saw fire—before the silence lasted too long to be broken—Rhaenys spoke:

“When Viserys Targaryen sat the throne, were you loyal to him?”

Maester Aulis blinked a few times, as though not understanding the question. His hollow cheeks twitched; Alyssa saw his hands shake.

“Of course! You know this, Princess—”

“And did you consider his word true?” Rhaenys pushed, though her voice sounded no different than before—always calm and collected.

“Yes, Princess.” The man seemed to have lost all the previous confidence and sense of importance. His head was bowed; eyebrows furrowed in either anger or shame, lips twisted in a grimace.

Alyssa watched Rhaenys; paid most attention to the way the woman remained stood as though all of the realm was laid at her feet. The Queen Who Never Was, she remembered, and back came all the awe she had, long ago now, felt. Trapped in the mindset and feelings of a child once more, Alyssa felt as though she'd returned to the days when she would admire the people around and dream of one day becoming at least half the person they were.

And Rhaenys was a true dragon.

“Tell me, then,” the Princess continued, “was the girl not legitimised by the King's decree?”

“Yes, but the King is dead, and…” There was so much hesitation in his expression. He must have felt uneasy, but still forced the next words to leave his mouth. “He named Rhaenyra Targaryen his heir, and yet here we are, at war. Not all will consider his words true. This, we know best.”

“His death does not erase her identity.” The words seemed final, and Alyssa was certain no one would dare oppose them. “The girl is a Targaryen, and she will be treated as one. Especially at this table.”

And still, Alyssa watched—and in her mind, fire left ashen traces in the form of names. Perhaps one day, when all her wrath has been freed, it would burn them.

The fifth and sixth days blended into one, both equally dull and tiring, and filled with the petty tasks that were now considered her 'duty.' She had sat, for long, endless hours, with the black council, engaging in discussions of her future that no longer felt like her own. She had, accordingly to the promise she'd made to her father, allowed the advisors to share their thoughts and opinions, and had even gone as far as to act interested in hearing them. She had bathed and dressed, and Inid had brushed her hair and braided it, and Alyssa had looked just the way she was supposed to—the way a bastard could never.

And yet she felt little like herself, as though a part of her soul had died along with the three of their loved ones; as though it had been left at that wretched island that now carried the memory of her defeat. Perhaps it was the shame that weighted on her so; perhaps it was something else, born amidst the war that had yet to truly unfold.

She thought of Blindfyre, who—if Inid's word was true—had fallen into a slumber so deep none of the dragonkeepers could awaken him. It seemed he was taking what Alyssa herself couldn't—a needed rest. Perhaps dreams would be the ones to heal him. She prayed that when his eyes finally opened, he would be better. Still, despite the dull ache in her chest, she kept the distance between herself and the beast, refusing herself even a short visit to the pits. To see him was to remember the words she so desperately wished to forget.

Only I can help you.

She was walking through the corridors—this time, ones familiar enough to stroll through with closed eyes—searching for anything that could take her mind off of things she really should not have ever been considering. She had passed the doors to Rhaena's chambers; walked by them once and then three times more, as though seeking the courage to enter. It never came—she hadn't truly expected it to—and so Alyssa kept walking, her steps aimless and thoughts somewhere far and close at the same time.

She wished to see Rhaenyra, but respected the Queen enough to allow her time that one should be given after loss. She wished, for a short moment, for her father to return; to ascend to the sky with her by his side, as they had done so, so long ago. She wished, most of all, to have her sister back—to spend time at leisure and with all freedom of the world.

“Do you ever take a moment to rest anymore?”

Of course, it was Rhaenys. The woman had become a persistent shadow; an unyielding presence; a company Alyssa had been deprived of and, somewhere deep inside her chest, longed for.

“I don't think it wise to rest now.” To sleep meant the possibility of awakening to the world where the nightmares had become the truth. “Besides, I take naps when they're constantly chattering and giving their words of wisdom.”

“Men think themselves more intelligent than a woman could ever be,” Rhaenys mused, and although it sounded somewhat entertained and light-hearted, there was something in her eyes that told Alyssa everything about the thoughts left unsaid. “This has always been their biggest fault.”

And women—victims, prisoners in their battles and bloodshed. Women that won their wars. Women that fell, overshadowed, overpowered and forgotten, and never given what they deserved; stripped off their right.

Alyssa hummed, deep in thought.

“They keep suggesting Winterfell,” she confessed after a brief moment. “Jace has yet to return, and the message delivered by him personally would, apparently, be better received.”

“And you?” Rhaenys asked. “I want to know your thoughts.”

The words sounded completely foreign; how long had it been since anyone desired to learn her view? She bit her lip, eyes on the ground by her feet.

The north was an asset that could change the tide of the war. Lord Cregan Stark was a good choice, the council had insisted—a noble man, loyal and strong, and one who, if given the opportunity, could offer true devotion. His heart, they'd said, was a pure one, and capable of affection. Their assurances were pitiful; she was aware that their words had held a hidden meaning. Winterfell was no place for a dragon—this much, she always knew. And it was so far away; far enough for Alyssa to become yet another forgotten figure in the vastness of universe. Perhaps it was just to spite them—to have them wince in exasperation—but the need to defy them had, at some point, taken over any reason.

“I see no point in offering myself off to Lord Stark when Jace has already made an ally of him. It would be rather inane to keep giving more than is required,” she finally said, gaze locking with Rhaenys's eyes. “Besides, I highly doubt the north would be welcoming of a dragon.”

Rhaenys's stare was calculating. Alyssa saw it in the way her eyelids fluttered; lips twitching, eyebrow briefly raising. There was something else on the woman's face—interest, perhaps. As if she truly wished to understand Alyssa's mind.

“Who else would you suggest, then?”

“If I am to leave,” she said in a small voice, “and if it is meant to serve a purpose, it must be one that will bring us victory. It must be a marriage to a man that knows no limits. I will not settle for less than that.” Alyssa already knew what she wanted to say. Still, the words that followed were bitter enough to nearly choke her. “I know of someone whose thirst for blood surpasses any other needs. The stories they tell about him...” She knew she had to stop the shaking of her traitorous body; still, it was too difficult, too much. “He would be an advantage to us, should he agree to have me.”

Rhaenys was quick to come to a realisation. It must have been the trembling that made her understand who Alyssa had spoken of. The woman, for the first time, appeared taken aback, as though not having expected this to happen. When she really looked at her, Alyssa noticed how tired Rhaenys was; worn out by the looming threat, the constant danger, the thought of what was to come. And, it seemed, Alyssa's words did little to quell her distress.

“You speak of the Red Kraken.” Her hands, too, trembled as they came to Alyssa's shoulders. “I see it in your eyes. That fear is not unwarranted, Alyssa. I don't believe it to be a good idea.”

“Whoever I choose will not be a good idea.” Rhaenys's palms felt heavy on her, but she didn't move away. “Dalton Greyjoy, at the very least, makes no attempts to hide his cruelty. It is better than all acts of kindness and flattery that disappear inside bedchambers.”

Alyssa had long since forgone the childish, laughable hope for any goodness in marriage. Even her father, the man she thought the world of, had mistreated his first lady wife; and there was the matter of her death, too—so sudden and suspicious, and not at all much of a secret when even Daemon Targaryen's children knew the truth. And Alyssa understood well that this was the way the realm operated; the sooner she came to terms with her future, the better.

“Well, it's not likely that they will listen, either way. And it cannot be said that Lord Greyjoy would agree. They say he only takes salt wives, so perhaps I'm being foolish.”

“I doubt Dalton Greyjoy requires anything in return for going into battle. If anything, the opportunity for spilling blood alone will be the best of rewards for him.” And this was true; she had come to the same conclusion some time ago, in the middle of a sleepless night, but insisted on continuing this madness, if only to complicate things and stir chaos. “You keep surprising me, and I’ve come to admire it, but this is too much. You deserve a kinder fate.”

The snort that escaped her mouth was not a very graceful one. Eyelashes on her cheeks, Alyssa closed her eyes. A kinder fate. Such things, she thought, no longer existed.

“Fate has not been very kind as of late. Why should I fool myself into believing I could be granted more?”

After that, both of them stayed silent. They walked through the halls and staircases, and some time along the way Alyssa realised they were headed to her chambers. It was a nice thought—being taken care of, especially now when she felt so utterly alone, abandoned by all those she cared about. Rhaenys's hand still held onto her; when they came to a halt in front of the entrance to her rooms, the woman looked at her once more and said:

“If you want them to listen, you'll have to make them.”

She would, because this was the reality they now lived in. Because she had to fight her way through the war. Because she wanted to once more feel like herself.

“Thank you… for yesterday. But I do not need anyone to fight my battles.”

Rhaenys smiled.

“I just want you to remember that you do not have to fight them alone.”

Dragonstone's pits were large in both size and number, and they covered an enormous part of the whole island. When they had first arrived, moving from the remote lands of Pentos to the castle, Alyssa had been mesmerised by the sight alone. The Free Cities offered no such shelter for the beasts—Blindfyre, still such a young dragon back then, would spend most of his time somewhere in the sky, having no love for the trap of brick walls. He seemed to have taken an immediate liking for the pits, though, and Alyssa believed him to be truly content amongst their cold stones.

His own pit was not one of the largest, and it was placed much farther than the rest of the dragons. Isolation gave him strength; offered as much comfort as he could be given. Perhaps it was the illness and disability that had him distancing from those of his kind; perhaps this was the reason he had come to appreciate only Caraxes's presence.

The air was cold and breezy, and Alyssa held tightly onto the hood of her cloak. The lone glove inside her pocket was a heavy weight; the book in the sack even more so. She walked fast, steps long and rapid—she wanted to stay unnoticed by the family, at the very least, so as to evade any uncomfortable conversations.

It was the day that had haunted her ever since her return. When it came, when the sun rose upon the horizon and eradicated the sparkling paths of stars, she already knew what would come, though refused to descend into the darkness of the thought.

And the cruel, vicious whisper that in her ear kept ringing. Only I can help you.

With a lit torch, she entered the pit, her eyes barely given the chance to adjust to the surroundings as they fell upon Blindfyre's body. He was already looking at her, no doubt having sensed her presence long before she walked in. It was then that her heart stopped, a dry sob forcefully torn out from her throat. His eyes were no longer mist and shadow; no longer intriguingly odd and enchanting. Now, they were completely white, wide and flared and strange. The flesh around was scattered in scarlet scratches; scales ripped off, wounds still fresh and blood not yet dried. It looked as though the beast had ripped his own skin apart—as though he had tried to take the eyes out but, instead, made it worse.

And Alyssa fell on her knees right in front of him, broken and with soul bruised. It hurt—everything hurt and ached and wouldn't stop and why wouldn't it stop? She wanted it all to end; wanted to obliterate the constant helpless; the feeling of being so alone, so powerless. She wanted someone to pull her out of wildfire; to make her breathe once more, to rid her heart of the sharp thorns that had sank too deep for her to take them out by herself. She wanted peace—if only for a moment; if only one last time.

She felt his heavy wing touch her back. It could have been mere seconds—it could have been hours—but she knew she had yielded long ago, and so finally, finally, came a soft:

“We will do as you wish.” And his touch, at last, turned warm once again. “As you wish.”

Because all of this—each breath and beat of her heart—had always been about him.

And so with him, something else would begin.

#aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond x oc #hotd #daemon targaryen #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #ao3 fanfic #targaryen!oc

[lwbu]

LOVE WILL BURY US

— masterlist

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

status: ongoing

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place—cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.

Or: She will save her dragon, even if it means falling into the trap of a merciless man.

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, canon character(s) death, canon divergence, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

current word count: 62k

available on wattpad and ao3

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

#aemond targaryen #aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond x oc #hotd #aemond one eye #daemon targaryen #targaryen!oc #ao3 fanfic #house of the dragon

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 6

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place—cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, canon character death, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 5k

notes: i have covid and thesis to write and midterms to pass and life sucks (but i hope this chapter doesn’t) english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated.  also on ao3 and wattpad.

The fires have spoken

And the price has been paid

With blood magic

Her ears still pulsated with the tune of the Bronze Fury's roar; song of three-headed dragon not yet swept off from lips, remaining a circling, subdued echo on the tip of her tongue. She still felt the steep, rugged path under the soles of her shoes, the ground beneath continually appearing to shake, though already stable. Her body still trembled from the long gone heat of Vermithor's blistering fire that had nearly come close enough to her skin to melt it. There had been so much warmth, she remembered—almost too much to bear. And then, like a candle, it had been blown out; fallen in a battle with a vicious frostbite. Now, she was no longer hidden in the comforting darkness of the cave; no longer bathing in the scorching innocence of blissful ignorance. Eradicated was the place for humane purity. Because blood had been mercilessly spilled once more, and this time it was too much. Because now, fire was replaced, an in its stead came grim, freezing cold and crimson the shade of pure chaos.

And the red tears taken with rotten barbarity were now pooled at their feet, assembled in a plaintive form of three names:

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

It only took a few short moments of watching Rhaenyra Targaryen's face twist in despair and fury so palpable it burned for Alyssa to wonder how many losses it took to have someone die of a heartbreak. If there were grounds to fall for, to crumble completely, to irrevocably shatter—it had to be this. Minds and sanity had been lost for less; people had collapsed for fewer reasons. And yet Queen Rhaenyra remained stood in one spot, eyes ablaze, tips of her fingers white from the pressure put into her palms. Her tremulous hands, Alyssa noticed, were now covered in blood as well—her nails sank deep enough to scar.

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

The third strike was a nail to the coffin; a wildfire breaking out from its confinement within walls; a realm turning into ashes in just one blow. It was a devilish whisper that promised eternal, nauseating violence. It was a starting point to gluttonous bloodshed; a battle for power, justice, revenge. A voracious war of succession that would surely be the ruination for all of them.

Lucerys Targaryen was dead—gone forever, slain and erased from existence so brutally, pressurised into a fight that had had no touch of fairness nor clemency in it. Just a boy, Alyssa thought, a child. Before departing, he had made a promise to his mother, pledged to only travel as a messenger, swore to never strike first. He wouldn't—Alyssa knew this—because he had been good; because his soul had been pure and had carried no wrath that sought bloodshed. He had been good, young, and scared, and this, in turn, led him to demise. He had wanted to make the Queen proud. He had wished to remain determined and strong. Now, all that was left behind was a bittersweet memory of his laughter, kind smile, gentle words; the childhood they had shared, and the love that had gone extinct.

It was so unexpected, people whispered. It was so, so cruel. And yet, frozen somewhere within the clutches of time that had halted, Alyssa could not manifest bewilderment. She still remembered the vile, malicious nature of colour green—the deep-rooted, inherent toxin in their spirit. Was it truly unforeseen, when the slaughter had begun so long ago, crafted with utmost care to only now be openly exhibited?

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

It was the third loss, and still smelled of fire—and spread like it, too. It forced them to their knees with a rough thrust; took away breath and remaining consciousness; ripped hearts out. A blaze of scorching death so thoughtless and uncaring in the way it chose its victims. A spark of hatred between the two parties, fed with long years of taunting interactions and repugnance under the guise of politeness. A flame that would ultimately aspire to burn them all to the ground.

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

It was the third loss, and would be the last.

Alyssa was imprisoned somewhere deep within the intense grip of her mind—smoke around so thick her own thoughts were no longer comprehensible—and couldn't see anything beyond the crimson-coloured names. She wanted blood to stain her hands, cover her body from head to toe; to bathe in it so it could no longer be washed off. She wanted it to weave between silver of her hair, to sneak underneath nails, to be claimed as her own. Her rage seemed to have taken over completely, all past restraints fractured and shattered to pieces, invisible manacles coming off, the urge to elicit a scream of torture exceeding any last conscious thought. A volitional act of acceptance—this was all she had left: an obsessive antagonism, a brutal hostility. She banished all waves of pain that sought to assault her chest; locked it and buried the key deep underneath qualms. She wouldn't cry. War offered no space nor time for meaningless tears. Loss warranted no peace that came from grief.

Dragonstone was no longer a castle, a safe haven, a home. Now, when she watched the familiar landscape, the same one she could easily paint with her eyes closed, all she saw was this: a graveyard on fire, weighted down by the golden shimmer of a crown that offered nothing but endless agony. A deserted land; a prison of lost souls that cried for the stripped away hope and venomous ambitions. It would remain this way forever—there was no return to the life she'd once known. The stains of blood, it seemed, had soaked too deep into the walls and gates.

The chamber had gone oddly quiet. She could see her father's hand on the Queen's back, though she doubted Rhaenyra felt it, or heard any of his following words at all. Men of little to no significance that currently occupied the castle with their murmurs of strategy and advice were no longer taken into consideration, their strange faces blurred, names currently forgotten and so, so unimportant. If Jacaerys had already returned, Alyssa was sure he'd now stand leaned over the table, grasping onto its edges to not collapse in front of an audience, spitting promises of revenge and calling upon soldiers he could march with. Perhaps it was for the better, she thought, that he did not yet know. Perhaps, while away from the stench of overwhelming grief, he could breathe with some semblance of ease.

When her eyes fell upon little Joffrey's tear-stained face, all red and wet from crying and hyperventilating, she wished that he, too, had been given a chance to leave this obscure place. Escape it and, if allowed, never return. It was no land for childhood. It would leave him in misery.

And there was Rhaena, her sweet Rhaena, with head hung low and shoulders slumped, as though in an attempt to vanish from the realm. She looked so small, Alyssa noticed, and broken beyond repair. Baela already stood by her side, gentle hands around her twin's neck, chin coming up to rest against Rhaena's forehead. There were no cries nor words exchanged—only a haunting silence. To see her sister like this—hollow, void of the light that had always brightened the vicinity, with rosy traces of life ripped off her cheeks—made Alyssa's blood boil and nails long to tear flesh apart.

They would pay. Whether in blood or life imprisonment, they would pay for what they had taken. All of the mighty shades of green would rot and become nothing at all, torn to shreds and ripped to pieces, and she would laugh at their downfall. Their cruelty would be repaid. Their lives would no longer be their own—slaves in place of false kings and treacherous queens. They would be left at their mercy, just as they had made them fall from the force of three strikes; then, as they begged, no forgiveness would be given.

They would pay. With this thought, repeated like a prayer and aligned with rage, and heavy, tired steps, she moved closer to her sisters, eyes now focused only on them, as though nothing else mattered.

“Look at me,” Alyssa whispered when she came to stand close enough for her voice to be heard. A demand and plea both; a desperate need for last remnant of gleam. Quivering hand came to grasp the girl's chin. “Sister. Please, look at me.”

It took a long time, but eventually Rhaena lifted her head just enough for the flickering torches to catch sight of her face. When she did so, her eyes were empty. Gone were the wrinkles of bright smile; gone was the warmness. This, perhaps, was the worst pain Alyssa had ever faced—having her sweet sister, her beloved companion, her true friend, buckle down underneath the weight of constant mourning. Have they not yet given enough, Alyssa thought, that the pain still kept crashing into them like violent, raging waves?

Would they have to give more?

“He will be avenged,” Baela whispered, voice unwavering and strong. She seemed convinced that this was the truth, and the sure tone of the utterance had Rhaena blink slowly, nodding just barely enough to almost go unnoticed.

“He will,” Alyssa confirmed, fingers still curled around Rhaena's jaw. “And when revenge comes, the usurpers will wish to have burned alive instead.”

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

“How can I make anyone pay?” Rhaena spat bitterly after a short moment of quietude. Her violet eyes once again focused on a spot somewhere on the floor. They reminded Alyssa of those of Blindfyre—bare and unseeing, and completely gut-wrenching. “I'm no true dragon. I'm nothing at all. And now, Luke is nothing, too.”

Alyssa's hands fell down the moment Baela's did, Rhaena forcing her way out of their embrace. Without once gracing them with her gaze, she tightly grasped the skirt of her gown and, in haste, left the chamber.

It hurt to have her walk away. Their bond had taken years to bloom, forged with care and affection, and all patience they'd manage to produce. Now, Rhaena was once more just a distant presence, both close and far away. Biting into her lip, Alyssa counted each inhale, hoping to regulate her breath. Baela no longer tried to stop the tears. Her warm-toned hand came to grasp Alyssa's elbow. When she looked at her, Baela's eyes were wild.

“Fire and blood,” she murmured. “This is the price, and it ought to be paid.”

And so with fire and blood, they would be destroyed.

When little Joffrey, finally capable of breathing, swore his oath of revenge aloud, gaining an unwavering attention of those who surrounded them, Alyssa kept her mouth shut. She let silence swallow her, and welcomed the accompanying threat of sweet darkness. This, perhaps, was meant to be. This—unknown yet chaos, downfall of one of them or both—was destined. She knew, right then, that she would leave as soon as night fell.

As war broke out and raged through all of the realm, she could only remember the name of the man responsible for it all.

Aemond Targaryen, she pledged, would fall.

With words of flame

With clear eyes

It was oddly fitting that storm kept raging upon skies. The rain, cold and biting against her skin, did little to cool the wrath that had already consumed her heart and mind. Somewhere in the distance, a mighty lightning struck, swallowing the darkness and spitting out a thundering sound. Alyssa had dressed herself in the darkest cloak she owned, fingers already covered with gloves, hair tightly plated. It had taken a while for all the lords and servants to disappear into their chambers, and for the whispers to finally fall silent. She had waited, though without any cool patience, for the castle to fall asleep. Only when the night was deep enough to lull the alertness and alarmed scrutiny had she come closer to the window near her bed. She was acutely aware of the guards by her door—escaping their eyes could never be successful if done in haste and without proper caution. This, in turn, meant that sneaking out was the only way to leave Dragonstone.

Idly, she thought back to the days when all of them—still innocent children—would climb through the windows and fall straight onto dragonback. The faint echo of Lucerys's light-hearted giggles followed the memory, and she shut her eyes, willing her brain to stop remembering what was long gone.

Her chamber was not located in the highest part of the tower—it certainly made things easier. When she crawled her way through the opening, her feet quickly found the steep bulges of stones that had taken to serving as stairs. It was a true blessing that she had no fear of heights. Exhaustion took over her muscles and bones, but she persistently climbed down the steps. From the east side of the tower, her figure would go unnoticed by the guards.

Under the cover of darkness, she soon rushed to the pits, a large hood covering her head. She knew, though, that anyone could easily recognise her. Who else, after all, would dare display such stupidity and disobedience?

It was madness—she knew that much. And yet it seemed so significant, a fate of inescapable clutches. It had begun long ago—years earlier, when she watched young Aemond Targaryen bleed as his eye had been taken. She had observed his blood spill, back then; had seen crimson cover his face, an angry wound and bruise forming. Now, she would be the one taking.

Blindfyre was still weak, his heavy head rested against stone when she entered his pit. His blank eyes opened upon the first step, lids lifting lazily, as though even this much hurt. And yet her rage surpassed any worry; she knew, as he breathed fire, that Blindfyre understood her intentions better than anyone else ever could. Alyssa came to a halt in front of him, waiting for any sign of rejection. If he refused to ascend to the sky, she'd be left without options. Her wrath was entirely dependent on him. If only he'd allow her to unleash it, to leave the confines of the island, to escape and make her rage free—

When he stood, his roar shook the earth. The strength of the sound had her take a small step back; curiously, she watched him move. The dragon relaxed his muscles, long neck stretching, body barely visible in the shadows.

And she understood, too, that whatever awaited: he was ready to stand with her.

“It has to be done,” Alyssa told him, or perhaps herself—a needed reassurance, an important reminder.

She mounted him swiftly, as she had thousands of times before, but now, there was a sense of urgency interlaced with despair in the motion. Strapping the saddle to her thighs, Alyssa hastily brushed her hand over his spine. To not allow any more torment space in her weakened heart, she chose not to acknowledge the injured flesh and small scratches—she was sure there had been no wounds on his body earlier that day. It was easier not to ponder over it at all. Until time came when she could let perturbation and fright burden her mind, the thought of his anguish would remain silenced.

It was a dreadful weather. The clouds, it seemed, cried along with those whose eyes had been shedding bitter tears all day long. They wept for the young prince, the fallen soldier who was not a soldier at all. Only then, high above the ground, Alyssa allowed herself a moment of wrecking grief. Only then, did scalding tears escape—they would remain unseen, washed down with the heavy pouring; swallowed by still darkened horizon.

As they moved forward, she thought of Lucerys. Had he been scared? Had he thought of fleeing the moment he noticed Vhagar? Had he been chased for a long time; cruelly played with, mocked and taunted? Had he, in his last moments, known what was to come?

Had he thought someone would come and save him?

He had been so alone—a boy and his dragon high in the air, and two brutal beasts they had stood no chance against.

Perhaps nothing could have stopped the bloodthirsty heart of Aemond Targaryen.

Perhaps now nothing could stop hers, equally atrocious and craving violence.

They went faster than ever before. Perhaps it was her own desperation that fuelled the beast—he moved without any trace of exhaustion, wings cutting through the wind so rapidly she could barely take notice of their movement. So much urgency; so much fear. But no doubt at all, because Alyssa had already made the decision the only one that mattered—the most crucial of all. As they surged forward, her mind was empty, too far gone to form a coherent plan. She had nothing, but for the conviction that he would come. When she appeared close enough, Aemond would show up, too. Before she attacked, he would already be aware of her scheme. Perhaps he'd fight her, then—perhaps Vhagar and her vicious fire would burn her long before she managed to come close.

Don't think. Don't look back.

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

It was so odd, she thought, that she already remembered the path that led to King's Landing. The rocks and water beneath were vaguely familiar; the trees in the distance somewhat recognisable. Blindfyre found his way back to the wretched city with no trouble at all. Alyssa eyes, instead of leading him through the night, came to a rest; she felt sand underneath her lids, harsh against violet irises, stinging and burning. She was tired, so tired—would she ever be allowed a moment of rest?

Would peace come at all, or was it now completely erased?

She could see the Red Keep, still quite far away, but she knew not to come any closer. The usurpers would undoubtedly act upon noticing her presence—perhaps they'd kill her, too. Alyssa squeezed Blindfyre's torso with her legs, body swaying left just enough to indicate direction. His moves were quiet, silenced by the thunder, as he brushed through the harsh winds. They aimlessly circled around the area, maintaining the distance she deemed safe enough, already drenched to the skin. She couldn't even feel the cold air; couldn't sense the smell of storm. Now, all there was left was waiting.

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

The memory of her song accompanied by the King's eager clapping. The pride in his voice when he praised her. The gentle hand on her shoulder. Guidance, assurance, boundless kindness.

The existence that was stolen away. Another sister—so small, she would be, and Alyssa would teach her all she knew about the world. They would sneak around the castle in the night, just the two of them, and she'd sing soft lullabies as the little girl's eyes closed. Unconditional love, support, togetherness.

The easy affection of the boy. The confidence with which he shared all the warmth he had; his silly jests, his determination, his longing to make those around him proud. Family reduced to duty.

Rhaenyra's pain. Her father's anger. Rhaena's coldness.

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

And this time, too, she sensed him before her eyes caught the sight of the old dragon.

Storm persisted, and Alyssa hoped that this scenery was familiar to the man. She hoped he was still plagued with the sounds of Lucerys's screams; images of his final moments; memory of last breath.

She hoped he knew what would happen.

“Brave girl.” His voice was loud, even when he was still far. Vhagar's enormous wings covered whatever light was provided by the lightning. Once again, he was mocking her. She wished to see him fall down and shatter, and for his dragon to let out last roar before replaced by tranquil silence. “Do you come as my executioner?”

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

Blindfyre screeched, climbing higher.

Eyes frantically examining the surroundings, she saw what she was searching for—there, to the south, a remote island stripped of everything but sand and rocks came as a contrast to the dark waves. Water crashed into the ground, washing through the area again and again, but the spot was large enough to not be wholly swallowed.

It had to be enough, she decided, and pulled at the saddle to move further.

“Get off your dragon, Kinslayer!”

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

“You truly don't fear me.”

She realised, blood boiling and head spinning, that he was laughing. It was a testimony of his madness, the truth of his cruelty. He cared little for life in general—perhaps, then, he had no regard for his own.

“Why would I?” Alyssa allowed her voice to acquire a taunting tone. Vhagar was now right behind: a lurking shadow ready to attack. “I see you for what you are.”

A murderer. A kinslayer.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

“And what am I, Alyssa?”

Blindfyre's tail came to rest on the sandy shore, dark body following behind.

Alyssa heard no waves nor storm.

When Aemond landed nearby, he did so gracefully, still composed and unbothered. And yet, she noticed, he did not climb down from Vhagar's back. This high up, she could barely see his face.

“Here I am, at your mercy,” he said with curled lip. “Tell me, sweet Cousin. What am I?”

“Nothing,” she spat, loudly enough for him to hear. “Your life only has worth when you sit upon your dragon. But I remember who you were before you claimed her.” Alyssa lifted her chin up, squinting, if only to catch a glimpse of him. “You've always been nothing.”

And still, he was laughing. The sound was a striking presence against the background noise. Aemond remained unfazed, face of stone when he looked down at her.

Take his life, a voice whispered in her ear. Take it; spill his blood, steal every last drop and make it yours.

Dracarys, it urged. That was all she had to do: utter the word, even silently, even as a secret prayer.

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

“And yet you came to me,” Aemond said, a wicked smile on his pale face.

Finally, finally, he moved to descend from Vhagar's back. Blindfyre roared once more, tail widely swinging, breath ready to scorch. Alyssa brushed his scales as she swung one foot from the saddle, landing on the ground long before Aemond climbed down his beast. Even before he came closer, she reached into the strap on her thigh, fingers curling around the handle of a dagger.

It was a gift, she remembered, from a Magister in Pentos. She had long forgotten his name, but still remembered the wrinkled face and wide smile. Her father never found out, and so she kept it a secret. The man had promised the steel to be capable of great things; had called her a little warrior. Though relatively small, the blade appeared honed. It had been whetted by Inid who promised not to mention it aloud, and then kept under Alyssa's bed, buried beneath cloaks she no longer wore.

It would be best to test it now; check how sharp it was as it sliced through Aemond Targaryen's throat.

“You came to me,” he repeated, “so desperate to take my life. It must be worth something, after all, if you're willing to die right here with me.”

“I came to claim the debt.” He was so much closer, steps entirely without caution. Blindfyre's unease mirrored her own; heart painfully pounding in her chest. “An eye for an eye, was it?” Emboldened by anger, she took a step forward. “A life for a life.”

Aemond hummed, as though deep in thought, ever so slightly nodding.

“Is it really my life that you want?” he mused. “Is this truly how you want to die? Here, in the middle of nowhere, by my side?”

She sneered; Blindfyre heavily exhaled, smoke reaching the back of her head.

But Vhagar remained calm and silent, a large figure nearly too enormous to fit. Alyssa realised, with irritation a wild force in her insides, that Aemond felt no fear.

He stood unmoving, eye already on her face, eyebrow raised in question.

It made her see red.

Her movement lacked elegance when, with barred teeth, she raised her left hand and put the tip of the dagger right to his pulse. It was hurried and frantic, a crazed sound escaping her lips. The steel shone against the base of his throat, proud and regal, and the only thought left in Alyssa's was to sink it in; further, deeper, draw blood.

Once more, Aemond denied her the reaction she'd hoped for. No heavy breathing, anxious swallowing, desperate attempts to evade the sharp object. He was a statue of composure; a sculpture of self-assurance.

And Vhagar, the ancient beast with liking for battle and blood, the war-hardened warrior—she was still calm.

Vexed, she put more pressure to her grasp.

Although desperately trying to control her anger, Blindfyre betrayed her emotions. His wings were raised, gigantic head sinking down to come closer. She felt his hot breath on her spine; sensed that he was waiting. Dracarys. It would be so easy.

“Go on,” Aemond taunted, amusement sneaking onto his expression. “If you truly want to do it, I will not stop you.”

This time, as she pushed the blade, it managed to cut through his skin. Small droplets of blood dripped from the nick, soon disappearing underneath the collar of his dark cloak.

One coal wing came to her side, briefly brushing her arm, as though encouraging to go further, to not back down, to not give up. Aemond watched with unmasked interest; she saw his eye sparkle, intrigued.

“Your dragon is a mighty beast.” His neck was still bleeding, the wound gradually deepening, and yet he did nothing to acknowledge it. “Fiercely loyal. Not all dragonriders are blessed with connection this deep.”

“Is he no longer a mere cripple?”

“A mere cripple would not stand so ferociously against Vhagar,” he mused. “Though, I admit, it is rather foolish.”

She let out a scoff, grimace now permanently attached to her face.

“You must not care for him at all,” he continued, blatantly ignoring the dagger. “I can smell the stench of disease that infects him. It must have taken a lot of effort to even ascend to the sky. How much time do you think he has left?”

The gash increased just so, her hold on the handle wavering. She knew she should not listen; knew he sought to torment and torture, and strike without actual violence. He wanted to poison her mind further, to elicit doubt and questioning. He wanted her to lose control.

“I've had enough of your nonsense,” Alyssa spat.

“Have you thought about the pain he must endure? You forced him to chase me, offering nothing but disregard for his wellbeing. How. . . disappointing.”

Silence him. Cut out his tongue; take his head; burn him.

“Tell me, Alyssa. . . do you not want to save him?”

Her cry came out muffled when she bit her tongue. There was blood in her mouth now; it threatened to choke her. As though in sync, Aemond bled, too, the cut opening wider.

“You know nothing.”

“I know enough.” He dared come even closer, his breath hot against her cheek. “No dragonkeeper nor maester can help him. Dragons are creatures of magic, born from smoke, and their veins carry fire. But even this can burn out. Do you not want to save him?”

He was playing with her; using her weakness as a weapon; trying to convert the rage to defeat. And still, even when Alyssa knew all that, she let him.

Without Blindfyre, she was nothing.

It would be easy to give into his wishes—grant him yet another victory. But the crimson names were still clear.

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

A brother.

A daughter.

A son.

“You can end this now. Or, you can choose to be wise.”

“There is no choosing,” she said in a cold tone, oddly detached, as though her mind had decided to abandon her and disappear somewhere in the void. “I will finish what I started.”

His skin must have been soft, she briefly pondered, for the steel buried beneath it with utter ease. Just a bit more—then, it would be over.

Aemond seemed to be waiting for something. Regal as ever, he stood before her, no trace of terror in his eye. He was still watching, examining, calculating her movements. She knew, then, that he realised his attempts had, at least partially, succeeded. He must have sensed her apprehension. He must have smelled the dubiety on her.

When his large hand came to touch her own, it was so cold she felt it even through the glove. When his fingers dug into hers, fleetingly brushing the silver handle, she let him. When he took another step forward, his figure nearly crashing into hers with all its weight, she made no effort to stop him.

Aemond bent down just enough for his lips to come close to her ear.

Perhaps it was only Alyssa who held her breath. Perhaps it was both of them.

Blindfyre's roar was only a vague sound in the background; so insignificant, so small.

It was true—whatever time they had left, it was nowhere near enough.

She could not let him go. She would never survive this.

“You will not kill me,” Aemond whispered, his voice leaving a trail of chilling stain against her frozen skin.

“You seem awfully sure.”

“I am,” he replied, so quietly she would not have been able to hear it had he been standing any further. “Because only I can help you.”

There was no deceit in his gaze, but she knew how much of it his rotten heart had been carrying. It had long since consumed him; there was no light nor goodness in his soul.

And now, she allowed his poison to taint her heart, too.

How stupidly weak it was to stand there and watch him move backwards. How pathetic, to do nothing to stop him as he retraced the path towards Vhagar. How useless, to let him climb onto the beast's back.

What of her petty promises? What of her rage?

Why would the dark, vicious wrath abandon her when she needed it most?

“Seven days from now, you will return here,” he called, already sat on top of the saddle. “Bring the book you have stolen.”

The silver blade was still stained by his blood when Aemond left. Before she, too, departed, her last thought was that—at the very least—she had left him with a new scar.

We shall fly as we were destined

Beautifully, freely

#aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond x oc #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen #aemond targaryen #hotd #aemond one eye #ao3 fanfic #targaryen!oc

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 5

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MASTERLIST

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place—cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, canon character death, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 4.3k

notes: it’s my birthday so i’m treating myself and posting earlier. y’all know what’s coming in the next chapter; enjoy this one. english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated.  

also on ao3 and wattpad.

The sky was still adorned by the faint glow of the moon when Alyssa mounted Blindfyre and ascended to the clouds. Trembling palms clad in black leather grasped onto the saddle; eyes focused on no particular spot, ready to take lead. The dragon let out a heavy breath as his wings first brushed through the biting breeze, the enormous body climbing up, darker than the night itself. Finally, after what felt like ages, they were once more together—heartbeats in sync, eyes as one, minds entangled with an unbreakable force. Fingers stroked heated scales, a small attempt to break through the wall of tense perturbation. To soothe him or herself, Alyssa wasn't sure, but knew they both needed the gentle alleviation of their anxiety with equal desperation.

She'd never enjoyed being separated from the beast. Even as a child not yet comprehending the bond they shared, she'd rarely ever be seen away from the pits for long. To know that Blindfyre had been left behind in the capital, a place that brought no positive feelings, with him never quite comfortable amongst other dragons yet forced to accept their company, made her ache. If only they could forever be connected—truly become one being—she would no longer know concern and fear; would never have to leave him alone.

They left the poisonous ambience of King's Landing behind, soaring through the sky in a rapid pace without once looking back. She felt Blindfyre relax the farther they went. Similarly, her own strained mind appeared to have, at last, found a small trace peace—right there, in the pale eyes of the moon alone, in its subtle luminosity and comforting stroke of assurance. They left the Red Keep behind, yes, but the dread and confusion persisted, long since accommodated in Alyssa's chest, sprawled out among ribs and squeezing brutally. It was yet another battle for a breath, and so she kept fighting against the crushing pressure, desperately taking in whatever oxygen she could.

She'd been a fool. Greedily, she had allowed herself a victory that now left a bitter taste in her mouth; stupidly, she had thought this one time would satiate her. And yet her heart was conflicted, craving more and dreading it with equal fervour, urging her to both leave and return. Alyssa, with her judgment clouded, had unleashed the forbidden thoughts from the depths of perfectly restrained desires—now, the consequences were too much to handle with any semblance of equilibrium. Gone was the feigned composure she'd wanted to remain strong and solid in Aemond's presence. Gone was the indifference, shattered by the quivering pressure of ferocity that had, at some point long ago, formed inside of her mind and grown hungry for release. Gone was reason—madness, she knew, was all there was left. To allow herself a taste of freedom had perhaps been the biggest mistake of her life—now, she'd be left forever paying the cost in the form of craving for more.

It was pointless to dwell on it, to replay it time and time again, to keep thinking of the sensations she'd experienced in the darkness of silent corridors. It was abhorrent to be able to only focus on the memory of him, sat in the corner, hot, overwhelming fury seeping out and swallowing the chamber. It was preposterous to be able to see it so vividly when the moment was long gone. And yet his wrath, so controlled yet still palpable, offered more than she'd hoped for—more than she could bear—and was alarmingly addictive.

The book she'd taken into hands was a heavy weight on her arm, now hidden inside a small sack she'd strapped over shoulders. If Aemond had noticed her take it—and Alyssa not once doubted he had—he'd said nothing at all. She understood now that he rarely ever let things he hadn't planned for happen: this, perhaps, meant she'd once more acted in the way he had predicted. Whatever his intentions were, even the stretching distance did little to erase the nefariousness that had surrounded him. To believe his motives pure would be an idiotic mistake. To think he simply let her take the book would be a ruination.

Aemond Targaryen did things for a reason; always so calculated and cruel, and of unknown yet capabilities. He was an enigma and a threat both—or perhaps none; perhaps something else entirely. When it was a momentary freedom he'd offered—a freedom to leave and take something with her, to mock him again and hiss taunts, to have the last word—it, too, had a price. Perhaps that was the worst of all things: the awareness that, in this allowance, he must have had some unspoken goal. It would remain within the clutches of secrecy until he decided otherwise.

The book appeared heavier than before.

The journey itself was long and arduous, but they had covered the distance faster than Alyssa realised. The welcoming sight of Dragonstone in all its glory was accompanied by a familiarly odd screech, the lean body of Caraxes a red spot on the milky pinks and oranges of the horizon as he wandered about. Blindfyre answered the sound with one of his own, his entire body shaking with its intensity, and Alyssa couldn't help a small smile that sneaked onto her lips. This—high in the air, the two beasts together—was intimate and warm and home. Though the times she'd ascend to the air along with her father were long gone, they could never be forgotten; now served as a sweet reminder of childlike felicity. Caraxes flew closer, though not close enough for their figures to collide, long cognisant of Blindfyre's vision disability, and circled around the smaller dragon, wings proud and regal. Caraxes had little love for others of his own kind—a mirror image of his rider—and yet for those he had a glimpse of it, he never shied away from expressing in a secretive manner that belonged to him alone. A brief brush of two long tails, a heavy exhale, and then the Blood Wyrm was gone as quickly as he'd appeared, soon only a small dot on the sky.

The descent left Alyssa breathless and understanding this: Blindfyre had never before been this weak. When he landed on the ground, his limbs lost balance, black torso only just managing not to crash down and into the edged surface, wings attempting and failing to once more lift him up. Alyssa's grip on the saddle loosened, hands instead placed on the dragon's neck, eyes wide with terror. Blindfyre let out a roar so devastating she wheezed in pain. A sudden dizziness took over her head; in panic, Alyssa recognised that for the shortest of moments, there was nothing at all but for emptiness, and why, why couldn't she see? The dragon writhed on the ground, the lack of stability almost severe enough to make the girl fall off. Desperately, she held onto the beast; held to never let go, never again, not even once. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” whispered repeatedly, yet it could not be enough. She felt him struggle underneath her frame, his breathing irregular, smoke seeping from widened jaw.

It was long after that Blindfyre's body stopped shaking. Still, Alyssa kept holding him, forehead resting against his skin, cheeks wet, eyes shut so tightly it hurt.

How stupid she'd been to think she knew true fear; how foolish to believe there was nothing more to it than a cruel hand on the throat. If paralysing fright indeed existed, it was this—this very moment. If there were sinister nightmares to come, they would take the shape of the present and haunt her forever. She'd see this every time her eyes closed; feel it when she lay amidst silks; hear the chilling tune in silence—and it'd never go away.

“How do I help? Please, please,” Alyssa demanded weakly, her own voice unrecognisable. “What can I do to make it stop? I'll take your pain, take it as my own, please, I—”

“Alyssa.”

She wished to never acknowledge the intrusive words. Her murmurs echoed through the island, heart pounding and breaking more and more with each breath. Blindfyre remained unresponsive, head rested on the ground, still as stone.

“There must be something. Something I can do. Something to help.” Something, something, anything.

“You cannot help him.” Why, why would the voice get louder? Why was she not allowed solitude? Why were her tears cruelly put on display? “Not like this.”

“How, then?” Finally, she relented and looked at her father. He was watching, still a safe distance away, gaze neither fully focused nor completely detached. Alyssa grimaced. “How?”

At times, it was maddening that he'd always show up to find her at her at her worst. Her blood boiled, anger flowing and flowing and drowning her mind; consciousness long lost, grasped with claws stained by rage and shredded to pieces. With the very last of rationality, Alyssa thought back to the skyline—they should have stayed there, she realised, and never come back. Then, the pain would remain theirs alone, a secret shared by two identical hearts and never spoken of.

With averted gaze, Alyssa unfastened the straps of the saddle; soon, she felt hands pulling at her body more than she saw them, vision still blurred. Fingers squeezed into her shoulder, a palm came to her cheek, but there was no warmth—she was so, so cold.

“Must I really have you locked in your chambers in order to keep you from running off?”

If only she could scream; let out a dragonlike roar; release all that weighted on her chest. She'd do it for all of the realm to hear, for the ground to shake underneath soles, for the stars to tremble. If only she could bleed it all out and be left with no trace of unease—she'd do it in a heartbeat.

“I didn't run off. I told Rhaenyra that—”

A lazily lifted palm was enough to cut her off. “I have no need for your lies.” He pulled her into his side, holding her so similarly to the way he'd done long ago; finally, the chilling sensation reluctantly began to relent. “You will not be leaving again.”

“This is what you want to discuss now?” Alyssa gritted her teeth, trying to move away—his embrace was too tight to evade.

His grip turned steel; keeping her as close as possible, Daemon moved away from the dragon, dragging her along. The stretching distance burned in her veins and shattered whatever residue solace there was.

“You need to let him rest, dōna hāedar,” he said, her useless efforts to fight him falling short with the disregard. “Do not try to come see him again today. I'll have him tended to, but there's no need for you to be there.”

She saw fire. How dare he try to keep her away when it hurt so much? Her tears felt hot, scorching and biting into skin, and leaving nothing but ashes; they wouldn't stop.

“No.” Alyssa's voice was weak, but not completely stripped of obstinacy. Feet brushed the pavement, knees giving up. “No, no, no . . .”

Don't make me leave. Don't keep me away. I'll crawl my way back.

Her chamber was as much a refuge as could be offered. A bed, silky and soft and smelling of honey, big enough to crawl upon and disappear in. Fireplace that always burned to eradicate the last of coldness she'd never loved. Bookshelves—so many of them they remained a constant mess—all the same height and dark shade, and filled with books of various origins. There were ones of her childhood, once read by Laena Velaryon in the late hours of darkening skies; ones that she'd learned from, the words leaving her mouth so odd and yet always accompanied by her father's proud smile when she would manage to pronounce them correctly; books with the most bewitching descriptions of picturesque landscapes she'd never see; books of stories entirely unfamiliar to those who had yet to experience the sentiments they spoke of.

One book from the secret library of the Red Keep.

Alyssa lay atop the pillows, head buried so deep between them it would surely be invisible to any intruders. She was still weary, bones aching with something unknown and exhaustingly intense. It hurt to keep her eyes open and hurt even more to shut them close. Something near her temple throbbed persistently, eliciting a permanent wince upon the pale face.

Inid had come see her twice, both visits as brief as possible. The maid had brushed her hair, put a cold cloth to her forehead and cheeks, helped her out of the suffocating leathers. She'd been unusually quiet, her touch oddly hesitant, head kept low—Alyssa assumed, irritably, that her father must have instructed the girl to not stay with her for too long. He had sent her to her rooms and, like a prisoner, put a guard to the door, demanding she stay and rest. Just to defy him, Alyssa had stubbornly refused the embrace of dreams, staying awake within the confinement of the walls despite the exhaustion.

Blindfyre was back in the pit, a lone shadow against marble. The dragonkeepers had indeed gone to see him—all they had done, however, was inspecting his state from afar, the beast threatening to attack with his vicious fangs exposed. He would be well, they'd said, and only needed to rest. And yet she still felt his trembling, heard the screeching, saw his fatigue; still sensed his pain and suffering, and would not be satisfied with petty assurances of those who did not know the dragon as well as she did. To be there with him was the only comfort she'd be able to offer, and yet this, too, had been taken away from her. A bile of wrath formed in her throat. It was a mistake to believe her incapable of doing whatever she pleased—by the time the moon returned, sneaking out would prove easy enough.

Until the stars splattered upon the horizon, all she was left with was the memory of green and violet flames, and the unknown book now calling to her. How easy it would be to let her hands pry the pages open, fingers brush through the paper, eyes take in the words that he could not. And yet it felt like a forbidden step—more so than those traced amongst dark halls of the Red Keep. And if Aemond had willingly let her take it, a stolen treasure, surely there was something inherently wrong about it.

But it was right there—

When she moved, it was with an absent mind. Hesitant feet brought her to the shelf, the one closest to the large window and now surrounded by something dark and strange. Fingers moved to the black spine, just about touching it, and she held her breath.

Alyssa's heart almost jumped out of her chest when the doors opened with a loud thud against the wall.

She had expected Rhaena to, at some point, storm inside and cheerily chatter about the visit to King's Landing, the announcement of her betrothal, some stray cat she'd found abandoned around the castle and sneaked into her bedchamber—anything her curious mind had fixated on. It had, in a moment unknown, become a constant in their lives. And somehow, when her eyes sparkled, Alyssa always felt utterly at ease.

What she hadn't expected was for Rhaena to look as though someone had pushed a dagger between the ribs and violently twisted. Rhaena's face was full of nothing but dread, eyes blown wide, lips dried and parted. Her shaken gaze fell upon Alyssa.

“The King—” she muttered, her steps cautious as she neared her older sister. “Father wants us by the Painted Table.”

It was astounding to feel how quickly all that had been plaguing her turned insignificant.

Loss smelled of smoke. It could be the burning body, small and fragile and gone, or the unstoppable nature of death—so similar to the ancient magic of dragons. It was flames and ashes, and heavy fog blinding one's sight. It was acid down the throat, choking and squeezing and drawing blood. It was a tear, a hole in chest, a longing for something that had yet to be and now never would.

Visenya Targaryen was gone before she could be welcomed.

Alyssa wondered if rage could be stronger than mourning. If the detached look in her father's eyes had any meaning at all, perhaps it was exactly this—a need for revenge that surpassed the pain.

Rhaena's hand was warm and grounding when it sneaked around Alyssa's waist—just when she was on the verge of drowning and burning, and loosing all breath. Ready to collapse, perhaps, for all these people to see. And wouldn't it be mortifying to show them such weakness?

“What colours do you see?” she whispered in her ear, affectionate touch caressing her hair and brushing them back from Alyssa's face.

“I can't—”

“You can,” Rhaena murmured.

She sounded so certain, so sure that she wouldn't fail her, and so Alyssa couldn't bring herself to do just that. Even when it hurt, when her chest had been ripped open, skin bleeding without anyone else noticing, she couldn't bear the thought of once more eliciting disappointment. If need be, she'd bury it all—everything that sought to overwhelm her; cover it with soil and plant a poisonous seed of callousness on top. With a deep inhale, she distractedly looked around.

“Blue,” Alyssa answered silently when her eyes found the limitless sky, voice cracking and so quiet it seemed to not be there at all. “Black. Silver.” And green, always green, imprinted on her mind though kept a secret.

Rhaena nodded, hands still on her sister's figure, and offered a brief smile. “Good.”

It all quieted when a golden crown was placed upon Rhaenyra's head—the same one that had been carried by Viserys Targaryen and then led him to demise. And although it looked right, as though it had truly always belonged to her, and kneeling for the Queen came with unsurprising ease and respect, Alyssa bit into her lip and wanted to wail. She knew, even if others had yet to say it aloud, that everything would change with that moment. There would be no place for any remnants of already fleeting freedom—only invisible chains, limitations forced upon with a heavy burden, and duty, duty, duty.

And it came soon, too—of course it did—a crashing wave of dreadful darkness.

“Come with me,” Daemon murmured to her, his hand coming to rest against her pale shoulder.

Alyssa refused to betray the disarray in both her heart and mind, collecting all thoughts and tucking them away into the darkest corner to save them for later, for the moonlight's eyes alone.

“You're taking me to the wild dragons.” It was not spoken as a question; needed no answer. She already knew what he'd been thinking of.

Dragons were meant to serve as a solution—weapons, soldiers, fierce and lethal warriors on battlefield. To stand against the enemy that had no regard for the word of the King, the line of succession, who was a traitor to the realm, was hazardous enough. To fight with one who wielded the very same scaled armour of fire would be fatal.

In panic, Alyssa thought of Vhagar. How could any other beast ever come close to the ancient dragon and leave unscathed? She was a creature of bloodshed and war, a terror, a certain death—all that, and claimed by Aemond Targaryen who was already unpredictable enough himself. To have a dragon this powerful and experienced, and let it sense the violent thoughts he undoubtedly possessed was already a death sentence. Her father must have thought so as well, and so their departure came swiftly and quickly, and no explanations were given to others.

It was when silence stretched between them so unnaturally and violently that Alyssa realised that the real goal of her father was not just seeing the dragons. Cool demeanour in place, she watched him intently if only to stir any discomfort—to show him that she knew. But it was foolish to believe anyone in the realm could ever be capable of making Daemon Targaryen discomfit. And at times, when the two of them clashed—like two dragons in the storm—it led to this: a battle of unyielding stares; a challenge for the other to speak up.

He must have been impatient, for he opened his mouth sooner than she'd thought he would.

“You know your duty.” And there was the word that left her heart shattered and ablaze, and threatening to turn into ashes. “Duty as a daughter, duty as a highborn lady . . . as a woman.”

“Duty as a woman,” she repeated with a sneer, though the only other indication of her rage was hidden behind her back in the form of clenched fists. “You of all people should at least have the decency to name it as it is. It's a duty to give away my body to the filthy hands of an unworthy man. A duty to lose myself for his gain. A duty to stop being a person,” Alyssa bit her lip, a slight tremble leaving her exposed, “a dragon. To strip myself of anything of my own and shape it into whatever pleases the man.” With fury on her tongue and vicious glint to the eye, she dared raise an eyebrow, stopping before a cave they'd arrived outside of. “Or have you already forgotten about the lady Rhea Royce? I suppose shaping her to your liking had proved difficult given the gruesome circumstances of her death.”

The answer was instant though not verbal. He tilted his head, arms folded against chest, and came to stand in front and tower over her. It was meant to, perhaps, make her gaze lower obediently; have her turn to a respectfully tame daughter. As a child, she would cower under the intensity of his stare alone. All she had wanted then was to make him proud—have him always thinking of her with fondness and joy. Now, though, he had made it clear that she was a child no more.

Now, she'd give him defiance in the purest of all forms.

“I thought you'd waited this long because you wanted the decision to be mine.”

A choice, she thought. It was all she had ever wanted—the least she deserved.

“If I left this to you alone, you'd sooner flee to Pesos,” he mused.

“Fleeing seems to be a kinder fate.”

She thought back to the Free Cities, the brick towers, the songs echoing through the walls. She thought of Laena and her laughter, and the nights she and her sisters had spent listening to her stories, always told in a soft voice. It had been nice to be there, to taste freedom on her tongue, to not be expected to forgo her name, her identity, her life. But Laena wouldn't be there anymore, and neither would her sisters; she'd be all alone, a runaway, a deserter, a traitor. She'd be free, would remain herself, yes—and then she'd keep paying the price for that, until the end of her solitary days.

Her father knew her too well to not realise she would never abandon them in such haste manner. Despite the torment, she'd stay—remain a willing captive, become a shell of herself.

“You are my daughter.” The wind made a swooshing noise around; the rocks under their feet so steep Alyssa was forced to accept Daemon's outstretched hand. “Trust that I will not have you taken away by anyone who doesn't deserve you.”

A bitter chuckle escaped her mouth. “What makes you think anyone will ever deserve me? Do you really believe my heart will willingly come to love someone by the force of duty?”

“Do not fool yourself. It is not love you want.” He shook his head, a condescending smile briefly gracing his face. “You want control. You shall have it. It will be yours for the taking.”

Alyssa let out a shaky exhale.

Love, she pondered inwardly. How odd a concept to desperately seek. And yet her sisters were allowed this much, their betrothals born out of deep affection that had been blooming over the past years. It had been there all along, in the shared memories of laughter, the innocent touches, the knowledge of one another. Jacaerys and Lucerys were no strangers. To be wedded to them was not equal to being taken away from home.

And then there was Daemon himself. Alyssa knew his love for Laena had been real. She knew, too, that what his heart had gifted to Rhaenyra surpassed everything else; was too strong to be described in one insignificant word. And yet there he stood, taking this opportunity from his eldest child; stealing it with a sword in hand; leaving no trace of hope.

“If you make me do this, I will never forgive you.”

But she was long aware that he had little need for it.

“Your forgiveness will not be required once you're safe far away from here,” he said, fingers caressing the lone strands near her temple. “Nor will it help me win the war. Marriage, however, just might.”

“Am I not worth more than that? I am a Targaryen,” she whispered, blinking rapidly to not allow any tears show. “I am a dragonrider. Instead of sending me away, let me stand by your side and burn them all.”

But her pleading would serve no purpose. Alyssa recognised the look in her father's eyes—he had already decided, and would not be persuaded.

It felt as though fate had already been settled. No longer a dragon, she realised in agony. Just a pawn.

#aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #hotd #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #ao3 fanfic #targaryen!oc

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 4

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place—cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 4.3k

notes: a lot of aemond in this chapter; we’re nearing the main plot—i really hope you’ll enjoy it. english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated.

also on ao3 and wattpad.

Alyssa Targaryen was long gone and, like a splash of silver paint on canvas with a harsh brush, blended to this: chest heaving with violent flutter; a breath so rapid it hurt; cold feet against colder yet stone; a heart's turmoil formed with forbidden and obsessive ache. Enslaved, completely and outrageously, to the insanity of her mind. Destroyed to be built by fire, and burning, burning, burning.

The darkness around offered the comfort of keeping her shameful thoughts hidden away. It would be scandalous, she knew, to be discovered all alone in the night. But it was the night that ensured privacy, covering the senseless disobedience with a blanket the shape of stark compassion. And what could not be seen surely would not hurt; surely would not beget a tragedy. And so she welcomed the blackness and its corrupting nature, hands against stone, lip between teeth to stop any abrupt sounds from escaping her mouth. There she was, once more on her own amongst endless passageways tainted intrinsically by mystique; now, though, with a purpose.

At some moment undefined, Alyssa had taken to running away and wishing to be hunted. A prey and predator, a flame chasing another, a candle burning for yet another lick of scorching fire so as to grow more uncontrollable and powerful. It was the rawness and danger of the absolute unknown that appealed to her the most, the thought of just how severely she could get hurt and what she'd be willing to do to save herself. It was madness—complete, devastating, enticing.

She had always been told that her improper, rebellious attitude mixed with despicable temper would ultimately get her in trouble. Her nature, so similar to that of her father's and so, so different from her sisters', could only ever result in ruination: that of herself or those who dared come close enough. And yet there was nothing that made her feel quite as good as this: a defiance, sugary and soft as it poured into her heart and filled it to the brim, the very core of the organ now sticky with honeyed rebellion. Nothing could ever feel more real. And was it really trouble, she wondered, if no one would ever find out?

But they would, she realised bitterly, because they always had their claws deep in her mind. They would, because unbounded freedom was as much a foreign concept as being a child of a mother; denied with equal fervour.

And when deprived of said freedom for too long, Alyssa crawled her way to it with nails drawing blood.

She knew Aemond was not far behind—sensed it by the atmosphere alone, a bizarre coldness against hot breath as though he had managed to reshape the surroundings to veritable submission. He had left the hall mere moments later than her, just seconds after Alyssa had fed Rhaenyra soft-spoken, polished lies. She had promised to join the family on Dragonstone soon, claimed that she only wished for some time alone with Blindfyre in the sky as she knew he must have been anxious, unfamiliar with King's Landing. Rhaenyra had been, perhaps, too unsettled herself to put too much attention to the way Alyssa hesitated for just a second, voice faltering ever so slightly. She had stroked the girl's arm gently and asked her not to take too much time before she was gone.

It was only after they had all left that Alyssa truly understood the situation she'd willingly put herself into. It was upsetting, an angry thudding in her chest, to acknowledge the fact that this was what she craved. Whether it was Aemond himself, a complete unknown, or the simplicity of exhilaration that came with roguery of his games—she never felt this alive and her heartbeat never had such worth. Like a prisoner of foolish desires, she pushed deeper into corridors, deep enough to no longer recognise her surroundings. She was lost, yes—and she not once doubted she'd soon be found.

Her lips dried impossibly more when his steps rang in her ears louder than before. Alyssa allowed herself this much: a moment of nothing at all, void of emotion and thoughts, a calm before the storm.

Then, the first wave came.

"You cannot hide where I've lived forever, little girl. I have each passage memorised." He was closer than she'd believed him to be, now only a few steps behind. She heard his sure strides, aiming to memorise the sound if only to one day have an advantage over him. "But you knew that, did you not?"

"Does it look like I'm hiding?" A treacherous tremble once more putting her unease on display; fury in blood stirred by her body's betrayal, teeth sank into lip almost hard enough to bite through.

Alyssa did not want to turn around and look at him—and yet still did.

Irrationally, he appeared more at ease within the darkness of the cold walls than she'd ever seen him before. Silver hair turned golden in the dimmed light of the torches around, violet eye forever observant and unwilling to let anything escape its sight. Aemond's posture expressed everything his lips did not care to say—his confidence, the superiority he believed to have over her, the damage he intended to cause. Arms elegantly folded behind his back, chin tilted, patch over his eye darker in the subdued luminosity; mouth once more curved, challengingly, condescendingly. Little girl, he'd called her, without a doubt in an attempt to establish his dominance, as though he truly believed for her to just let him.

"Is it running away that excites you?" The corridor appeared so much smaller with him standing there and taking an unashamed step forward. Now, to obstinately stare at his face instead of backing away, Alyssa had to lift her head just so.

"Is it chasing me that's your only source of entertainment?"

His smile, she noticed, was never quite a smile. It was a promise, unspoken yet nevertheless felt in every bone, of a disaster she pined for. A mere quirk of the corner of his lips, a deceitful fire behind his eye, a wordless warning. She felt it poison her brain, felt like she was drowning, for once abandoned by flames that instead gave into the force of wrathful water. And still, in spite of the tremble that took over her entirety, she remained motionless.

"It appears so," Aemond murmured, a long, pale finger briefly coming up to brush the sharply carved chin as though deep in thought, "although I'm sure you're the one who enjoys it most."

And wasn't it truly outrageous, the ease with which he erased any last traces of distance between them? Wasn't it dangerous to have him so close she almost felt the rising of his chest against hers? Their robes touched when skin did not. The texture of the leathers he wore was harsher than anything she'd known. The curve of his jaw and nose were the only things she could now see; violet fell upon violet to be held captive. Stupidly, her breath hitched.

"I was promised a song, was I not?"

"I find myself tired of singing," spoken in a voice so loud it startled even herself before the much quieter, "and your presence."

And of course it was a lie—she knew by the triumphant glint in his gaze that he understood as much, too. Aemond offered a low hum, the sound a chilling caress against her spine. Too close, Alyssa thought, he was too close.

"Hm. A gifted singer," he said, "but such a terrible liar."

Her body clashed with the wall as she kept his gaze. Alyssa briefly wondered if this was the first time she encountered a true dragon with fire that truly threatened to burn. Because he could do it easily—she felt it in her flesh, in veins amidst blood, in mind that had chosen to betray her and, in turn, led her to betraying. Alyssa's palm brushed through the comforting coldness as though trying to take it in, take all of it and make it a place inside her chest, have it calm her foolish heart.

But this was what she wanted, was it not? She had known, even before she entered the dark corridor, that it would lead to this: unknown, unpredictable flame.

"If it's a song you want, you'll have to take it with force."

"We shall see." His voice was now dismissive, as if he chose not to indulge her spurious words; as if, in truth, he was assured that eventually he would be the one to win without having to do much fighting.

It was striking—the want to both play along and deny him. A velvety confusion overwhelmed her and she could only hope it was not visible in her eyes. To give him the satisfaction of knowing he had instilled quandary in her weak mind would perhaps be the most painful of defeats. Alyssa raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference with all the precision she had learned and memorised, and took a step away from the solid wall; it felt like jumping off a cliff and falling on top of bloodthirsty rocks. The proximity once more regained offered little warmth; maybe Aemond was too cold a soul to possess any semblance of heat. Maybe the coldness had all along been hers.

Before Alyssa could speak, he once more robbed her of the opportunity.

"I must admit it is rather injudicious to walk around the castle at night." He was still, not having moved an inch since he had crossed the distance between them. A strand of straight hair had fallen onto his forehead and splattered the white with glimmering silver. Alyssa remembered how once, so long ago, she had grasped onto it to pull; in a moment of weakness, she wondered if now the attempt to rip it off would be successful. "Ignoring the dangers of the keep is unwise."

"Surely I have nothing to fear now that you're here." It came out as a whisper she had not intended for it to be. Still, even with his words that always carried a silent threat, Alyssa stepped even closer and, in an innocence of derisive nature, lifted the corner of her lips in a short grin.

Aemond's face betrayed his delight for a moment too long to go unnoticed and she once more understood that this was precisely what he wanted. It was cruel how each of her words and reactions only seemed to assure him of his victory. Did he not yet realise that when two dragons clashed, they could both burn?

Did he not yet acknowledge her own fire?

"Of course," he responded, voice equally quiet as though spoken in secret. An unmistakable glint of amusement sneaked onto his otherwise impassive face.

Of course, he had said. And yet what she'd heard was: "You only need to fear me."

"Come along, then." Aemond's sudden movement was sharp, a contrast to the tranquility of the corridor. Hands still behind his back, eye never leaving her face, he took one, two, three steps back. Then, he offered a mocking smile that was, still yet, not a smile at all. "Unless you want to confess that you are afraid?"

Admitting even to herself that she verily was felt like a slap to the face. Admitting it aloud, to him, would probably hurt a hundred times more. Alyssa took a moment, a mere second, to try and shut her brain down. She inwardly fought against the urge to flee; shattered her instincts and common sense to pieces with one forceful shove. Aemond watched her and, irrationally, she believed he already knew of all the reservations of her conflicted mind. He looked at her with silent pride, once again appearing as if he had long known the exact course of this moment.

Rage lifted her foot and made her take a step. Madness, the purest of all, tilted her head jeeringly. Stupidity had her hold his gaze.

Aemond nodded to himself, accepting the lack of surrender he had sought.

"You do not seem a person who finds the dullness of the usual appealing. Come with me and I'll show you something worth seeing."

It was odd to, for once, be the one who follows him. The lights around brushed through his silhouette and accentuated the rigidity of his posture. Aemond moved with a precision long acquired, trained with strength and endurance, wielded like a sword. His steps, she noted, were much longer than those of hers, and with a grimace she picked up speed so as to not be left behind. The passage remained empty and silent, with only their footsteps a disturbance of the calmness. Alyssa's eyes refused to leave the invisible spot somewhere between his shoulder blades, burning through leather with intensity of unknown source. They turned left three times, steps echoing, and walked down steep stairs that forced Alyssa to hold onto the wall in case she lost her balance. It was infuriating to notice with how much ease Aemond moved, not a trace of struggle, still so stupidly graceful.

Alyssa wished he'd fall down and break a bone or two.

She tried to memorise the path they'd covered—it would be foolish at best and disastrous at worst to be left at his mercy. If she had to run, the smartest option was to remember the route back. If she was indeed in as much danger as her mind viciously whispered, the only way to flee was to not lose control. Aemond was too cunning to harm her in the daylight; now, though, it was only them and the moon as a witness. If he'd ever dare act on his hatred for her, she couldn't be sure.

The corridors stretched and widened, a never ending trap that strived to suffocate those inside. Alyssa cursed herself as she followed Aemond, silently regretting her rushed decisions. And the man in front was surely aware of her sudden discomfort, wordlessly cherishing the way he had managed to crawl underneath her skin and sink into bones. She knew it by the pride with which he carried himself, a boundless composure—he knew of her torment and craved more. Her yield, it seemed, was what he wanted the most.

In the overwhelming silence, they both found themselves somewhere deep enough into the keep that no soul would ever be able to hear her screams nor smell her blood. Then, for the first time since they'd begun walking, Alyssa allowed her eyes to leave Aemond's back; only for a second, she promised, only for one. Vulnerability grasped her into a tight embrace; if he decided to attack, perhaps it was distraction that he wished for—perhaps that was precisely why he'd led her here.

But she didn't care. She couldn't—not anymore—not when a gasp erupted from her mouth, eyes wide, steps abruptly coming to a halt. Alyssa blinked in confusion and watched the stones with bewilderment, fingers flexing, itching to come closer and touch. An unbearable wave of unexpected warmth crashed into her; she felt sweat on her brow and neck, underneath the silver plaits, staining them and forming a mess of loose curls.

"Where are we?" she managed to ask, still frozen where she'd stopped. Alyssa couldn't force herself to revert her gaze back to him; she was still aware of his presence, though, and realised that she'd probably be able to sense him coming closer without seeing, even in the darkest of passageways and no lightning at all. It was nearly upsetting to admit how striking his energy was and how aware of him she'd become.

"It's one of the passages few have explored." With the way his voice sounded, so fading and quiet, she assumed he must have decided to allow distance between them to temporarily remain. "I often grow tired of all the filth in the castle. Here, it's still pristine and uncorrupted."

Pristine and uncorrupted, and the walls were on fire. Emerald flames seeped from the crevices, biting into stone, painting it black and green. The passage was lightened with blaze flashing around, flickering but never dimming. Sculptures of dragons were carved into the walls, detailed with immaculate precision as though real bones had been placed there—their jaws widened in a roar, the fire coming out from between their vicious teeth. If she decided to boldly brush her fingers through the marble wings, she'd probably feel flesh and scales with how genuine the creation appeared. If she dared step closer, the green flame would burn her skin.

The corridor itself was much longer than those she'd already explored—now, it seemed endless, a stroke of blazing paint on black, the ending of it erased. It was all nothingness and everything; it strived to pull Alyssa in, encouraged to go forward, far enough to never be able to return. But there was no fear anymore—only a sense of bemusement, and she wanted more.

"It's been years since I've found this corridor."

She didn't even bother to look back at Aemond, choosing to let her eyes take the sight of the passage in.

"And the fire—"

"Wildfire," he explained, though she already knew. With that, he finally decided to once again come closer. "People come and go, are born and die, but this . . . it remains. In a way, it's greater than any of us could ever be."

Alyssa believed that to be true; after all, how could a human existence ever come close to this?

"It's beautiful."

With her mind clouded and gaze blinded by fire, Alyssa attempted to reach out for the wall. She probably should've paid more attention to Aemond—the touch of his hand on her arm was like ice. Alyssa shivered, startled so much her hand fell down immediately, and turned her head. His fingers wrapped around her bicep, firm but gentle, as he loomed over her, barely even blinking. He had been close but never like this; never before could she truly feel the fire of his blood, the wildfire around fading in comparison. He had her as he wanted—caught unaware, unable to step back, frozen in shock. If he wanted to lash out, to set his anger free, to rid himself of resistance, Alyssa would be a helpless victim. She would, in a moment of weakness, give him this much—a victory, a won battle, a successful strike that makes one bleed out. Perhaps he'd do it and leave her right there to never be discovered. Perhaps he'd take her back if only to cherish her defeat forever.

Perhaps—though unlikely given her unforeseen meekness—she'd try to fight.

"You enjoy flames," he murmured softly, lowering a bit to speak directly in her ear. She tried, oh, how she tried to stop the choke when Aemond's fingers brushed through her hair. He didn't seem to notice the way she came close to breathlessness, pulling delicately at the braids and loosening them more. "Do try to be careful, Alyssa. You could get burned."

Images of the wildfire swallowing his frame came to her mind as rapidly as they disappeared. Alyssa would rather have them present for a few minutes longer. As it was, such pleasures were rare enough to remain denied. She knew that when Aemond finally moved away, his hand leaving her locks.

"Come. We're almost there."

Reluctantly accepting the defeat, Alyssa didn't offer any words of refusal. She swallowed her pride and replaced it with a promise of payback—her troubled mind accepted the vow, and so once more she walked with Aemond Targaryen. This time, he kept his pace even with hers, their proximity almost making shoulders and arms crash.

"Why would you take me here?" She kept her voice light and innocent but wouldn't accept silence in return.

Aemond, however, seemed to have awaited it, too. "Here, you cannot run."

Alyssa buried all of the irritation deep in her chest and instead only hummed.

True to his word, they had been almost there, for not even a minute later they were stood outside of ancient, worn down gates embellished with golden markings that covered most of its surface in spiralling sophisticated lines. In a swift motion, before she could memorise the sight, Aemond pushed at the door and went inside with no hesitation. Alyssa, ever the fool, followed.

She'd expected to find many things upon entrance: a chamber of tortures, a room overflowing with blood, a place for slaughter. But it was clean and unscathed by crimson, and full of nothing but enormous shelves.

It was so ridiculous she couldn't stop the giggle that escaped her lips. "A library?"

Alyssa, with great pleasure, noted that the sound of her laughter was one thing that managed to make Aemond's eyebrow furrow and well-preserved balance waver. How odd it was to realise he found it more striking than harsh, taunting words and mockery; how unusual to see him overtaken by perplexity.

"The books here will not be found within the reach of those unworthy of reading them," Aemond explained, the bewilderment of his tone stirring immense satisfaction in Alyssa.

"And you are worthy?" she mused, unwilling to give up the brief control over the flow of the conversation.

He must have noticed her pleased expression, for he adjusted his stance to once more appear unbothered, cutting her smugness short.

"I wonder . . . are you?"

Bastard. To him, all she was was a bastard. Unworthy, inferior, an impostor staining the bloodline with filth that, even when legitimised by the King himself, could never come near being polished.

Alyssa wished she had taken a dagger with her to attack; wished she could tarnish his immaculate skin with dirty touch; wished to corrupt the flawlessness forever.

All she had was cold detachment and fiery haughtiness. She watched him for a moment longer—long enough for him to take the hint of defiance in. Then, in a few steps, she reached the nearest shelf and averted her eyes to the books. There were hundreds of them, all leather-bound and dark, and she silently read the words written in a long known language.

In disbelief, she read them once, twice, three times more.

"Blood magic," she gasped, greedy fingers itching to move forward and touch the spines. "These are the books of Old Valyria."

"Some of the only ones left," he confirmed quietly.

She looked back to catch him staring intently. Caving into the excitement, she allowed herself to ask, "have you read them all?"

Perhaps she shouldn't have said it—all it elicited was a sudden stiffness in his posture, so slight it would have gone unnoticed if she hadn't been watching him so carefully.

Instead of answering, as though the question had fallen unheard entirely, Aemond moved to the side and towards the wing chair in the corner. He took his precious time to get comfortable; all the while, she kept looking at him, as though just by the intensity of her gaze alone she'd be able to force him to indulge her questions. It seemed to not affect him at all, though. With tilted head and smirk plastered on the lips, he said, "you can touch them."

Was he hoping for a proof to the foulness of her hands? Did he want blemishes, ones that would serve as a verification of his beliefs? Surely a bastard could only ever defile and taint everything within the reach—leave behind nothing but disgrace.

Clicking her tongue impatiently, Alyssa took one of the books in her hand.

It was an uncontrolled wave of wrath crashing down her mind that made her do it; an act of desperation that could very well become her downfall. His eyes burned as he watched, clearly waiting for something. Alyssa held her breath, anticipation crawling over her shoulders, a heavy weight that aimed to push her down. A curious finger crossed over the cover, trailing the crimson letters.

It felt like minutes and hours, and nothing at all.

She quickly understood that there was no price for touching the book.

"What did you think would happen, Aemond?"

She saw the furious blinking, the heavy exhale, the way his nails sank into the cushion. Finally, finally he gave her what she had longed for—an unbridled rage that seeped from his entire being, so powerful she sensed it within every cell.

Triumphantly, she offered a smile and a silent, "how terrible it must be to lose."

Navigating through the Red Keep had been easy enough this time around—perhaps due to the overwhelming sense of victory. Because it was a victory; she felt it deep in bones and flesh, and it had already found home in her heart. The sweetest of all, the most gratifying—because she had been able to do something Aemond Targaryen could not.

It must have hurt him, she thought. It must have had his blood boil; must have made him sick with the want to hurt her. There were things Alyssa now knew for sure: fleeing was the only sensible option and leaving the castle entirely should be the very first thing to be done. The previous apprehensions and dread that came with Aemond's proximity were no longer a dubious threat; had she provoked him further, he was likely to strike.

Perhaps this could be enough. Perhaps she could keep herself satisfied to the last of her days with only the thought that she had one time beat him in his game.

Perhaps she'd crave more and come back for it, and then pay in blood.

Perhaps she'd burn—he had mentioned it, and when he did, it sounded like a sweet promise.

Alyssa was willing to accept it all if it meant she'd feel something real.

#aemond x oc #aemond smut #aemond fic #aemond targaryen #hotd #daemon targaryen #aemond one eye #house of the dragon #ao3 fanfic #targaryen!oc

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 3

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place — cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 4.2k

notes: aemond is more babygirl than my thesis. english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated. also on ao3 and wattpad.

"I've heard the servants whisper about me." A girl of eight, burdened eyes expressing nothing but utter confusion. "A bastard, they called me, but I didn't understand."

Daemon Targaryen watched his daughter, face unresponsive if not for the dangerous glint in his eyes that could not be registered by a child. He watched and saw only shattered fragments of himself, present both in the prideful tint of chin and the vicious inferiority complex that clawed at one's mind, betrayed by the repeatedly bitten lip. He watched and searched, and found fire.

"They said the lady Rhea Royce could not have birthed me because she was long gone by the time," she continued, voice smaller and smaller with each word. Motherless, her consciousness spat at her and once more she endured, too stubborn to let it cut any deeper. "They called me a liar, again and again. A filthy little liar . . . and I think it made me angry."

Fragments of himself, indeed, yet still too pristine to let the rage unfold.

"Do you remember what you truly are?"

She could never forget and so she whispered, "a dragon."

"A dragon," he repeated, hand falling down to brush the top of her head adorned with pearly hue of white. "And what does a dragon do when angered?"

Alyssa knew that. She would, perhaps, always know, and the knowledge would eventually lead to an act.

"It burns."

Perhaps it was the leather clinging to her skin that made breathing difficult; perhaps it was the sweetness of terror unrelenting in its might, and the intense shadow that now ardently followed behind, an oddly unnerving silhouette with a glimmer of silver. Exhaustion sank deep in her flesh and bones as she pushed through a labyrinth of corridors, lights flickering around, feet aching as they moved. The Red Keep, in all its unfamiliarity, had chosen now of all times to mock her, the unending passages trapping her in a disoriented state.

Entering the castle unseen had proved difficult, Baela and Rhaenys cornering her with conversation already on their lips the moment they had spotted golden embroideries of her cloak. Rhaenys, clearly fatigued with the upcoming event yet still with a small smile, had then playfully chastised Alyssa for reeking of smoke. Baela had grown into a beauty of a regal kind, so similar to the late Laena in its astounding grace. And though aloofness was there, her voice had been sweet and gentle when she greeted Alyssa. Taking it as a chance to evade her father's scrutiny, the girl had accepted the invitation for a short walk with the two.

The Red Keep was both breathtaking and underwhelming. There was a perplexing sense of perturbation that washed over Alyssa with each of her steps and breaths, yet the castle itself sang songs of endless glory, the very essence of Targaryen dynasty long left behind but not forgotten. With little interest, she observed the walls that had seen and smelled blood spilled in the name of secrecy; the walls that had undoubtedly heard whispers of the cruelest of intrigues. It was both the past and the present, forever merged into one being, and everything the House of the Dragon had ever represented. It was a temple, an altar, a grave—a witness of mercy and violence alike. Still, even walls of such significance appeared trivial if compared to the vastness of all the realm. Alyssa, with her spirit's intrepid desire for freedom, had no love in her heart for places that sought to imprison her. Baela perhaps shared the view, for she had lacked her usual curiosity and remarks.

As they'd parted, both her companions headed to their chambers to ready for the petitioning, she instead chose to explore more, as if to find some validation for the importance the castle held. It had been foolish to believe herself capable of navigating through the keep, though. A stranger, an intruder, a threat; a presence so mere yet striking, and so alone that the shadow following her around could easily unleash its rage upon her while unnoticed. Now, she was left a prey to the beast.

She shouldn't have allowed Aemond Targaryen to poison her mind with paranoia and sculpture it in a shape fit to his palm. He had tricked her into obedience, put her into the very spot he wanted her in, placed a cold hand around her throat and mercilessly squeezed. Stupidly, she had let a dragon chase her and now he knew her scent.

Alyssa understood at last that Aemond's game had yet to end. It was a play foul and daunting, the rules untold, and there she was—disturbingly close to losing. She cursed the man who dared instil such irrational fright in her life, claiming her thoughts as his own, the beat of her heart now dependent on him. She cursed him even more, for she knew it was scarcely the beginning; what was to come would surely only hurt more.

She was lost. In a desperate attempt to save herself from the lurking presence, she had manoeuvred her way through corridors, each of them gloomier and narrower, and now was left with no more oxygen to take into her greedy lungs. Alyssa stood amidst silence and fire, and begged for the flames to swallow all of the Red Keep. If only she herself could breathe it, she thought, the castle would long be turned into ashes. As it was, the fire remained confined and the walls untouched, and she was deprived of all sense of direction.

It was a heinous act, Alyssa knew, but still thought of Blindfyre who had by now undoubtedly sensed her distress and made it his own, and how the fire of his blood would easily bite into stone. The thought of her dragon, a lone reflection of herself left behind with nothing but paralysing unease, forced Alyssa to strangle the fear and push forward. Turns and twists blended into one, yet she kept going, black cloak now clutched in her hand and sweeping the floor behind. Passages watched with mocking gleam, unwilling to set her free as they elongated.

The shadow was there and it whispered a vindictive pledge of atrocity. And though the distance remained between her body and the dark silhouette, Alyssa felt as if she'd been hit with a force of such magnitude it nearly made her knees give up.

Then there were steps, a rough strain against the songlike tranquility, a storm in a cloudless sky.

Her heart threatened to burst into flames and pieces. Alyssa tried with all her might to stop an embarrassingly alarmed sound that pleaded to escape her lips; she was a dragon, she was, and a dragon would not surrender. If need be, she'd scrap skin and tear it, and spill blood, blood—

"Alyssa?"

She knew that voice by heart, would recognise it even in the middle of nowhere, even at the end of the world.

Lights flickered some more and there stood Inid, face pale as if she'd witnessed a crime, eyes widened in an unnatural manner. She was out of breath, short hair a mess, robes creased.

She must have been running, Alyssa thought. And yet what could have possibly forced to do so?

And why, why did she look equally haunted?

"What are you doing here?" Inid asked, gaze wandering through the passageway. She searched and found nothing, and yet the apprehension remained.

Was she anticipating the shadow, too?

"What are you doing here?" A sharp demand for an answer that would without a doubt lack sincerity. Alyssa knew immediately what the look in the maid's eyes meant—a secret, yet another one to add to the already enormous pile of them. "Surely your assistance is required elsewhere."

It was uncommon for the girl to speak to Inid with such coldness. She had always been a friend, their souls long entwined. And yet the torment had succeeded in stripping Alyssa of any tenderness, the shadow invisible but its hands clawing at her shoulders. Inid, too distracted by whatever her mind's discomfort was, did not pay much attention to the biting tone.

"Forgive me, my lady," spoken so quietly it barely reached Alyssa's ears at all, "I was . . . I was only looking for you."

And of course it was a blatant lie. Too tired to fight, to release her anger, to make her word alone be the final one, Alyssa let it go.

"Very well. I wish to go to my chambers. The pathetic Velaryon twat will petition soon."

"Of course," Inid answered with a small nod, "of course. Come now, my lady."

For someone who claimed to have been lost, Inid managed to lead them through the corridors with enough ease. The walk was quick and silent, and Alyssa bit into her tongue to stop any words from being spoken. She no longer allowed her eyes to linger on the walls and doors; she had not once turned to check if the shadow followed. When they arrived at the destination, she straightened her posture, feigning poise.

"I will bathe and dress myself. You may leave."

Inid made no sound of protest; had she tried to, it would have fallen on deaf ears, for the door had already been shut.

Her chambers were stripped of fire. The theft of what had so far offered the last of succour only enraged her further. With a huff, Alyssa threw her cloak to the floor, angry fingers already working on the lacing of her corset, nails digging into both leather and flesh.

There was so much muteness it engulfed her completely. She wished she could have instead chosen to share the room with Rhaena; even the most annoying of her sister's endless prattles would be more agreeable than this.

It was after the corset had fallen to the ground that she noticed something on the bed, a dark spot staining the creamy silks.

She knew what it was before her fingers brushed through the fabric. A black glove of a dragonrider, a perverse invasion, a message—the game ought to be played. It was laid there with too much precision to mistake it for an accident.

The shadow had been inside her chambers and wanted her to know.

Once more, it seemed that all of the court had taken to exchanging whispers of Daemon Targaryen's uncontainable wrath that surpassed the might of any king. The maimed body of Vaemond Velaryon now served as a warning, a reminder, a promise—all enemies shall pay in blood.

And so the whispers echoed through the walls, yet they had not, despite their immensity, managed to make Alyssa heed. The girl had instead sank deep in her mind; as she sat in the Godswood, only one thought remained.

It was today that she had ultimately gained understanding of the force with which a father loved his firstborn. Because it was love and nothing else that had given Viserys Targaryen the strength to once more sit on the throne. It was love, the purest of all, that had allowed him to defend and support his daughter. It was love, no more and no less, that had kept his frail, weakened body going.

She sat there, full of anger because fathers loved and yet even this was not enough. She sat there and ached for the loss that was to come sooner rather than later.

And she could tell by the air alone that something else entirely would start the moment everything else reached its conclusion. Whatever it was, she knew now it would end in blood as it always had.

Alyssa greedily soaked in the short moment of isolation she'd been so kindly granted, wishing for Blindfyre to be there with her, to hide her tear-stained cheeks with his dark wings. Then, after one last breath of fresh air, she stood, feet already carrying her to where Inid was waiting. The maid now looked more like herself—the paleness gone, the once haunted eyes calm. Alyssa gave only a weak smile and no words at all, and soon they were marching back towards the stillness of preface to the following chaos.

The King wished for a peaceful feast with all those he held dear to his heart. He didn't know, perhaps, that said peace was unattainable in the midst of predators. Or maybe he truly knew nothing of the poison in their veins—so atrocious and sinful, and crafted by faithfully harboured hatred.

She could no longer remember a time she had not been late to just about any affair that required her presence. An unladylike behaviour, and one that would soon get her in trouble—and yet the satisfaction of making those she appraised with disdain await her was too pleasurable to resist.

The look on her father's face, however, quickly eradicated any remnants of delight.

"Sit," he commanded and offered nothing more.

Her eyes swept through the hall. Both the Queen and King were not yet present which provided a glimpse of ephemeral comfort. The Lord Hand, Otto Hightower, barely spared her a glance, too engaged in a conversation with Helaena Targaryen. The Princess was a delicate contrast to the harshness of her brothers. With all might, Alyssa avoided looking at Aemond; instead, her eyes found those of Aegon that now shamelessly ogled her body hidden beneath crimson gowns tight enough to reveal her shape.

She could not burn, yet the gaze she felt on the side of her face was becoming too scorching.

"How kind of you to join us, Cousin!" Aegon stood from his seat, a cup of wine in hand, eyes darkened and focused on a spot much too low to be deemed appropriate. "How kind, indeed."

It was the King's wish, she reminded herself. She, of all people, would not be the one to ruin the night, even if it meant executing fake courtesy and impeccable manners.

"You must forgive me, Aegon," she replied, though her eyes blazed. "Every lady yearns for moments of privacy."

The Prince smirked and nodded, though it was clear he had not taken notice of any of her words. With a raised eyebrow and slight turn of head, she looked at Rhaenyra in an unspoken question. The exchange itself was brief enough to go unnoticed by those who knew not what to look for, and yet Alyssa took it as a permission. Glee returned, a glint in her eyes, she added a quick but loud:

"Although, if word of the court is true, you seem to not quite understand the concept of both a lady's wish and her refusal."

All smiles and politeness, as had been promised, and yet if they wanted to silence her, they'd first have to take her tongue. Aegon's elation faltered, albeit marginally.

Whether or not Alyssa heard the deep, familiar chuckle at all, she chose not to acknowledge it.

The gods were not kind enough to give into her desires, for her seat was a mirror of the one across, and so she ended up being devoured by the flames of Aemond Targaryen's stare. Fate, she realised, had been playing the game all along and it favoured him. Alyssa allowed herself only one peek: as expected, his one eye was already watching. And there it was, a single black glove right next to his hand that rested on the table, as if to once more provoke her, to elicit an involuntary response of bitter fury.

He would have to wield his violence with unparalleled precision to tear it out her throat.

"I thought you'd be far on your way to Dorne," her father mused, wine staining his lips. "It would've displeased me to be forced to track you down."

"I would never do that," though never was too strong a word for such a meaningless promise. "Who do you think I am?"

"A terror," he told her in a tone that indicated anything but sincerity.

Rhaena, sat between Alyssa and Lucerys, giggled, though the sound vanished when Alicent Hightower marched through the door.

Even with years gone, it was unimaginable to think that the Queen had once been the dearest of all friends to Rhaenyra. The two women clashed and contradicted, black against green, graceful gentleness against the crazed look conflicted with hostility not yet deep enough to strike. Alicent greeted her children and father, and then, not without wavering, sent an acknowledging nod in Rhaenyra's direction. The last bit of the times long erased; a tribute to the past.

It was soon after that Viserys arrived, no longer possessing the strength to use his own legs. Her uncle, the one who had once clapped the loudest as she sang his favourite tune, who showed only kindness in the limited time they'd spent together, was now only a ghost of his old self.

And oh, how fitting it must've been for those clad in green to have him so weak that he could no longer bear the weight of his crown.

This silence was different. It came with both disquietude and desolation, and grasped the hearts of those present in its clutches of unforgiving kind. It stretched endlessly and grew, bred by the promise of storm and onslaught that was there, always there, and now threatened to become a hurricane. Viserys, blissful in his ignorance, observed with half of his face melted into gold.

He looked so small, Alyssa noticed; perhaps the crown had long outgrown him.

"How good it is," and even his voice was barely recognisable, "to see you all tonight . . . together."

Somehow, even the prayer that came after his greeting felt like a knife twisting into guts. Indeed they sat together, true to the King's word, and yet the wall built with bricks the shade of mistrust and scheme had gone unnoticed by him. It would be easier to share his bliss, if only for a short moment. This privilege, Alyssa would never be given.

Then came insincere toasts, cups raised and wine acrid, swallowed with hidden repulsion, already forming a sickening bile. Alyssa forced herself to hold Aemond's gaze as the liquor painted her tongue. He downed his cup in one gulp, fingers twitching as though searching for something to pierce through. It was pulse he sought—the feel of blood flowing through thin veins, the chance to drain it out until every last drop pooled at his feet. It was power he wanted, a victory, and her defeat.

Alyssa's unrelenting resistance seemed to only fuel his want and take away any semblance of restraint. That induced intense satisfaction. She would take his control as he had stripped her of hers. She'd take all there was and make it his downfall, forge a dagger with it just to stab him, just to mark his pale skin with her signature.

For now, so early into the descent, she'd simply play the game.

Viserys Targaryen, so desperate to see and in turn be seen, had peeled off the protective layer of his mask. A face eaten away, torn to shreds, ruined by illness. An evidence to his weakness, a testament to his collapse. Yet Alyssa knew the truth: whatever state the King was in, whatever pain had overtaken his body and mangled his skin, the ones surrounding him sat with their souls rotten in ways hundred times worse.

When the King requested a song, she shaped it into a silent goodbye, lips trembling but voice persistent. Under the table, her sister's hand found hers and for a fleeting moment she felt warm. It was gone soon, and so was her uncle's consciousness; she wondered if, troubled by such grievous pain, he had even heard that she'd sung the song he loved the most of all.

"Thank you," Rhaenyra whispered to her, a brief smile without any depth.

Awaiting the storm, Alyssa lazily looked around, the faces of her family inexpressive. Emboldened by the wine, she once more, now without any reservations left, looked at Aemond. She couldn't stop the way her breath stuttered, though it remained unspoken what exactly had warranted such reaction. He was so elegant in his effectively contained roughness; so proud in his posture that he managed to make everyone else present appear insignificant. Eye patch in place, it did little to conceal the emotion swirling in his expression. Alyssa recognised it for what it really was—Aemond had, it seemed, long mastered the art of presenting his aversion with a carefully designed pretence of composure.

When soon Jacaerys and Helaena swirled around, Alyssa joined both her sisters in the middle of the hall. Hands clasped together, long skirts weaving into a mess of fabrics and colours, a delighted laugh; perhaps she deserved this small moment of joy. Perhaps it could last just a bit longer.

But the back of her neck kept burning, burning, burning...

"Why is he looking at you like this?" Rhaena's question did little to confuse her, as she did not need any explanation. She instead wondered if her father had already noticed as well. Surely, that would be a definite end of something she had yet to fully comprehend.

"He looks at everyone like this, Rhaena," Baela whispered conspiratorially, amusement on her full lips. "Maybe it's the eye that makes his face appear so sullen."

Or maybe it was Alyssa's presence alone, though she chose not to entertain the thought. Instead, she dived into chaos—this, she knew and controlled best. With a parting pat to her sisters' palms, throat already dry, she turned around to find him right where he had been sat all along.

There was something alarmingly obsessive in his gaze, menacing and unpredictable. And there she was, playing the game as he had encouraged her to, steps lacking any hesitation, a moth to a flame. His eye, she saw, was darker than she'd remembered it to be. Or maybe it had darkened upon resting on her frame; maybe it meant something. Maybe she should not desire to find out what that something was.

He smelled of the same wine she'd drunk, yet now it lacked the previous bitterness. Aemond's head tilted slightly to meet her eyes and she found no question on his sharp face. He must have realised her intentions long before she dared come near.

"Won't you ask me to dance, Cousin?" The raspiness of her voice surprised her, though perhaps she should have known it would be there. "Or were you watching me for another reason entirely?"

"Hm." This sound she knew, too, and silently cursed herself for recognising. Aemond's body straightened even more, face nearing hers when the lacework on her chest brushed against his spine. The corner of his lips quirked up, and had she not been so close, she would not have been able to notice it. "You would like that, would you not?"

Alyssa offered no answer, though Aemond appeared to have formed one himself, for his smug smile briefly stretched.

His fingers twitched; she so desperately wished not to see it but still did. "And yet it is not dancing I crave."

It was dangerous and so, so sweet, a promise of gratification, and she could not stop.

"Perhaps a song, then? You seemed to enjoy the previous one."

"Whatever song you have in mind, sweet Cousin," he was so close, closer than ever, too close, "I assure you, it would not be to my tastes."

Was no one watching them? Or had they all long left the hall, vanished into air, disappeared without a trace? Was she left alone, once more a prey, though this time unwilling to flee?

Would he dare come any closer?

"What would be to your tastes?" Alyssa asked, both eyes searching for the smallest of his movements. He was, however, perfectly still. "A song of battles and bloodshed?" But did she not know the answer already? Was it not in her heart and mind both, constantly torturing her? "Is it violence you want on my lips?"

She wasn't sure if she'd been whispering all along. Now, the words that fell from her mouth were barely distinguishable; she doubted anyone else would have been able to hear them. She cared even less.

Only now did she truly realise how tall he was. Alyssa stood right behind him, a trembling hand resting atop his shoulder as though to taunt him some more, and yet even as he sat on the chair, she saw him drink in every word she gave him with surprising ease. In a swift motion, Aemond grabbed his cup and smeared the crimson liquid on his lips, a sight so surreal her grasp tightened just so.

"It's already there, Alyssa," he murmured in return, her name spoken with something of the most perplexing nature. "Perhaps that's what I enjoy most."

She heard Lucerys's unashamed chuckle long before she registered what caused it, the sudden sound forcing her to take a step back. The night Aemond Targaryen had lost his eye still haunted him, a very evidence to the trauma he now carried. His palm was harsh when it hit the table, body shooting upward, the roasted pig right there in front of him. Now, he wasn't looking at her, skin no longer burning. As he stood, his frame overpowered hers completely. Alyssa wasn't sure whether to welcome the disruption with relief or hold her breath in silent trepidation.

In the havoc that followed, her steps carried her away from him. She allowed rage to overwhelm her completely, for she now knew the one source of it.

The game, perhaps, was exactly this: giving and taking, and forcing the worst of fury out of its constraints. With this thought, just as Rhaenyra rushed them out of the gate, Alyssa offered Aemond a parting smile filled with mockery and nothing more.

She was far from finished, mind unsatisfied, and so she'd compel him to follow.

#aemond x oc #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #hotd #aemond fic #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen #aemond one eye #targaryen!oc #ao3 fanfic

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 2

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MASTERLIST

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place — cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 4k

notes: aemond brainrot continues. english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated. also on ao3 and wattpad.

"You've made a promise," voice void of intensity, though fire burned through the length of his throat, "anything I want." Steps so small they would have gone unnoticed if not for the sound. "I will not have your refusal this time."

Viserys Targaryen stood before him, a presence so small it seemed laughable in the eyes of both gods and humans alike. His body burdened by the weight of the crown and things both unspoken and unseen in daylight, the King did not lift his head high enough to prove defiance.

"What will you do, then?"

"Wage a war if need be." And declared by Daemon Targaryen, it carried only the truth.

The words echoed through both the walls and the mind, and Viserys watched his brother, a whisper of a war, a war having already crawled into his ears, making its way to his troubled mind. It was then, amidst only shadows and emptied hall, that he acknowledged what was to come.

"Seven hells, brother! You bring a bastard you've fathered to my court and expect—"

"Look at her," a demand, perhaps, with the way it was said. "She's every bit a Targaryen as you and I."

"And what would you have me say, Daemon?" Viserys's voice hardened, though the sensation could not quite reach his eyes as they watched the babe of silver hair. "That the child fell from the clouds onto dragonback? That it appeared out of nowhere and belongs to no one?"

"Tell the lordling cunts whatever it is they wish to hear. You wear the crown, Viserys. Your word is the only truth."

Defeat, instant and utter, because there was nothing more to be said. The last rays of sun sneaked inside when Viserys Targaryen rose from the throne and approached his brother.

To allow him this much would perhaps be his salvation.

There was a certain touch of striking sophistication in the way Rhaenyra Targaryen mounted the clouds, her leather-clad body a contradiction to the gleam of yellow scales. Syrax spread her wings proudly, the roar of dignified nature an extension of the Princess's delighted laugh. They climbed higher and higher, speed accelerating and hair falling freely out of intricate plaits, blues and silvers of the sky melted into their forms. The she-dragon brushed through the stars, engulfed their radiance with her own, painted a spot in the depths of the sky that, in a way, resembled the sun. And Rhaenyra, in those rare moments, was every proof of the Targaryen might.

Blindfyre followed with his ponderous body, having long since overshadowed his companion in size, wings fatigued yet unyielding in their ferocity. Alyssa's eyes served him loyally, gloved hands pushing and pulling with practiced perfection, movements swift and firm. Wind carried them further, a silent ally that weaved through silver strands and formed a disorderly composition of complex knots. Alyssa persistently pressed forward, wishing to go faster, faster, until all that was left of her shape was but a small, insignificant spot that moved towards nothing at all.

Inwardly, she hoped for the spot to one day vanish, stolen by the moon that would take her hair in its grasp and wrap it around its structure.

It had become an unspoken routine for the two to take off to the sky and evade all mundane matters; here, they could breathe without fear of the realm's impurities sinking in the lungs with their poison. They would be then gone for hours, exchanging the exhaustion of everyday duties for boundless freedom. The sky had not once demanded kind words spoken with practiced serenity; it never wanted what was not voluntarily given. It was a lover amidst executioners; a loyal servant among ruthless kings. It offered mercy in place of wonted punishment, softness for every harshness of the world. They never wandered too far from Dragonstone, though; Syrax now much more indolent in nature, her companion too weakened to carry on.

Alyssa observed the familiar surroundings and wished to trade them for something else, anything that would eradicate the aching monotony in her heart and limbs. Blackwater Bay offered solitude and security, but it came with the price of everlasting coldness and unease. Though it was the place she'd spent the last years in, it was no home. She longed for Pentos and its crowds, and songs that would ring through brick walls. She longed for a place entirely new and unknown; to discover and conquer, and take whatever she desires.

It felt cruel to even entertain such thoughts, though they occupied her mind more often than not. Dragonstone, despite all, treated her well, and so did the Princess. Better, perhaps, than she deserved.

The descent was slow and unsteady, and Blindfyre let out a low whine as his coal black tail brushed against the ground. Alyssa's face twisted into a grimace. The dragon's state did nothing to improve her own shakiness; now, seeing and feeling his pain, acid found its place in her throat, torching spitefully.

"Blindfyre did well."

He did, if compared to countless previous nights when she'd sat by his side, half-covered by one enormous wing, listening to his irregular heartbeat and heavy breathing.

"He tires easily these days," Alyssa said, her feet finding their way back to land. She met Rhaenyra's concerned stare and tried to swallow the panic down. "Father says he grows too fast and has a hard time adjusting to the weight." Her fingers once again reached the scaled flesh and stroked.

"You're worried about him." It was not a question nor judgment.

She had never shied away from expressing her emotions, though she did so rarely and mostly in the presence of her father alone. To admit it to Rhaenyra felt uncomfortable; she knew, however, that their lives were now forever connected, a bond beyond comprehension, and the resistance she'd built for herself would not prevail.

"I am." A defeat, in a way, to let someone else in. "Only with him, up in the sky, do I feel like myself. Who will I be when he has no strength left?"

Rhaenyra's face showed only sympathy, and so Alyssa accepted it as sincere. The Princess's bare hand found hers, still covered by leather. It felt warm despite the barrier.

"You will stay true to yourself."

But how can I, she thought, when all I am is a dragon? And how, oh, how could she still be a dragon without Blindfyre by her side?

"Sweet girl, he will not leave you for many moons to come," Rhaenyra whispered, now so much closer than before. One hand found Alyssa's frozen cheek in a touch so brief it tickled. "Don't let fear take your heart."

Alyssa had no mother; for all she knew, she could have come from a hatched egg herself. Daemon Targaryen had only ever called her his daughter, his firstborn, his alone. Questions endlessly unanswered, they had long stopped falling from her lips. But this, complete and limitless, and absolute, was perhaps the only feeling that could ever compare with flying. This, given by Rhaenyra Targaryen in an unconditional manner, infinite and fierce, was greater than anything known to a girl whose heart felt like it'd been abandoned.

This, perhaps, was named motherly love, though she dared not say it aloud.

They walked hand in hand, and it did little to calm her racing heart. She found herself often distracted in Rhaenyra's presence, as though overtaken by sudden affection. It awakened doubt, resolute of grip, because why would this tenderness last when nothing else ever did? Sooner or later, it would all fall like a wounded dragon from the sky. Sooner or later, she would be left questioning if it had ever been real.

"Will you sing tonight?" It did not need an answer, because of course she would; her sister would sooner strangle her than sleep without first hearing her favourite tune. As if reading her mind, the Princess added, "Rhaena will already be waiting for a song. And Jace, though he'd rather eat carrots than admit how much he cherishes those moments."

That brought a giggle. Jacaerys, a man now almost grown, all serious and burdened with his being the heir, and his absurd fear of vegetables always managed to make her laugh.

"I've heard that carrots will indeed be served for dinner," she mused, playful smile still tugging at her lips. "I shall sing him songs of all the vegetables in the realm."

...or not, considering it could only result in finding mice in her chambers, right atop her bed.

"Rhaenys, too, loved flying and songs equally. You remind me of the stories I've read as a child."

"And yet I find myself wishing to bear resemblance to Visenya," Alyssa admitted in small voice. "To be a warrior."

She could tell by the look in her eyes that the Princess knew of such thoughts, more than likely from experience. She had, after all, been just a girl once, though she had even then carried the additional burden of a crown's shadow on her head.

"All women are warriors," was her response, conviction clear in her statement, "because that's what we must be." Rhaenyra's face lit up with a sudden smirk that lasted only for a second but lingered for much longer than that. "If anyone tells you otherwise, you strike."

The fire in her chambers never burnt out and now, sailing through the sea, it was something she missed desperately. It was one of the many things Alyssa needed not mention; Inid, her nature purely observant, understood her better than most. As long as she was there, the fire remained as well. If only she could have grabbed it with her fingers; if only she could have carried it onto the dreadful ship. The untamed waves did not treat her well, much to the amusement of both her sister and maid who had long stopped bothering to hide their laugh. Alyssa would therefore, quite regularly, escape the abysmal boat for stolen moments on dragonback. It would last for some time, and then her father would drag her back to this misery, scolding her with pretended aggravation.

Inid now stood behind her, brush in hand, scowl on her lips.

"That beast of yours does nothing to improve your looks, my lady. Your hair is all tangled."

Alyssa raised an eyebrow, feigning offence. "I shall nicely ask that Blindfyre avoid any movement so as to not further displease you."

Inid might be sweet and smart, but she never much understood the appeal of dragons. Beasts, she'd call them, her melodic voice ringing with distaste. True to her character, Alyssa had taken to teasing Inid with much-too-detailed stories about Blindfyre, her mouth never shutting for more than a second. A dear friend, Inid was, and the Targaryen girl held her close to heart. Surely, for the affection she felt for her, Alyssa could somehow accept the flaws and obvious silliness of the maid.

"Or maybe we'll just cut this nest off," Inid jested, although the resignation indicated that she would truly be happier about such solution.

"Do you think it would suit me?" Her grin was so wide it hurt.

Inid appeared to think very hard on the answer.

"I think there aren't many things in the world that would not suit your face," she finally said, skilled fingers working on untangling the silver knots. "Are you excited to arrive in King's Landing?"

Ah, yes, King's Landing.

She would have been excited had she still been stuck in the ways of her childhood naivety. Now, Alyssa couldn't think of anything more dreadful. It was, however, a necessary travel, what with the illness of King Viserys and the very obvious lack of time left. She hadn't dared try to reason with her father about how her presence would certainly not be missed. And, in spite of all, she was not capable of summoning any indifference to her uncle's rapidly deteriorating health. It was a penance, perhaps, to care so much for someone surrounded by those she held no love for.

Predictably, she dodged the question, replacing it with her own, "are you?"

If Inid knew what was on her mind—and surely she did, for at times it felt like the maid knew her more than Alyssa herself did—she didn't voice it.

"You should not concern yourself with my feelings. I'll gladly follow you everywhere."

Alyssa hummed. "Perhaps I should put you on dragonback and fly all the way to the Free Cities, then."

Or anywhere, anywhere at all, anywhere the sky existed and held no limit.

"That would be improper." The brush finally returned to its previous place, Alyssa's hair now knot-free and shining. "Not to mention how your father would burn the realm to the ground in his search for you."

"Oh, yes. He can be quite dramatic."

"Do not let him hear that," a new voice came, feathery and soft. Rhaena stood just steps away, mischievous grin brightening her pretty face. "Are you almost ready?"

Perhaps it was the brutality she had wielded that night so distant yet no less clear; maybe it was something else entirely, but it resulted in this: leisurely pace, cautious steps, eager hearts. No longer was there remoteness of the cruelest essence; no more intrusion. For that alone, Alyssa would have gladly observed the blood over and over again, watched every drop until there was no more to spill.

For that alone, she would bleed herself.

Alyssa's eyes found Inid's, both question and plea for a few more minutes of peace.

"She is," the maid decided. "Do try to keep your hair neat, lady Alyssa."

"Or you'll scare the Queen off!"

And wouldn't that be just ideal?

Alyssa recognised just how close they were to their destination by the smell alone. The air warm and humid, sticky instead of breezy, she huffed loudly enough for her sister to hear. She now realised how ungrateful complaining about Dragonstone had been. This was so much worse; here, even before walking through the gates, she felt every bit a prisoner as one possibly could. Deciding to postpone the inevitable at least one last time, Alyssa caught a glimpse of her father and, ensuring he was too occupied to spare her a glance, she fled.

Blindfyre, always in tune with her pondering, appeared near the ship, Alyssa's hand already reaching out to him. "Māzīs," she whispered, "come."

It was too easy to once more break free, the lack of protests almost disappointing.

The sight of King's Landing was certainly not a pleasing one. Treating the three hills, great walls, and the Red Keep in all its glory with complete disregard, the dragon and his rider instead soared up, high enough for all of the capital to seem too trivial to spare a thought for. Birds hovered around until they, too, were left behind. Now, with only the sun above, Alyssa relaxed.

"I'm sorry for troubling you so much," she told Blindfyre, her thighs offering a short squeeze. "But you're better now, are you not? You've regained some of your strength."

Blindfyre gave no indication of disagreement.

Together, they circled the city, maintaining the established distance. Alyssa felt lighter, though she knew what was coming could not be forever avoided. Just a little more, she decided, and then her duty would be done. She would walk into the castle with a large smile on her lips, looking every bit a gentle lady, a woman grown, a Targaryen. Her chin would come up, but not in a haughty manner that could stir gossip. Her hair would be knot-free, as per Inid's wishes, smelling nothing like dragon. And when she'd see the royal family, the delight would be sincere and ceaseless.

The air was too thick, she idly thought, the silence unnatural. Her heartbeat jumped.

She felt it before she saw it; chills down the spine, throat raw with sudden dryness, an odd mix of foreboding and anticipation twirling in her vessels. Quietude stiff, air changed, wind unmoved. Then came a silhouette so broad it obscured all vastness of the sky; a tint of bronze and green, monstrous wings, familiar wail. Vhagar ascended above Alyssa's head, her presence so astounding that even Blindfyre dared not take his unseeing gaze away. She flew close enough to see the old scars, their fading contours a chart to her past.

Surely, the time had stopped or forgotten to flow, because everything around her stilled yet Vhagar did not.

And there was Aemond Targaryen—she could not yet see him but heard his laugh, a sound so palpable and sharp she held her breath, treacherous tremble taking control of her palms. Alyssa forced her eyes forward, searching for a route of escape, wishing to find none. Blindfyre shrieked, not having expected company aside from that of similarly abnormal Caraxes and his rider that would often chase after his daughter through the night.

Vhagar had never, not even when claimed by Laena Velaryon, been an agreeable presence. Worn out by war, hardened by wounds, conditioned to attack—most dragons dared not come close. The old creature was unpredictable in her nature—it was something Alyssa understood well enough. Having her so physically close to Blindfyre was nerve-wracking.

It had been seconds that stretched into hours before both beasts aligned. Aemond watched Alyssa with something she wouldn't try to give name to, one of his eyes now hidden beneath an eye patch. Her mouth twisted at the denial of a glimpse of the damage. She wanted to see it; see what the blood that had been spilled left behind. Only an outline of the angry scar was shown to the world, and it would not suffice.

"You should return to the ground, Cousin," he said in soft voice. It was an unrecognisable sound when compared to the laughter he had offered just moments before. It was even odder when she remembered how it had once sounded, angry and spitting as he called her a bastard.

The urge to provoke him was stronger than her yearning for safety. For all that mattered, safety was a concept of irony in such situations. If Vhagar and Aemond wished to charge, nothing could thwart the attempt. Still reluctant, Alyssa heard herself speak.

"Perhaps you're the one who should leave." Solidity was a gift she'd offer willingly. Anything else lacking her usual control, he'd have to take himself. "Or else I'll think you purposely searched for me."

And then he hummed, and a sound this small should never ring through the distance with such clarity, and yet it did.

He was so composed, she noticed and immediately hated it.

Alyssa came to a realisation that, having already seen it once, she craved agony on his face. His pain was embedded in her soul, a permanent mark of crimson, a shadow the shape of his long lost eye. It was both grim and gratifying to admit it, if only ever to herself. She watched him, all stony face of porcelain skin and burning eye, and thought that this composure did not suit him. She wanted rage strong enough in its fire to turn frantic. She wanted fury so intense it scorched. She wanted him to falter, hesitate for a second too long, lose the words on his tongue and stagger backwards.

She didn't understand. Maybe she never would, because how was one supposed to fathom something so abstruse? What was clear was this: he awoke violence with just his curious gaze, and so violence he shall receive.

"You've found me," Alyssa taunted. "What happens now?"

"I've already told you," Aemond replied. "Go back."

"You want me to climb down? Whatever for, Cousin?"

Aemond's smile was not one of fondness. It was a warning, a challenge, a mocking gesture. His one eye burned her body more than any capable pair ever could; a shiver turned eternal, forever bruising her skin like a mark imprinted by the man's existence alone.

"I want you to take flight."

Would he chase her if she did?

But the question remained unvoiced, as the answer was plain.

She held his smouldering leer with all force she owned—even when it throbbed and slammed into her, a blatant assault.

Her next movement was long awaited by Blindfyre who readily dived in the clouds beneath. The dragon let out a long sound of both weariness and perseverance, wings stubbornly slashing through air. Alyssa looked fixedly ahead, eyes watering from wind and smoke, and muscles burning, yet she would not relent. Short breaths gradually calmed and regained depth, and she declared it a small victory. When she attempted to calm her heart, she both heard and felt Vhagar descend in their tracks.

It was a game—she knew that much, though had no understanding of the purpose nor prize. Aemond was toying with her, testing her, pushing. He was close enough that her ears once more caught the chuckle he let out. A game, and she let him play her like a puppet. A game, yet she had never felt so intensely that she was alive.

If he expected an easy win, Alyssa would torment herself just to defy him.

Massive bodies twisted and turned, and at one point there was no longer a visible trace of distinction in the outline of stretched out tails. It was a dance of shapes and motions, the steps unknown yet the sway sustained. When Alyssa managed to catch sight of Aemond's face, she found his unblinking eye already on her. He said something, then, lips curled and elegant, though the words were silenced with the beating in her chest. Then, the she-dragon dropped down and vanished from sight.

"Lykirī, Blindfyre," she muttered shakily, the hypocrisy evident as betrayed by her pulse. "Lykirī."

This time, she didn't trust the silence, frenzied eyes seeking out any movement. But there was nothing at all, not above nor below, and even the clouds appeared abandoned. The calmness was so contrasting with the intensity of previous seconds, minutes, hours?, that Alyssa almost suffocated in its embrace.

Was it truly the end, or just another part of the game she had yet to learn of?

Was there even an end to it at all?

She circled the area once, twice, Blindfyre refusing the third attempt. Guilt so strong it physically hurt crashed into her chest and made her pale. A fool, she had been, for neglecting his exhaustion to entertain a little Prince and his spoiled mind. Pushing all thoughts of Aemond away, she agreed to the dragon's demand to descend.

Aemond Targaryen vanished and Alyssa was overcome with triumph. She hadn't had his rage but, beyond a doubt, it would come. For now, she'd have his defeat; she'd hold onto it tight enough that her nails buried in its flesh and stained with crimson. She'd let it paint her skin the same way a shiver had. And then, covered from head to toe in blood-red, she'd wait.

Her legs were weak when they touched down, a quivering of enervation an evidence of the dragon dance. Blindfyre rested his body right where he landed, a black stain against the walls of the Dragonpit. Even weary, his empty vision found hers in reassurance. Without a word, she made to leave and stopped as abruptly as she turned.

There he stood, tireless and proud. He towered over her, his face fully visible for the first time since their meeting. Gone was the boy who had struck her sister and brought her wrath upon himself; a man stood in front of Alyssa, all sharp lines and edges, tall in built, lips thin, eye violet and dark with a whisper of sin.

Alyssa wanted to take his other eye, take it all, take—

He came closer, his predominance irrefutable with their bodies this close, and he smelled of fire and blood.

"You did well," a whisper in her ear, a brush of skin against hers, "dōna hāedar.*"

He was gone before an answer could come to her lips.

*dōna hāedar  — sweet girl

#aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #aemond smut #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond fic #targaryen!oc #daemon targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x original character #ao3 fanfic #hotd fanfic

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 1

NEXT CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her m own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place — cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 3.5k

notes: i've become a victim to the babygirlness of aemond targaryen. i’m ashamed to admit that it’s my first time(!!!) using tumblr and i have no idea what i’m doing (please help me). english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated. also on ao3 and wattpad.

Alyssa Targaryen came to a world flooded with blood and scorched by fire, with the distant wails of a lone, scaled beast soaring through the sky swallowing her cries.

Darkness crawled in through the window in one, swift movement, covering her pale body as though understanding of the secrecy blended with shame. It was quiet after that; the room empty but for two heartbeats singing the same tune to the rhythm of despair. There was a touch—brief and bittersweet, a mere caress that could never last long enough. When someone spoke, the words lacked boldness that might produce a shield against the dragon's shriek; because of that, they were immediately swallowed as well.

It was hasty, the way the child was taken from one resigned arms to another. It was soft and rich, the material of unfamiliar texture that covered the girl's frail figure. Then came steps—harsh, long, rushed, followed by heavy breathing, accompanied by strong hands that could easily cause damage but mercifully chose not to. Lights flickered, warm and orange, nearly comforting if one recognised their being. All sounds were muffled and blinded by the radiance. Corridors tapered and soon were met with endless stairs. Somewhere behind the door closed and with that came a definite end of something that had yet to begin.

The child came in the night, and in the night it disappeared.

It was a dreadful afternoon followed by even more of a dreadful evening. Any chance to escape the uneasiness that came with tension and trepidation present in the air seemed to have long vanished. Terror, in all its glory and strength, succeeded in penetrating each wall and room, and bathed the whole place in its stench. Each word spoken in either reluctant whisper or agitated snarl fuelled the suspense, although the outcome could no longer be proclaimed unpredicted. At times, even those who had never been dreamers were able to tell what the future holds.

When things got tense, Alyssa Targaryen could usually be found on her dragon's back, somewhere between the clouds and what laid even higher above. She enjoyed the moments of solitude, cherished the way her heart became one with that of Blindfyre. Her dragon, young in his age though never quite playful when compared to others, appeared to appreciate the stolen moments with only his rider even more so. He ascended the sky, all dark wings and darker yet tail, and breathed endless fire as though to replace the unseen clouds with thick smoke. He moved speedily but never with grace, his colourless eyes too sickly to ever catch a sight of what's before him. Disabled, he was called, and unfit for Alyssa to mount him. Riding atop Blindfyre was always a danger; the girl refused to acknowledge his uselessness and repeatedly rebelled against the words of men who had no love for the beast. After all, she and Blindfyre were one—no force in the whole realm would succeed in breaking their fierce bond. It was forged by urgency and desperation, and devotion everlasting in its depth.

During their shared moments, Alyssa would contentedly take the lead. It felt as though, in those times high in the air, her eyes became the dragon's own; his most valuable possession not once failing him. Her father had often voiced his displeasure with loud claims about the annoyance growing each time Alyssa chose to disobey him. Alyssa knew, however, that if the frustration of Daemon Targaryen had ever been truly genuine, she'd not have been able to fly once.

Or maybe she had grown too tired of accepting her father's bullshit. It would be his fault, too; he had taught her not to easily bend to someone's will.

As Blindfyre soared through the last of daylight, Alyssa's thoughts firmly remained within the walls where she knew screams of pain and sorrow could be heard. Childbirth was described as a tragic duty of unstoppable nature. It brought equal amounts of beauty and ugliness, the latter much more sensible in the eyes of a girl her age. Babes fought their way out of mothers' wombs all the time, yet there was no guarantee of success for them. The harsh, cold world offered no promise of a first breath and cry. Oftentimes, failure was inevitable, unforgiving with its brutal clutch and chilling embrace. Oftentimes, women paid the price of wanting to fulfil their duty with lives and, unwillingly, took children with them.

Alyssa knew both duty and her heart's desire to ignore it. Just as men fought on battlefield, women experienced bloodshed in the privacy of their chambers. Idly, she wondered just how easy it would be to once again disobey orders and act against all that was expected.

Too easy, perhaps, with the sheer power of her defiant nature.

Never easy enough when met with the deep rooted imbalance of rights of those who ruled and those who kneeled.

It didn't matter just yet, so she reduced her thoughts to nothingness and focused on her dragon's roar.

The wind was harsh as it brushed through her hands, the air biting into the skin on her face, a wild smile that didn't reach her eyes. Though Blindfyre was content to aimlessly wander around, Alyssa couldn't keep her mind astray from the events currently taking place not too far away. With deep frustration, she urged the dragon to return to the ground. Though unsatisfied, he obliged, falling down and brushing his wings against the earth.

"Shijetra issa," she muttered, gentle hands against hard, hot scales. Forgive me.

Although she'd much rather disappear entirely, fly away as far as north, or perhaps beyond the Wall to never be found again, Alyssa walked the familiar path leading to the chambers her father shared with the lady Laena.

Leana Velaryon brought kindness with her presence; unconditional and warm, and at times nearly overwhelming for a girl who knew not what to make of it. She reminded Alyssa of the sun; and as the sun was unreachable even for the most fearless of dragonriders, so was a place in Laena's heart. Alyssa quickly came to accept the fact that, while always sympathetic, the woman would never allow her the forbidden space somewhere deep inside her chest. With that, she learned to never much expect it. Instead, came the appreciation for the soft voice and softer yet words, and at times a tender touch to the cheek. Replacing her heart's desperate desires with those much more reasonable of her mind, Alyssa existed in peace and Laena was right there next to her.

The woman's first pregnancy went smoothly enough, both children healthy and very much the mix of Targaryen and Velaryon genes. Alyssa had been too young to remember it but she had often heard Laena retelling the story of the birth over and over again, smiling softly at her daughters. It was said she had been glowing back then, all sparkling eyes and gentle laugh, and even with the end nearing she had bravely climbed atop the mighty Vhagar and flown around for hours. This pregnancy had been different; the day when it ought to end came with nervousness instead of excitement, Laena's glow long since faded.

Alyssa was supposed to meet her first brother, the moment both dreaded and awaited with impatience. She couldn't quite imagine a little boy running around in the place that so clearly belonged to women. Everywhere one's eyes laid, there were good-natured touches that could only be imprinted by female hands. Now, a man would be born and if gods made him to Daemon's likeness, chaos would surely follow his every step. Alyssa briefly wondered if then, she'd be able to forge a deep connection with the child. If they both resembled their father, maybe finding solace in each other would come naturally, just like with riders and their dragons. It was a nice thought and something warm bloomed inside of her.

It vanished once she caught a glimpse of her father's figure.

Stories had been spread through the whole realm and what lay outside of it about the Rogue Prince, the wild dragon, the untamed beast unfit for the role of a king. He was laughed upon, ridiculed for being replaced by a little girl in the chase for the Iron Throne. He was feared, the tales of his ruthlessness echoing through castles and ruins, told by both common folk and lords, always with a mention of the blood he had spilled. Daemon Targaryen was a man who, at his every step, met people who had at least once heard of him and had no place in their hearts for creating a factual opinion on his character. He's closer to a god, they would say.

Now, Daemon Targaryen stood in the corridor, looking very much human. His posture was rigid, head hung low, breathing irregular and gaze absentminded. Alyssa watched him for just a moment before realisation sank into her lungs, poisoning them with smoke, and she saw fire, fire, fire.

"Kepa?" Her voice so small she suddenly felt like a child again, even more so when Daemon looked in her direction. When he said nothing, she repeated with hesitation, "father?"

"Dōna hāedar," he murmured, the endearment followed by familiar warmness. He never stopped calling her a sweet girl.

To her, he was no god, just a father.

"Driftmark ought to be lovely this moon around."

Laena Velaryon was kind. But kindness was a fragile thing, as her father had taught her, and when it appeared, it could never last long enough to soak it in. Accepting this as a fact, too, the young girl—a child, still—forced the ability to not expect more than is given or can be forcefully taken into existence. And when Laena was claimed by fire, Alyssa didn't allow too much grief and misery crawl into her chest. Instead of it came anger. It threatened to suffocate her with its cold hands, the claws sharp when they sank in her throat, a violent whisper pushing her to scream.

And scream, she would.

Lovely was not a word fit to describe Driftmark. Alyssa didn't care much about places she'd seen so far and High Tide with all its silvery roofs was no exception. Blindfyre, similarly, was overtaken by uneasiness, his wings barely managing to keep his distracted body from falling. With furrowed eyebrows, Alyssa offered quick words of encouragement, but they remained ignored. Accepting his silent pleas for peace that came with isolation, she let her feet touch the ground.

The day was sunny and warm, and childishly Alyssa hoped that it was Laena's brightness that brought this weather. Her father had yet to show his face, more than likely swallowing his torment down with bitterness of wine. Rhaenys Targaryen had come to offer some soft words and a kiss to the forehead before taking off with Baela and Rhaena. Corlys was unapproachable, a fact she had recognised years earlier. With Blindfyre so desperate to be left alone, Alyssa was forced to welcome silence.

Singing and reading books were two things she enjoyed, but none of them seemed proper in the middle of this anguish. Embroidery could only ever serve as a means of making her more miserable. Her maid whom she had clung onto many moons ago, Inid, was too busy with whatever preparations were required inside the castle. Some hours later, the two of them would likely exchange expressive and amused comments on lords they'd encountered and tasks Inid had managed to make a complete mess of. For now, all that was left was watching.

The king arrived along with his family and aura of importance. Her uncle had always been a good man, much more approachable than his children and lady wife. He enjoyed Alyssa's singing and questions, and entertained them with solid easiness. Sometimes, Alyssa cursed the ways in which the Targaryens functioned. She thought she'd savour additional moments of time spent among her family and that perhaps they, in turn, would grow to be fond of it. As it was, each moment with them seemed stolen and silently disallowed.

Oh, but the king's children.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was an enigma unbent to Alyssa's curiosity. She didn't know much about the woman but for the unmistakable moments of held breath and distracted gaze whenever her name was spoken in the presence of Daemon. The man himself rarely mentioned his niece; it was to be expected, for he had taken to ignoring his family altogether. Rhaenyra stood now with her children, a small circle of unexplained mismatch, and her eyes often wandered around as though searching for something. This, the girl decided, was undoubtedly interesting; this, she'd chose to watch instead of engaging in the feigned politeness of small talk with lords of even smaller significance.

Something in the Princess's whole existence compelled Alyssa, invisible strings attempting to pull her closer to the woman. Lives so uncommon and otherworldly, defying rules and laws, and the ways long accepted, had always managed to intrigue the girl. There she stood, a woman of beauty, and yet it was not the pretty face that made others watch her every move. Rhaenyra was the embodiment of the standards collapsing, a gentle power of taking more than should be given. Where intimidation ought to be blooming, excitement stole its place. Alyssa's ambition swirled in a wild dance within her brain, questions forming one after another, none of them making much sense. Deciding to be stubborn and not indulge in her mind's games, she stayed frozen in her spot.

When Rhaenys returned, she placed her caring hand on Alyssa's shoulder. "You should join your sisters."

The twins held hands and kept their silence, and though Alyssa couldn't shake off the feeling of intrusion, she didn't allow her insecurities to push her aside. The distance between her and her sisters was not one visible to the world but nevertheless existing. This, too, she had learned to accept.

Though lady Laena was no mother to her, the loss still cut through her heart and soul. Some stray tears managed to make their way down her cheeks and Alyssa decided against hiding them. After all, what damage could a few seconds of mourning do? Surely, Laena Velaryon would not be insulted. Perhaps, if she were there, she'd even brush through Alyssa's hair and whisper some words of comfort. Perhaps—just perhaps—no one would frown upon her state of distress.

Daemon Targaryen made an appearance and, as always, managed to make those around him both uncomfortable and offended. He left just as rapidly and Alyssa knew better than to search for him. At times, when two dragons too similar in their temper collided, fire was sure to grow into havoc.

When night came and both her sisters disappeared in one of the many chambers, she once again found herself beside Blindfyre. A song was sang in quiet voice, her only confidant either blissfully unaware of the words or tired of her lingering company. She sang what reminded her of days now lost, days of sunshine and sand, and cheerful laugh. Somewhere in the sky came an answer—a familiar sound of an old dragon rising to the clouds. Vhagar was a lone creature and never much valued the closeness of others. She would be seen thousand of times with her rider, Laena, as they both ran away from everything touched by people. When Laena chose to stay on the ground, Vhagar would return to her seclusion.

Now, Laena was dead, but Vhagar was not alone.

Alyssa jumped to her feet, a quick pat to Blindfyre's wing a parting gesture. Could it have been Rhaena, always so full of sadness and shame for not having a bond with a dragon? The girl had always thought less of herself due to that, inferiority overtaking her senses when she watched her sisters and parents hovering overhead. Perhaps now, although mixed with tragedy, came the moment when Rhaena could find her peace. Alyssa wished it to be true so much that somehow, somewhere deep inside, appeared the understanding that it simply wasn't. Rhaena wouldn't have tried to claim a dragon in the middle of the night, especially the one that followed her lady mother's funeral.

She walked much more slowly than she wished to, infuriation already blazing in her stare. When she finally noticed movement ahead, it was that of the familiar figures of both her sisters and cousins. Alyssa followed them without wavering. Their voices were loud and heated, and when another one—unfamiliar—mentioned the fate of Laena, Alyssa bit her lip in apprehension of what was destined to follow. All hesitance left her body at once, though, when her sister was punched.

There was a sense of comfort that chaos brought. Perhaps it was due to her father's obvious enjoyment of it, though his own chaos had always been a controlled one and never strayed from the path the man had chosen for it. Now, however, the chaos was unclaimed and unfamiliar. Some voice whispered to Alyssa, urging her to take it as her own. With shallow breath, she emerged from the shadows, one pale eyebrow arched, violet eyes unblinking and already piercing through a blonde boy's head. Instead of sheepishness, Alyssa met resistance. For a moment, then, she though that perhaps this very chaos had already been claimed and now there was nothing else to do but share it.

Aemond Targaryen held her gaze, something purely triumphant in his expression, dangerous glint behind his eyes. He looked unsurprised at her sudden appearance, as though he had expected nothing else. He stood at an awkward height, not quite a man yet, though no longer a toddler running after his older siblings. His face hadn't changed much during the years she had spent away. Even now, there was a touch of childishness in his cheeks. Out of sheer spite, Alyssa wished he would forever remain in this state of appearance; perhaps no soul in all of Westeros would ever be able to treat the child-like features seriously.

"Touch my sister again," she told him, voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart. "Go ahead. Touch her and lose your hand."

"This doesn't concern you, bastard."

She had heard the word bastard before, many a time uttered to her ears alone, and was aware of the negativity and harshness of it. Still, Alyssa had never come to associate it with herself. She was simply what she had been her whole life—a girl, a dragon, and quite clearly motherless. Never a bastard, though; Daemon Targaryen had not once shied away from implementing his justice on those who dared call her that. And with his brother, the king's support, there was not a thing in the world that could possibly stop his fury.

She was, however, conflicted about the word falling out of a prince's mouth. Surely, the consequences could not be the same when it was the king's own son.

Surely, the fury could this time be hers and hers alone.

"You seem desperate to have your body maimed, Cousin." A step followed by another, eyes still locked in the same spot. He didn't blink once. Alyssa offered a smile. "If I had known your wishes, I would have gladly taken your tongue long ago.”

"Alyssa!" Baela's voice was loud and so very similar to her late mother's that Alyssa thought she'd cry. "You have to stop. The King–"

"The King will be saddened to hear of the disregard his own son treats his word with," she interrupted. "I'm no bastard and neither are they."

The Prince actually snorted, some of his hair falling onto his pale face. He looked like this very moment was the most fun he'd had in a long time.

"Are you as blind as your cripple of a dragon or simply stupid, Cousin?"

"Are you usually such a cunt?"

It was all rushed after that. Aemond, clearly not used to being called a cunt—the boy hadn't spent much time with Daemon—surged forward in one, long stride, his hand landing on her cheek the same moment her tightly balled fist found his jaw. Someone let out an enraged roar not unlike that of a dragon; someone pulled her away just when she almost managed to catch a strand of blond hair and rip it off.

Alyssa was blinded with wrath that threatened to break out when a dagger appeared in young Lucerys's small hand. She felt her own blood boil as crimson spilled freely down Aemond's face, covering half of it.

It seemed important to watch his suffering. It seemed fitting when his one eye found hers, carrying a sweet promise of violence.

It seemed like a starting point with no clear finale.

#aemond targaryen #aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond x oc #house of the dragon #hotd #targaryen!oc #daemon targaryen #aemond is a babygirl #hotd fanfic #ao3 fanfic #aemond one eye #aemond x original character