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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 8: Starfall] [Series Finale]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: Hello all! At long last, here is the conclusion of this series. Thank you for all the love that this fic has received; I am truly thrilled beyond words to read each and every one of your thoughts, rants, outbursts, compliments, complaints, and analyses. My first idea for a story is always the ending, so I’ve had parts of this finale written in my Word Doc since before I published the first chapter. Still, it feels very surreal to have finally finished it. I hope it is worth the wait. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, violence, death and destruction, ANGST, dad!Aemond, Aegon-related chaos, prophesies for days, a tiny bit of sexual content, dragons, drama, lots of shouting, if you have not read Fire & Blood then you should know that there are SOME spoilers/allusions involving certain characters (but not that many).

Word count: 10.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia @crossingallmine @burningcoffeetimetravel @yummycastiel @lol-im-done @lovemissyhoneybee @nomugglesallowed @witchmoon @yoshiplushie @torchbearerkyle @sweetashoneyhoney @quartzs-posts @lauraneedstochill @nctma15 @queenofshinigamis @rapoficeandfire @hinata7346 @curiouser-an-curiouser @meadowofsinfulthoughts @imjustboredso @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @myspotofcraziness @bregarc @mikariell95 @doingfondue @justconfusedperiod @mommyslittlewarcriminal @graykageyama @elsolario

“Goodbye, Papa,” you whisper for your daughter who cannot yet speak, your cheek pressed to Laurel’s. You wave her tiny hand as Aemond and Vhagar vanish into a horizon that’s darkening like a bruise: gold, blue, violet, black, punctuated by rising stars. Encroaching thunder growls like a dragon. Lightning flashes as raindrops begin to fall from the sky. “Goodbye. Good luck. We’ll see you again soon.”

You retreat back inside the Red Keep and accompany Helaena and the children to Alicent’s rooms. As Jaehaera and Maelor play agreeably on the floor with woodcarvings of animals—and Jaehaerys mutilates a horse figurine with a toy mallet, targeting one leg at a time—you trade with the old queen: you give her a very drowsy Laurel, and she hands you her embroidery. The pattern is a simple white watchtower, but you’re so distracted thinking about Aemond and Storm’s End that you promptly botch it and tangle the threads beyond repair.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell Alicent, mortified, showing her the rubble. “I should have known better than to try…I’m afraid I lack Helaena’s talents…”

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” Alicent says. She beams down at Laurel as she rocks her. Helaena is absorbed with embroidering a strikingly lifelike water strider. Sir Criston is ostensibly polishing his sword at the table, but in truth listening to Alicent; he studies her words and moods and gestures the same way maesters study poisons and cures. “You must be terribly preoccupied this evening.”

“I am,” you admit. There’s no point in trying to hide it. Your hands are trembling and useless.

Still gazing at Laurel—her dreamy half-closed eyes, her silver lashes, her vulnerable smallness—Alicent speaks to you in a voice that is wistful and far away. “There was once a time when Rhaenyra suggested a match to resolve the question of succession. Jace would marry Helaena, and thus our bloodlines would be knitted back together and both branches of the family spared. I refused her. I’m not even entirely sure why I did. Now I wonder if I was wrong to reject her offer. Perhaps I could have stopped this.”

“You must not blame yourself. The realm has always balked at Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne. I don’t believe anything short of her surrender could prevent war.”

“You have no idea what it was like,” Alicent says. Now she looks at you with dark eyes that glint with deep, wounded bitterness. “Watching Rhaenyra indulge every whim, flout every tradition, taste every desire, while I…while I…” She pinches her eyes shut, trying to forget. “I have been standing on this precipice since I was eighteen years old, yet I have discovered that it is something else entirely to plunge headfirst into it.”

You place your hand lightly on her forearm. From across the room, Sir Criston lays down his sword and considers approaching. “You will not face this alone.”

“Aemond says you are a woman who admires ferocity. You must think that we can win if you’ve thrown your lot in with us. Perhaps that is why you support the Greens, why you came to King’s Landing to serve us to begin with. Because you have judged us to be the victors.”

That would be perfectly logical, but it’s wrong. “I support the Greens because I love you. All of you.”

Alicent’s face breaks into a sad smile. “I’m very glad that you are Aemond’s wife. Even though I was rather horrified at first.”

“I have been known to have that effect on people.”

“You don’t know what he was like before,” Alicent says. “The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence. I think you saved him from becoming a monster.” She returns Laurel to you. The baby is sound asleep. “You both saved him.”

Sir Criston, having sheathed his sword, wanders over to invent some pretext to converse with Alicent: something about Aegon’s new council, something about the terms sent to Rhaenyra. She is still mulling it over, this last chance at peace; yet even if she is inclined to accept the concessions—an unconditional pardon, Dragonstone for Rhaenyra and Jace, Driftmark for Luke, recognized legitimacy for Harwin Strong’s sons, places at court for Daemon’s—her husband will advise her against it. Aemond was right when he said that Rhaenyra isn’t suicidal. You aren’t so sure about Daemon.

As you depart to put Laurel to bed, you pause by Helaena and praise her embroidery. It is exactly what you have come to expect from her: intricate, gorgeous, and yet unnerving somehow. Her water strider is made of gold-and-ruby flames, and the wave it dances on is adorned with the reflection of a crescent moon. You recall what she said at King Viserys’ last dinner, so softly that hardly anyone noticed: Beware the beast beneath the boards. “Meleys in the Dragonpit,” you say. “You knew it was going to happen.”

Helaena’s reply is halting and dazed. “I can sometimes see what—pieces of it, anyway, fragments of it, like shards of glass left in the frame of a broken window—but not when or how.”

“That must be maddening.”

“Oh, it is,” she agrees, and resumes her stitching. On the floor, Jaehaerys starts dragging a screeching Maelor around by his white hair. Sir Criston separates them, then lectures Jaehaerys about the importance of princely behavior. Jaehaerys kicks him in the steel-plated shin.

“I suppose we could share grandchildren one day,” you tell Helaena. “Laurel might marry Maelor.” Otto Hightower has already suggested it, and you aren’t necessarily opposed, assuming the two grow up to be genuinely fond of each other. Maelor is a shy, benevolent sort of child, just like his mother; he’s no Jaehaerys, that’s for certain. Aemond always says the same thing about Laurel, without further explanation, without hesitation: She will be whatever she wants to be. This seems to be in blatant conflict with his self-sacrificial sense of duty, of advancement. Then again, so is his love for you.

But Helaena shakes her head, very slowly, her gaze still tangled in the threads of her embroidery. “No, she won’t,” the new queen murmurs.

You take Laurel back to her bedroom and lay her in the cradle, and you stand there for a long time with your hands on the railing. A mobile of cloth insects—a gift from Helaena—twirls lazily above your head. The room is hushed. The window looks out on Blackwater Bay, where rain falls and lightning splits the indigo sky like fractured bones; the island you and Aemond call Bearstone is visible only as an outline on the horizon that blacks out some of the stars. The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence, Alicent had said, and that’s true, isn’t it? You wonder what Borros Baratheon’s answer will be. You wonder what kind of man will return to you if Aemond spends weeks, months, years away at war.

Beside your sleeping daughter is the dragon egg Aemond chose for her: white, silver-flecked, as large and armored as Laurel is fragile and diminutive. She often reaches for it, marvels at it, beats her little fist against it as if trying to crack the shell. The egg came from Dreamfyre’s clutch, and the Greens have already begun referring to the one-day dragon by a name that honors both its Targaryen and Mormont affiliations: Frostfyre.

You leave Laurel in the care of her wetnurses and handmaidens and sit by the fireplace in the chambers you share with Aemond, trying to lose yourself in a book about the geography of Westeros. Flamelight dances across the pages as you turn them. Your mind keeps wandering: south to Storm’s End, north to Bear Island, into the future, into the past.

There is a knock against your doorframe. Aegon leans there in gold and green, smirking, pleasantly tipsy but far from drunk. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

He waltzes inside, flourishing the wine cup in his hand. “Are you utterly tormented? Are you inconsolable? Have you chewed your fingers down to the bone?”

“Not yet. But this book isn’t helping as much as I’d hoped.”

“That’s because it’s a book.”

“Perhaps I should try whores.”

Aegon cackles and throws himself down into the plush reading chair across from you. He props his boots on the footstool and crosses them one over the other. “Can you believe that this is my fourth cup of wine today? Not fourteenth. Fourth.”

“I’m very proud of you,” you say, and you mean it.

“It’s the strangest thing. I train with Sir Criston and I attend council meetings and I make my public appearances…and before I know it each day is gone. I set my cup down on tables or bannisters and then I forget all about it.” He glances to the bed, noting the dusty pale-pink remnants of the protection spells you’ve cast there. “What happens when all the bears relocate from the kingswood? What happens when Balerion runs out of teeth?”

“I’ll start pulling yours.”

He is amused, but there is something dismal about his expression as well. His face is less puffy, more serious. The reflections of flares and embers glow in his eyes. “I don’t know why you would want to protect me,” he says, remembering the night before his coronation. “If I die, Jaehaerys is next in line to the throne, but he’ll be a child for the next decade. Aemond could be regent. The task would suit him. It would please him, I believe. It is a role he was built for. The gods used entirely different bricks when they made me. Your life would be simpler without me in it.”

“Simpler, perhaps. But not better.”

He smiles; and this time it is shadowless and pure. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“Bear Island,” you reply; and you both burst into laughter as you sit together in the crackling firelight. Outside, rain drums against the windows and the wind howls as the storm intensifies. “Also, I think Jaehaerys might be deranged.”

“Yes, well you have to watch out for firstborns, you know. They are often incorrigible.”

“Personally, I have a weakness for second sons.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“What happens if Rhaenyra won’t accept the terms?” you ask quietly, looking at Aegon. “What happens if there is war?”

“There won’t be.”

“But if there is?”

Aegon shrugs, unconcerned. “Then we’ll win. We have the support of the Westerlands and the Reach, and probably Storm’s End too. We have Sir Criston, the best swordsman in Westeros. We have Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Tessarion, and Vhagar, who easily counts as two or three ordinary dragons put together. We have my supernaturally manipulative grandsire. We have you. And, of course, we have Aemond.”

“I fear losing him,” you confess. “I hate how much I fear it. It makes me feel pathetic. I didn’t used to be like this. But now I’m filled to the brim with dread.”

“Are you worried that he’ll march off to battle and fall into the soothing arms of some other enchanting, adulterous Northerner? That’s quite impossible, I assure you. He’s never been one inclined towards romance. What liaisons transpired before you—and there weren’t many, believe me, I judged him plenty for that—were…” He ponders how to phrase it. “More educational than impassioned.”

“No,” you say, smiling wanly. “I’m worried that he’ll come home a different man than he left. I’m worried that he’ll succumb to his blind hatred for the Blacks and be poisoned by it.”

“I don’t think that will happen. He won’t allow himself to lose his way. His love for you and the baby is too great.”

“Will you show me?” you ask, holding up your book. There is a map of Westeros on the page, mountains and rivers and borderlines carved like knife wounds in flesh. “If there is fighting, where it will happen?”

“Sure,” Aegon replies. He has attended enough council meetings to know their schemes by now. He gets up and rests his elbows on the back of your chair, hovering over you to point out the pertinent locations. He is very close; you can smell wine on him, and perfume scented like pomegranates, and soap and sun. There are ink stains on his hands. His silvery hair brushes against your cheek. “Control of the Riverlands would be essential. It is the closest thing Westeros has to a center point, and we would need it to have ready access to the surrounding regions. Its rivers carry trade goods. Its lords have many men and horses at their disposal. Its flat, fertile soil is good for feeding soldiers. And killing them.” He grins. “We would need a foothold there. Maidenpool or High Heart, perhaps. More likely Harrenhal. That’s Lord Larys Strong’s castle, conveniently.”

“It would be an uncommon sensation for him. Being useful, I mean.”

Aegon’s index finger travels around the map. “Battles would pepper the Riverlands and the parts of the Crownlands likely to support Rhaenyra. Duskendale, Rosby, Rook’s Rest. We’d stay out of the Vale. Men can’t fight on the sides of mountains. We aren’t goats.”

But your gaze has snagged somewhere else. In the belly of the Riverlands, there lies the largest lake in Westeros: vast and crystalline blue and with an island at the center known as the Isle of Faces, a legendary and unconquerable mystery that turns all sailors away with fierce winds and flocks of squawking ravens. “I’ve been there,” you say. “The God’s Eye. We stopped to swim and picnic on its shores when my family brought me south to marry Axel Hightower. It is a place of magic, of deep, ageless power. I’d like to go back someday. I’d like to try to visit the Isle of Faces.”

“Aemond can take you, when all this is over. He can land Vhagar right in the middle of that fabled, forbidden little island. And then burn it to ash if you’re unimpressed.” He plucks the book out of your hands and snaps it shut. “Now let’s desist with the geography lesson and do some gambling instead.”

You play cards for several hours—thunder booming, lightning striking ever-closer, Aegon unashamedly robbing you of your coins as you fumble along without much strategy, distracted and nervy—until you tell the king that you’re going to bed. You’re a liar. You bathe and slip into your nightgown and then sit and stare at the dying cinders in the hearth, pulsing like fireflies: garnet, jasper, carnelian, tiger’s eye. When you begin to nod off at last, your vision blurs and the pinprick infernos become distant and indistinct, like stars. They form constellations you can only decipher pieces of: a claw here, a wing there, eyes and blades and teeth. You jolt awake when you hear the bedroom door creak open. The fire rekindles with the gust of cool new air. You know exactly who it is. You recognize his footsteps.

“You’re back already—?”

His face stops you. Everything about him stops you. He’s drenched to the skin and shivering, staring at the wall. His hair is in disarray. Wet, silver twists hang loose and wild; his tie has come undone and he hasn’t even noticed. Water drips from his coat and forms reflective pools around his boots. You can see firelight dancing there. Helaena’s words whisper through your skull like cold wind: He comes home late, covered in rain.

“What?” you say, standing. “What happened?”

Aemond is silent. Lightning illuminates the room in stark, white-blue rage.

You take his hands, and he allows this but won’t look at you. Every angle of his body is wrong: his shoulders, his spine, his jaw. You’ve never seen him like this before. Perhaps nobody has. What could it be? What could it POSSIBLY be? “Did the Baratheons deny you?”

“No, they are with us. Daeron will marry Floris.”

“Then what…?”

At last, his gaze meets yours. His words are slow and heavy, so heavy. His eye—blue like clear skies, like the ocean, like veins beneath paper-thin skin—is more than just stunned. It is afraid. “Luke was there too.”

You don’t understand. “…At Storm’s End?”

“Yes.”

There’s blood on him, you realize now; not much, but enough. There’s a smudge on his right temple, a stain on his throat, flecks in his hair. “Alone?”

“Yes,” Aemond says again.

Just Luke. Not Jace, not Rhaenyra, not Rhaenys, not Daemon…just timid little Luke Strong. You take a step back, dropping his hands. Your stomach plummets; cold sweat slicks across your pores. You are suddenly terrified to know more. You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “What happened, Aemond?”

You call him by his name, and you never call him by his name. Your husband does not seem to have caught this. His fingers go unconsciously to the bear-hilt dagger he still wears at his belt. “Luke was sent to compel Lord Borros to honor his father’s long-past commitment to Rhaenyra. He was so pitiful, so weak, he brought nothing but his mother’s admonishment. Borros turned him away. And then, I…I…” Now his fingertips ghost over his scar. “I stopped him. I threw him your dagger. And I told him to put out his eye.”

Timid little Luke Strong, alone in Storm’s End…small and afraid and outmatched just like Aemond had been all those years ago on Driftmark when he was maimed. “You…?”

“As payment for mine.” He smirks, a ghoulish little half-smile with no humor at all. “I told him that I planned to make a gift of it to you.”

And there is something gut-wrenching about this, it hits you harder than you could have anticipated: that the same man who gave you tenderness and devotion and whispers and faith and a child was going to give you another child’s eye. A debt is still owed. A debt will always be owed. “But he didn’t do it.” If he had, Aemond would now be radiant, victorious. Instead, he is horrified.

“No,” Aemond says. “He refused. And when he left on Arrax…I followed him.”

Your voice is hoarse, brittle. “You killed that boy?”

“I did not give the order,” he insists fiercely. “I meant only to frighten him, to shame him, but Vhagar…she…she…” He shakes his head, like casting out bad dreams. “I tried to stop her.”

Surely there can be no greater betrayal than this: his dragon, his first conquest, his path to redemption. And he will never be able to admit it to anyone but you. Helaena’s warning is a specter hissing through fanged teeth from the shadows of this room: Be cautious with her. She will not always listen. “Vhagar against Arrax, that is no battle, that is murder. The realm will see this as murder.”

“I know.” His reply is helpless.

You reach for him. “Aemond…”

“Do not comfort me,” he flares. “I am not worthy of it. It is you and our daughter who I have endangered.”

“We can win,” you say quickly, desperately. “There will be war now but we can win it, the Greens have the Reach and the Westerlands and Storm’s End, and half of the Crownlands too, we have wealth and armies and dragons and magic, and we already hold the capital, we need only to defend it—”

“I have to send you away.”

Every frenzied thought in your mind falls silent. “What? Where?”

“Starfall.”

Dorne? Some remote, desert castle in a land I’ve never known? You watch each other in the firelight. “No,” you reply simply.

“This will destroy Rhaenyra. She will want me destroyed in return. And Daemon knows exactly how to do it.”

“No,” you repeat, furious. “I’m not going anywhere, we don’t run from battles, I don’t run from battles—!”

Aemond grabs your wrists and holds them against his chest, gently but stubbornly. “Listen,” he says. “I will have to leave King’s Landing to fight this war. And Daemon will come for you. He knows what you mean to me, what you are to me, he knows. He will do it himself, or he will send someone to do it for him, or he will do it if the Blacks sack the city, but no matter how it happens he will not stop until your blood is spilled. He will not honor your status as a noncombatant. And he won’t just kill you. He will do excruciating, unforgivable things to you, because that is how he can hurt me best. The way he looked at you…here, in the Red Keep, as Viserys lay dying…that was the first time I ever saw you as what you truly are.”

“A burden?” you fling at him like a blade.

“No, Moonstone.” He releases your wrists and clasps your face with his hands. “A weakness.”

The fight bleeds out of you. Not so long ago, it was not believed that Aemond One-Eye had any fears, any weaknesses at all. “I don’t want to leave you. Any of you.”

“It won’t be for long.”

“I can’t go to Dorne. They don’t have any heart trees there. The Old Gods won’t be able to hear me.”

“You cannot stay here,” he swears. “I cannot leave you in plain sight and undefended.”

“Then send me back to Bear Island instead,” you plead frantically.

“No. The North is likely to side with Rhaenyra, and Daemon would know to look for you there.” He strokes your hair, your cheek, the pendant that swings from your neck. “Dorne will remain neutral, and Starfall is on the Summer Sea. You can get there by ship, easily and inconspicuously. I cannot fly you. Vhagar could be sighted, and everyone knows who she belongs to. And I…I…” His eye goes vacant, haunted. “I don’t know if I can trust her.”

A shudder claws down your spine. I’ve ridden that dragon. My daughter has touched that dragon. “So you’ll ride off to battle against Syrax and Meleys and Caraxes and I’ll…just…what, stare out a window and wait for you to show up and rescue me? Wake up every day wondering if you’re still alive? If Aegon and Sir Criston and Otto are still alive? I’ll read books and play cards and embroider pillowcases and go on meaningless fucking strolls through the gardens? I’ll be useless, I’ll be worse than useless because I could have helped you if I had stayed, I will—”

“You will survive.” He smiles faintly. “The maesters of Starfall will offer you and Laurel shelter. They will keep you secret. They will keep you informed of how the war progresses. And if…somehow…the Greens are on the losing side…then they will help you start over someplace where you will never be found.”

You think of all the letters he’s exchanged with Dornish maesters over the past ten months, letters you’ve never pried much into, ravens loosed and received. “How long have you been considering this?”

“Since I met you. Just in case.”

You try to imagine it—hot blaring sun, bobbing ships, the ocean, castle walls—and perhaps Starfall won’t feel so very far from King’s Landing after all. Perhaps it will be a respite, not an exile. Perhaps you will be back in the Red Keep with every living soul you’ve ever loved before the year is finished. Even if I can’t bear to do it for me, I can do it for Laurel. I will have her. I can protect her.

Aemond touches his forehead to yours, and only now are you aware of the tears streaking down his flawless right cheek. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

“I’ll go to Starfall. If that’s what you need, if that’s what’s best for our daughter, I’ll do it.”

“There’s one last thing.” He takes your dagger from his belt and lays it in your outstretched palm. You think, without wanting to: If Luke had mutilated himself with this blade, he’d still be alive. Aemond lifts your chin to kiss you, an act so delicate and insurmountably heavy it could shatter. “Keep this with you.”

~~~~~~~~~

He introduces her to each type of blossom, skimming a kaleidoscope of petals across her miniature fingers: roses, wisteria, jasmine, calla lilies, orchids, chrysanthemums, red poppies. He is cautious not to let her get too firm a grip, lest she decides to eat one. He insists on doing everything. He never wants a break from her. Soon you’ll both be gone, sailing into the horizon on some nondescript ship bound for Dorne. He knows his time is running out. Laurel devours him with those enormous, knowing eyes. She clutches clumsily at the petals with great interest, perhaps in part because he’s the one offering them. She gets upset when he tries to carry her through the cool, dark trellis archway grown thick with greenery; she wonders where the sun has gone.

At last he returns to sit beside you on the edge of the fountain. A pair of white stone dragons exhale gushes of clear water like flames. The gardens are quiet and still. It is late-afternoon on a magnificently warm and golden day, but the Red Keep feels abandoned. Bees and butterflies and beetles wheel in the air. You can hear waves crashing against jagged black rocks, windchimes jangling in the breeze, the distant snarls of dragons.

“She might be walking by the time we see you again,” you tell Aemond. You smile, hoping to lift his spirits; but he doesn’t smile back.

He presses his lips to Laurel’s silver hair. Someday soon, it will be long enough to braid. “She might have a dragon waiting for her.” Frostfyre’s egg will remain in King’s Landing, of course; it will be left in the care of the Dragonkeepers in case the beast hatches during the war.

“You will get to teach her how to ride. How to speak High Valyrian.”

Now he does smile, with hope and optimism and pride. “And you will teach her magic.”

There is the sound of dainty heels clicking against the cobblestones. Helaena appears, carrying a praying mantis in her palm like a beacon. “You are required in the Great Hall,” she says.

You and Aemond look at each other, mystified. “Why?” he asks Helaena.

“Everyone is waiting.” And then she turns and leaves.

You and Aemond follow after Helaena, struggling to keep up. You lift the hem of your dress—black with accents of silver, your dagger secured by a belt patterned with silver bears—to avoid puddles and ascend steps; Aemond carries Laurel against his chest. She peers over his shoulder, eyes alert, cheeks chubby and with dimples like her father’s. You will have to be mindful in Dorne to ensure her skin isn’t burned by the sun. As you near the Great Hall, you can hear muffled music and voices and clanks of cups and silverware.

“Oh, gods,” Aemond groans, realizing too late.

You begin: “What—?”

The guards open the doors. Inside the Great Hall, there is a raucous feast in progress: dancing, drinking, gorging, whoring, wolfing down enough pleasures to last until the war is done. Everyone knows that time is disappearing like a starving crescent moon. Everyone knows the blood will soon begin flowing. The royal family has a table above all the chaos: Otto, Alicent, and Sir Criston are seated there with grim faces. Aegon is laughing hysterically about something that no one else seems to appreciate. Helaena scurries across the room to take her rightful place in the empty chair beside him.

“Ah, the guest of honor!” Aegon booms when he sees you and your husband, tottering to his feet and raising his cup of wine. He is grinning hugely beneath glazed, groggy eyes. He’s not just drunk. He’s ruined. “A toast to my brother, Aemond, the champion in the very first engagement of the war. To the prince, to Vhagar, and to a hasty victory!”

There are dutiful cheers, but when the nobles of Westeros turn to Aemond their faces are not congratulatory; they are wary, mistrustful, repulsed. Even the most fervent supporters of the Greens have trouble stomaching the murder of a child. Aemond’s own face is stone; he is seething, of course, but he hides it well. You take Laurel from him so he can meander through the hall accepting obligatory compliments from the guests: sword-wielding men, blanching women, reticent daughters who are for the first time relieved that it was not one of them he chose to wed. As you make your way to the royal family’s table, you swim in a sea of noxious whispers.

“…Nothing left, I heard…not a single piece…just a head of the other dragon…the boy must have been swallowed…”

“You saw Rhaenyra’s son when he was here, didn’t you? Nothing but a scared little runt…”

“…More like an execution than a battle…”

“Look, not even Aemond’s Mormont wife can summon up enthusiasm for this travesty. When was the last time she wore black to a feast? She’s always in that strange pearlescent color…”

“…Vhagar is five times the dragon Arrax was…”

“I have it on good authority that Rhaenyra was considering terms before what happened at Storm’s End, and now it will be a bloodbath…now all our sons will be expected to bleed…”

“…There is no decency in this…”

“Aemond One-Eye, they call him. Maybe they ought to change it to Aemond the Kinslayer.”

There was a moment—at Aegon’s coronation, at the beginning of the end—when there was a chance for the people to meet Aemond, to witness his gifts, to learn to love him. Now that chance is as dead as Lucerys Velaryon.

You greet Alicent and Otto, then tell them that you’ll return after you’ve put Laurel to bed. It is not customary for young children to attend feasts, nor do you wish to frighten her with all of the unfamiliar sights and scents and sounds…although, and perhaps you should have anticipated this, Laurel doesn’t seem frightened at all.

“Nonsense!” Alicent says, rather ferociously, and gleefully lifts the baby out of your arms. She and Otto pass Laurel back and forth: snuggling her, tickling her, showing her off to mostly-indifferent courtiers. Your adopted family knows that this is one of their last chances to see her before your departure to Dorne. They have been informed of Aemond’s plan—Alicent, Otto, and Sir Criston—and contrary to being outraged (as you had been) they are in agreement that it is a wise course of action. Helaena was not explicitly told, but seems aware of it nonetheless; this morning she was offering you advice about packing lots of light, breathable fabrics. No one has told Aegon yet. Aemond doesn’t want to be the one to do it. You aren’t sure how.

You pick at your food and sip your wine and try to keep your expression as neutral as possible. There is no winning here. If you appear joyful, you are celebrating the murder of a child; if you are morose, you are betraying your husband. In truth, you are neither, and you are both, and you are everything in between. As Aemond traverses the Great Hall, he keeps you on his good side as much as he can. He glances at you—over and over again like the cyclical phases of the moon— storing up visions to be conjured when he is on the field of battle and you are in Starfall, not even a whisper, not even words on a page. He will not be able to visit you until the war is over. He will not be able to send you letters that could be intercepted.

“Should we go see the Iron Throne?” Otto asks in a high, squeaky voice as he struts around with Laurel. “Yes, let’s go see the Iron Throne. Once upon a time, there was a man called Aegon the Conqueror, and you happen to have some of his blood in you. You have his hair too, but that’s a separate story. We can talk about the trials and tribulations of hair later. Now, Aegon was born in…”

A very different Aegon saunters over to you, wine cup in hand. You ignore him.

“You look tense,” he says, swaying. He begins ineptly massaging your shoulders.

“You look wasted.” You swat him away.

“Dance with me, Moonstone,” he begs, plopping down in Aemond’s chair, swigging the last of his wine and then refilling it. “I am soon to be sent off to war. I could be killed, or worse, mortally wounded and rendered incapable of debauchery at the level which I aspire to.”

“No thanks.”

“Why, do you have other plans? Will you be sneaking off to any dusty stairwells? Do you need someone to guard the doorway for you and protect what scraps remain of your honor?”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood tonight.”

“I’m always in the mood,” he says, grinning. “What do you think, did little Luke Strong go down smooth, or are there still bits of him caught in Vhagar’s teeth?”

You see it in a nauseating flash like lightning: that same boy who cowered beside his mother and attempted to defend Jace and loved Rhaena Targaryen reduced to a jumble of blood and bones. That’s really all we are. Beneath the names and the banners and the faiths and the magic, that’s all any of us are. “You’re being cruel.”

“I’m being supportive,” Aegon counters.

You glower at him, half-angry, half-disappointed. The disappointment feels worse. “Why did you have to do this?”

He is genuinely confused. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture to the feast, the crowds, the tentative praises offered to Aemond like girls climbing—numbly and obediently—into the beds of old men.

Aegon slurs as he speaks. “Look, whether it was the honorable thing to do or not, whether it was the wise thing to do, the Strong boy is dead and nothing can change that. We cannot apologize for it, we cannot disregard it. All that’s left to do is celebrate it.” He clangs his cup against yours. Wine splatters on the tablecloth. “There is one less Black. There is one less dragon for them to burn us alive with. And I have made Aemond a war hero.”

“You have made all of us profoundly uncomfortable.”

Pain rushes into his face like blood to flushed cheeks: true, repentant, defenseless pain. “That was not my intention,” he says softly.

“No, I see that now.” I don’t have much time left with Aegon. I don’t have much time left with any of them. “I’m sorry. And as my act of contrition I will dance with you.”

Aegon smiles again and leads you down into the crowd. You and the king are an island in a sea of depravity. To your right, some Lannister is practically undressing a more-than-enthusiastic Swyft girl. To your left, a Costayne lord has passed out on the floor; people step around him as they twirl and stumble. Aegon grasps your waist—chastely, careful not to offend—with his right hand and weaves his fingers through yours with his left. The music is quick and plucky, almost restless, almost perilous.

“I know I’ve been excessive tonight,” he admits, meaning the wine. “I hope you are not too angry with me. It’s just that I am acutely aware it will be my last chance for a while.”

This is true: there are armies massing, plans being drawn up, new weapons and armor being hammered into existence. Your ship leaves tomorrow. “I forgive you. Your brother will too, although it will take him longer.”

Aemond has at last arrived at the royal family’s table. He has somehow wrestled Laurel away from Otto and has her clutched to his chest as he confers with Sir Criston. Still, he is watching you. “So you remain opposed to the prospect of my untimely demise,” Aegon teases.

“Quite vehemently.”

“And I will continue to have the benefit of your gruesome, illicit spells until all the Blacks’ heads are secured on spikes outside the Red Keep.”

You hesitate. Aegon’s ungainly steps slow. The crowd around you is rowdy and oblivious.

“What’s the matter, witch? Have you embraced a non-heathen religion? Have you renounced the ways of your hairy, half-human, cave-dwelling forefathers?”

“It’s not that,” you say. “I would want nothing more than to help you…if I was able to. If I was staying in King’s Landing.”

He stops completely: a sudden lurch, an inebriated wobble. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll be going tomorrow.”

He rips his hands away from you. “Going where?” he demands. His eyes are sharp with betrayal.

“Aegon…”

“Going where?”

You answer in a whisper, pained and sorry. “Starfall.”

He whirls and storms out of the Great Hall, tripping occasionally, pushing himself off walls when he careens into them. In the chaos of lust and gluttony, few guests even notice. You chase Aegon out into the hallway. He is moving with truly impressive speed for a man in his condition.

“Aegon, wait!” you call after him.

“Whose idea was this?” he hurls back, still racing through empty corridors. “Aemond’s, right? It couldn’t have been yours. I can’t believe that. You wouldn’t run.”

“Please, just let me explain—”

“Explain what, that you’re abandoning me—?!”

Aemond comes soaring out of a hallway, grabs Aegon, pins him roughly to the wall.

“You can’t send her away!” Aegon pleads, struggling. There are tears spilling down his cheeks. He slaps clumsily at his brother’s face, inflicting no damage whatsoever.

“And who will protect her if she stays?” Aemond says, his voice low and serrated and dark like volcanic glass. “I will be needed in battle, you will be needed in battle, Sir Criston will be leading the infantry, so tell me, who will be here to stand between her and Daemon when he comes to King’s Landing with fire and blood?”

Aegon stops fighting. His white-blond hair shags over his eyes. He is savagely bitter, glaring, hateful. “This is all your fault.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Why did you do it then?!” Aegon shouts. “Nobody told you to kill the Strong boy, nobody told you to make this war inevitable and incur the eternal wrath of the Blacks, so why the fuck did you do it?!”

Aemond doesn’t reply, but the truth speaks through the collapsing lines of his face, his shoulders, his spirit. His hands fall away from the king. His rain-blue gaze drops to the floor.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Aegon realizes with hushed shock, with horror. And then, much louder: “It wasn’t on purpose?!”

“No one can know,” Aemond says.

“Oh gods, oh gods…” Aegon rubs his wet, ruddy face with both hands. “Seven hells, how does that happen?!”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

“You’re telling me that you possess the largest, most lethal dragon on the planet and you can’t control her?! Someone explain to me how I’m still the family disappointment when I ride Sunfyre around the Crownlands all the time and I’ve never accidentally killed someone!”

Aemond says nothing, but he looks miserable, he looks broken.

“And now you send her away,” Aegon pitches at him. “You take her away from us, from me, not because of anything I did but because you made a mistake, because you fucked up—!”

“It’s not your decision to make.”

“I am the king, every decision is my decision to make—!”

You flee from them as they slice at each other with venomous accusations, blades aimed at hearts and jugulars. You run beneath the torchlight, beneath the fading sounds of music and shouts and the crumbling realities of the world. Nothing will ever be the same again. That thread of fate disappeared down Vhagar’s void-black, scorching throat. We’re not supposed to be attacking each other. We’re supposed to be winning the war.

You know that Laurel’s bedroom will be deserted. You take shelter there, supporting yourself with the railing of her crib, empty except for Frostfyre’s egg. Through forge-hot tears, you stare out the window at the starless blur where Bearstone must be. You have not been there in the three days since Aemond returned from Storm’s End. He doesn’t want you to ride Vhagar. He doesn’t want you anywhere near her. Everything’s falling apart. How can I stop this? How can I stitch us all back together?

You wish there was a way to turn back time. You wish you had known to cast a protection spell for Lucerys Velaryon.

In the window’s glass, you catch a reflection of movement behind you in the dimly-lit bedroom. You catch the flicker of moonlight on metal.

Someone is in here with me. Someone with a blade.

You spin. A man is stepping out of the shadows, broad and black-haired and bearded. For a second, you can only gape at him with slow, stupid bewilderment. This doesn’t feel possible. This doesn’t feel real.

How…?

And then you know. Aegon uses the hidden passageways that crisscross the Red Keep like arteries; and, once upon a time, so had Daemon Targaryen. And this is the man he’s sent to kill you.

Aemond was right, you think, and realize that until now you had never truly believed him.

“Where’s the baby?” the man rasps, only half-illuminated. His dagger glints in the moonshine. “You’re supposed to have a baby with you.”

You reach for your bear-hilt dagger. He lunges for you. The second intruder, the one you still hadn’t known was there, crawls out from under Laurel’s crib and grabs your ankles. You scream like clashing swords, like a gutted animal as they grapple with you and slam you to the floor. You pull your dagger free and stab half-blindly at the larger man’s face as hands clamp over your eyes, your lips. He shrieks when your blade pierces his cheek, nicks his tongue, fills his mouth with blood. He pins your wrist to the floor and coughs up scarlet globs, spits them on you, calls you a bitch and a whore. You bite the hands that cover your face. You try to scream through their murderous fingers and palms. One of them rips your moonstone pendant off your neck, snapping the chain. The men are tearing pieces of your dress away. They are cutting the laces with their daggers. They are talking about what they plan to do to you.

Daemon wants this. Daemon told them to do this.

In his distraction, the larger man’s grip around your wrist loosens: only for a second, but that’s enough. You wrench your hand free and bury your dagger in his eye, all the way to the hilt. He howls and rocks backward, blood and remnants of his eye gushing down his face.

“Just kill the bitch!” he roars at his companion. “Just fucking kill her—!”

The bedroom door bangs open, and through the smaller man’s fingers you can see Aemond and Aegon burst inside. You hear Aemond drawing his sword. You hear the men Daemon sent struggling with him. Aegon drags you to the other side of the room and crouches over you, steadying himself by pressing a hand to the wall, wine and sweat oozing from his pores.

“No no no no!” the smaller man screeches as Aemond’s sword comes whistling down. The man’s skull is suddenly no longer attached to spine; his head rolls away with thick, sickening thuds. His blade still dripping with blood, Aemond turns to the larger man and slits his throat before he can beg for mercy. The bedroom falls into an abrupt silence.

“That is why she has to leave King’s Landing,” Aemond says, pointing to the would-be assassins’ corpses, still breathing heavily. Aegon just gawks in blank, speechless horror. Then Aemond sheaths his sword and gathers you into his arms. You dissolve into tears of fear, exhaustion, pain, shock.

“They were asking about Laurel,” you sob. “They, they, they were sent to kill her too—”

“Shh, she is safe, my love, she is safe. She is with Mother and Otto.”

“I didn’t believe it,” Aegon exhales, sinking to the floor. “I really didn’t…I didn’t think…”

“Double the guard on Mother and Helaena. They go nowhere alone.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately.

“And my wife sets sail for Starfall tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Aegon says again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m so sorry.”

“Aegon.” You reach for him, and he comes to you and Aemond on his hands and knees. The three of you sit on the floor together in the bloodied, moonlit quiet. You tuck the king’s hair behind his ear, whisk a tear from his cheek with your thumb, smile with soft, kind sorrow. “I’ll miss you too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In Blackwater Bay, there is a ship with no destination.

It is small, inconspicuous, loaded with enough supplies for a handful of passengers and a skeleton crew. It is decorated with no banners. It carries no nets for fishing, no treasures for selling, no soldiers for transporting. In times of conflict, it is rare for such a seemingly available vessel to not be requisitioned for the war effort. Not even its captain knows where it is headed. When people—fisherman, traders, passersby—inquire about his purpose, he smirks slyly and replies: “I’m going wherever the wind blows me.”

Most accept this unfulfilling explanation with some mild bafflement, continue on with their business, and promptly let the exchange slip out of their mind like sand through the gaps between fingers. Some pester the captain with further questions until he waves them off. Some chatter innocuously with him about the weather or the sea or who he believes will triumph in the impending war for the Iron Throne. But when several Gold Cloaks from the City Watch happen by, something about this captain and his enigmatic ship catches in their minds like a thorn in flesh. Something about him reminds them of signs they’ve been told to look for.

And just as nearly a year before when Aemond Targaryen publicly announced his scandalous marriage to a willful, insignificant, already-wed daughter of House Mormont, a raven carrying this news finds its way from King’s Landing to the rocky, salt-lashed shores of Dragonstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Laurel is asleep in a crib in the corner of the bedroom you share with Aemond. Neither of you will allow her out of your sight. The feast has ended, the guests have been sent home to prepare for combat, the castle has been searched from top to bottom, from the godswood to the Great Hall to the weblike design of secret passageways. There are no other intruders. You are safe. There are guards stationed outside the bedroom door, guards beneath the windows, guards pacing the gardens. Aemond is sitting up in bed and mending your pendant with a pair of pliers and spare links of silver obtained from the maesters. His long hair falls over his bare shoulders and chest. His eyepatch hangs from a knob on the dresser. His forehead is wrinkled and determined.

You climb into bed beside him, candlelight painting you both with a brush made of heat, rage, lust, devastation, rebirth. “Can I ask you something, Silver?”

“Anything.”

You graze his face—you’re so fucking beautiful—with the backs of your fingers, first his good side, and then his ragged scar. “Why a sapphire?”

“Because of Symeon Star-Eyes.”

“I regret to remind you that you have married an uncultured Northerner.”

He smiles, still working on the damaged chain. “He was a knight during the Age of Heroes. He was blinded when he lost both of his eyes, so he replaced them with sapphires. That’s how the singers tell the story, anyway.”

You can picture it with aching clarity: Aemond as a small, lonely, tormented boy consuming book after book about ancient warriors and legendary beasts. He kept every piece of lore he learned about them like secrets, like jewels, like bricks to build himself with. “And he never stopped fighting.”

“And he never stopped fighting.” Aemond finishes the chain and lifts it over your head. The moonstone pendant returns to rest exactly where it belongs. Then your husband tilts your chin, turns your face one way and then the other, his gaze wandering over the bruises and crimson scrapes left by Daemon’s would-be assassins, troubled and pensive. And then he kisses you, his lips gentle.

“I don’t blame you,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “I want to make sure you know that. I don’t blame you for what happened to Luke, or what happened today, or what will happen tomorrow.”

“I just can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I was that stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid. You were hurt, you were angry.”

“When I was chasing him through the storm…when he was so weak and helpless and I was so powerful…” His eye goes vague and far away. About six years away, you believe. “It was like I was carving out every part of myself that had ever been afraid, ever been harmed: by Luke and Jace, by Rhaenyra, by the world, by my father. It was like I was destroying that child who was once so friendless and overlooked and unchosen.”

“You can’t destroy him, Aemond. He’s you.”

He stares into nothingness. “You would have been safer as Axel Hightower’s wife.”

“I would choose you again. And again, and again.”

“Would you?”

“Always.”

Your lips meet his, delectably slow at first and then faster, bolder, more hungry. He matches your fire with his own. His hands steal beneath your nightgown. Your fingers knot in his hair. His mouth smiles into yours as you straddle him, nip playfully at his lips and tongue, reach down to feel how hard he is.

“Now,” you murmur. “Give me one last good memory to take with me to Starfall.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the garden, Helaena braids daisies into your hair and introduces you to a walking stick that you pretend not to be repulsed by; you even let it creep up the downy-soft underside of your forearm. In her chambers, Alicent gives you a warm, rather desperate embrace that feels like it goes on forever…and then she offers you a package wrapped in green silk. It is a book she requested from the Citadel about the history of Bear Island. “I thought it might keep you occupied on the journey,” she explains, almost self-consciously. “Perhaps you could even read it to the baby if she is restless.” And in the shadow of the heart tree in the godswood, King Aegon—dreadfully hungover, more racoon-eyed than ever—lounges with you sipping wine and talking about anything except the fact that you’re leaving. At last, it can’t be avoided.

“I don’t feel bad for you, just so you know,” he quips.

You grin. “No?”

“No. You’re going to be sunning yourself on a beach in beautiful, debaucherous Dorne. What’s there to pity? You’ll probably have a dozen paramours by the time Aemond returns for you. You’ll have forgotten all about us. You’ll be clinging to the castle walls begging Aemond to leave you there. He’ll have to pry your fingers free one by one. Now Daeron, that’s someone deserving of sympathy. He’s being dragged out of Oldtown to help us burn cities and butcher men and his great reward, if he survives, will be marrying Floris Baratheon, the realm’s most eligible donkey. His children won’t get dragon eggs. They’ll get bits and bridles.”

You laugh, then peer up at the clouds. “Daeron. I can’t wait to finally meet him one day.”

“You’ll like him. He’s the best of us, clever and kind and unruined. He’s the good one.”

Now you look at Aegon. Both he and Aemond slept with the protection spells you cast for them under their beds last night. It is the last magic you will perform until the war is over. It is the last advantage you can give them. “You’re all the good one.”

It is not until after nightfall when Aemond walks you out to the waiting ship. He wants no witnesses, no rumors. He carries Laurel all the way there; he has to blink the tears from his eye when he surrenders her to the wetnurse. You will take two wetnurses and three handmaidens to Starfall. The ship is stocked with provisions for a trip of several weeks. The captain, an ardent Green, has not been told the destination in advance, nor of your identity; he has been told only that he will be abundantly rewarded, that he will never need to work a day in his life again, that his five children won’t either. Everyone else goes aboard. You and Aemond linger together on the dock under more stars than could ever be named. He is solemn; he is intensely quiet.

“Fear not, husband,” you say. “You cannot rid yourself of me. I am yours for life.”

“For life,” he echoes, kissing you, filling himself with you like you’re the air in his lungs, the marrow in his bones.

Your fingers brush the bear-hilt dagger at your belt, which you will take to Starfall at his insistence. “I wish I had something more to give you, a piece of me to carry through the war.”

“You have given me enough, Moonstone. You have given me everything.”

“Wait.” You lift off your pendant and stand on your tiptoes to hang it around his neck; you watch the gemstone, gleaming in the moonlight, settle on his chest by his heart. “I’m coming back,” you tell him, smiling, tears like constellations in your eyes.

Aemond admires the pendant with reverent incredulity, and then he kisses you again: one last time, his hands on your face, you tugging him closer by the collar of his coat, the wind whipping through you both. “Not soon enough. Tomorrow wouldn’t be soon enough.”

You board the ship. He returns alone to the Red Keep, his head down, his arms crossed, his mind presumably lost in the nebulous future.

The captain greets you warmly, and you give him the name of the location you are to be taken too. He nods and confers with the navigator before guiding the ship out into Blackwater Bay. You venture below deck to check on Laurel. She is sleeping peacefully in her cabin, loyally attended by her wetnurses and handmaidens. You study her for a long time—your skin, Aemond’s hair, one tiny balled fist propped against her cheek—before ascending the stairs to watch the firelight of King’s Landing fade into the past.

Sails crack in the wind above you, waves break against the hull below. The moon is obscured by indigo clouds; the night is dark and cool and placid. As you pass Bearstone—rendered nothing more than a murky, inconsequential pool of earth in an endless sea—you think of all the moments you shared there with Aemond, all those sun-drenched afternoons and whispered promises and swims in the sea, all those letters he scrawled to Dornish maesters as you laid dozing beside him, still naked, blissfully content, trusting and oblivious. You will have each other like that again, certainly. You and Laurel will survive the war, and Aemond will win it, and a night will come when the stars shine down on your reunion, flesh and words and soul.

Like knuckles, like a stone, Helaena’s words hit you. If they were solid, they could crack ribs. They are so loud you can hear them, her voice as clear as the lines on your own palms.

Because there is a great deal of fire in your future.

The wind tears viciously at your hair, your eyes, your cheeks. The flames of the ship’s lanterns bend and flicker, never extinguished but always imperiled.

The sea is calling for you.

You lean over the railing at the stern of the ship, contemplating the ocean: the eternal secrets below, the voyages above. This is the same sea that touches the Vale and Dragonstone and Storm’s End. This is the same water that Lucerys Velaryon was killed over.

Stay away from the fire.

You look at the lanterns again. No, that’s not what she meant. You pace frantically around the deck as the Red Keep becomes just a haze in the distance, searching for the source of Helaena’s prophesies. You pry open barrels and crates with your dagger, upturn buckets, study the weblike rigging. You hunt like a wolf, like a killer.

I want to help you.

Help why, Helaena? Help how?

He waits in the lagoon, coiled, red.

Your steps die. There is only one lagoon you know of in King’s Landing. You turn towards Bearstone. There is movement there, but indistinct in the darkness. There is a flapping, a shrill clicking. It grows louder. It approaches, it retreats, it vanishes. And suddenly, randomly, it occurs to you that despite all those protection spells you breathed to life under the heart tree, you never thought to cast one for yourself.

Moon on the water, fire in the sky, moon on the water…

The clouds are heaved away from the moon. Silvery light cascades down, dances on the waves, brightens the night. A shape passes high over the ship, blindingly swift and unreadable. Somewhere, there is a sound that could be laughter.

It comes from the sky.

You stare fixedly up into the night. It is a bottomless inky sea, one on top of the other. Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. Your fingernails bite wounds into your palms. You hear it again: wings, distant cackling, clicking shrieks. And—too late for it to matter—you understand.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond’s hand closes around your moonstone pendant as he watches from the window in Laurel’s bedroom. On the dresser hangs his eyepatch. On his face is a smile, just a hint of one. He has ensured your safety, your survival; he has secured his peace offering from the gods. He can envision himself arriving in Starfall in six months or nine months or a year, you barreling out of the castle to meet him, Laurel no longer an infant but a little girl; perhaps she will be walking, babbling, grinning with tiny white teeth. Perhaps she will recognize him.

The ship, its lanterns dots of captive light, is barely visible by the time it sails past the island he now calls Bearstone. It will soon drop over the horizon like a falling star. Aemond half-turns from the window when something wrenches him back: a flicker of motion, an interruption in the moonlight. He leans closer to the glass. Dimly, he can glimpse his own reflection in it.

It is only when Caraxes unleashes his flames that Aemond can see him in the night sky, wings outstretched, blood-red contorted body hovering above the ship. The vessel does not merely burn. It explodes, it is eviscerated, it ceases to exist entirely.

“No!” It is not a scream but a rupturing, a splitting open and hollowing out of the man he could have been in a different world. It is the end. It is the beginning. It is a fire that burns his humanity to ash.

Vhagar, he thinks, the first word he can discern from the clamoring inferno of wrath, grief, madness. Fire and blood. He is faintly aware of gasps and screams spreading like a plague through the Red Keep. Someone is wailing like they are being slaughtered, their organs dismantled piece by piece; his mother, he believes.

He bolts from the room. He is halfway down the hall when Aegon crashes into him, catches him around the waist, knocks him with great difficulty to the floor and fights to keep him there.

“No!” Aemond screams, pulling away. “Let me go, let me go—!”

“Stop it, Aemond, stop!”

And then Sir Criston appears, and Otto, and Alicent; they join the king in restraining Aemond. It takes all four of them to hold him down.

“Let me go!” His voice is raw and mindless, more animal than man. He struggles so forcefully they fear his bones will snap. Aegon grabs his face with both hands.

“Look at me, look, Aemond, look at me!” Aegon pleads. The king is sobbing, panting, frantic. Aemond’s right eye lands on him. His sapphire gleams with cold, soulless fire. “You cannot catch Daemon, he is already headed back to Dragonstone, he—”

Aemond screams again and tries to free himself. They manage to hold on to him. Helaena has materialized in the hallway like a ghost; she is shellshocked, almost catatonic. She says nothing. Her eyes leak constant, soundless tears.

“You cannot catch him,” Aegon repeats patiently, like he’s speaking to a child. “Vhagar cannot catch him, even if you had left the second it happened. Not even Sunfyre can catch him. If we go after him now, he will lead us into a trap on Dragonstone. He has surely planned for that. He is hoping for that. He—”

Aemond claws at the floor, trying to drag himself out of his family’s arms, but a part of him knows it is hopeless. His fingernails leave white lines on the wood, and then ruby ones when his nails tear out. Aemond is not aware of this. He howls and roars and finally collapses. Alicent, weeping freely, strokes his hair. Sir Criston watches her, longing with everything he’s made of to fix this. It cannot be fixed; it is not just shattered pieces, it is ash, it is dust. Otto’s face is a wasteland: desolate, brutal, a million years old.

“Look at me!” Aegon demands, still gripping Aemond’s face, still sobbing. “Aemond, you cannot kill him if you’re already dead. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want vengeance. You want fire and blood. You want to kill them.”

“Yes,” Aemond chokes out. That’s all he wants. Nothing else exists.

“And I will help you do it,” Aegon vows. “But we cannot do it now. We have to prepare. We have to do this right, or we will not live to see vengeance. Wait for me, Aemond, and I will help you. You can have Daemon, but I want Rhaenyra. And I swear to you in front of all the gods that we will burn them alive.”

Aemond is beyond words, but Aegon can read them in his eye: Yes, I understand, I yield. The last of Aemond’s ferocity vanishes. Sobs pour from his throat. Aegon embraces him. So do Alicent and Sir Criston and Otto and finally Helaena. They cling to each other, bound to the world by a multitude of glimmering strings like a spider’s thread and yet alone. The moonlight floods in. The future, dark, merciless, bathed in dragonfire, dawns like a sun.

And every second of every minute of every day for the next year—as Aemond wages war at Rook’s Rest and Harrenhal, as he burns the Riverlands, as he inspires immeasurable horror and agony and hatred, as he abandons strategy for blind revenge, as he flies to meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle above the God’s Eye—it is still there around his neck: the moonstone pendant, the silver chain.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond fic #aemond one eye #aemond x oc

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francesminos-tt · 4 months

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modern au where the Targs are an influential and obviously famous family (they're like the Kardashians LOL and everyone wants to know about every aspect of their lives)

after the death of Viserys, the media exposes several dirty secrets of some family members and the rivalry of years even after the marriage of targ/velaryons boys, has not extinguished the fire and hatred between Rhaenyra and Alicent.

Rhaenyra and Alicent hate each other, but they are intelligent women and had the brilliant idea of making a reality show so that people could follow the day-to-day life of the Targaryen/Hightower/Velaryon family and realize that there is no war there.

Joff was "raised" to marry Daeron. From an early age, it was explained to him that this was a duty he had to fulfill, just like his older brothers. At first, he found the idea, it wasn't fair, but gradually he came to terms with it, especially because his older uncle was so charming, so handsome and kind. Joff quickly fell in love and was suddenly excited about the wedding.

but to Joff's surprise and disappointment, the wedding was a disaster. on the couple's honeymoon, Daeron refused to have sex with Joff and made his contempt and anger at the union very clear. in front of the cameras, they are the sweet, couple in love , they are what teenagers call relationship goals, but when they are alone, Daeron doesn't even bother to pretend that Joff exists. Just as he's good at faking a passionate smile for Joff when a paparazzi is around, he's also good at treating Joff with coldness and indifference.

It's not surprising that, some time after getting married, Daeron has a mistress and doesn't make a point of hiding it from Joffrey.

When Rhaenyra and Alicent announce the reality show, they make it very clear that now they all have to pretend 24/7, and this makes Daeron FURIOUS, because now he has to get rid of his mistress, adapt his daily routine to spend more time with Joff and, above all, SHARE the same room.

I want to ask you to write something with these ideas, please. whatever you want!

I like modern nepo bbism 😝

The two matriarchs of Targaryen/Velaryon/Hightower family called an emergency meeting in the dining room. The room was so spacious that it was better called hall rather than room. There was a long table in the middle, made of the best mahogany and lined with the most intricate carvings of the Targaryen dragon sigil.

Alicent and Rhaenyra sat at the head of table and waited for everyone to arrive. Frist came Jacaerys, always the dutiful son, followed closely by another dutiful son, Aemond, with Lucerys trailing behind his one-eyed uncle/husband.

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow at Alicent, as if showing off her victory that among the first ones to arrive, there were two of her sons. 2-1. she won.

Alicent rolled her eyes in the same elegant way she did most things. She was renowned for looking down upon others without them even realizing. Her message couldn't be clearer. Wait and see. The game wasn’t over yet.

Next to come were the twins, Baela and Rhaena, in their full glamor. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Aegon was the next, with blood-shot eyes and greasy hair, hangover as he always was. Aegon was typically the last to arrive, if he ever arrived at all, but today, by some miracle, he not only showed up on time, but also had a few minutes to spare. The miracle soon turned out to be his sister wife Helaena. The somewhat unworldly woman was instructing her children, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, to push their dad to the dining room, while holding her new-born son Maelor in her arms.

“Morning, mother, sister.” Helaena greeted Alicent and Rhaenyra with a sincere smile, causing the two solemn faced matriarchs to smile with her. Helaena was among the few things that Alicent and Rhaenyra actually shared the same opinion. Both of them adorned her.

Now the score was still to Rhaenyra’s advantage, 4-3. If Alicent had to argue, she would say that her grandchildren also counted, the score was actually 4-6.

Daeron and Joffrey hadn't arrived yet. It was unusual. The couple was always the least of their mothers’ concerns. Joffrey was a wild soul, but he was not irresponsible and he valued family more than anything. That was why he married Daeron without struggle, and had never caused any trouble after the marriage. Daeron, on the other hand, was a tricky character. He appeared to be the gentlest and most reasonable among his siblings, never got drunk and passed out on the pavement like Aegon, never chased his nephew down in a car race in the middle of the day and like Aemond, and he wasn’t as unworldly and aloof as Helaena. He was charming, polite, chivalrous and above all, a damn good actor. It was no secret in the family that he and Joffrey’s marriage was nothing more than a political union. Daeron played his part as a caring husband, but when the cameras turned away, he was the coldest and most indifferent person in the world.

“Did your little brother finally stab my little brother in his sleep?” Aegon elbowed Jacaerys, who was fiddling with his phone.

“What do you mean?” Jacaerys said half-mindedly, “They don’t even share the same room. Their rooms are at the opposite wing of the house. There is no chance Joff can sneak into Daeron’s room and stab him without waking up everyone.”

“Well, fine. Whatever you say, Sherlock.” Aegon made a face. Jacaerys was all about logical thinking, while Aegon was allergic to logic.

“Maybe stabbing will do them good.” Lucerys said thoughtfully, twirling a strand of curls with his finger, “It certainly did me good.”

Helaena instinctively covered Jaehaera’s ears and urged her husband to do the same with Jaehaerys. Thankfully little Maelor was asleep, so it wouldn't hear anything inappropriate.

“Shut up, Luke.” Aegon groaned, “My children don’t need to hear your twisted bedroom preference.”

“What makes you think I plan to talk about my sex life?” Lucerys rolled his eyes, “I am a very private person, you know. I have no intention to share my wonderful bedroom experience with my dear husband.”

“No intention my ass.” Aegon retorted, “Everyone on this planet saw you blowing my brother on the balcony, LIVE.”

“It was a good show, wasn’t it?” Lucerys chuckled, not a single ounce of shame on his face.

“Lucerys.” Aemond spoke for the first time since he entered the dining room, “Enough.”

The seats of the long table were strictly arranged, with Rhaenyra’s children on the right and Alicent’s Hightower clan on the left. It had been the norm since they were still kids, and it had remained so even after the Targaryen/Velaryon marriage. Thus, Aemond was now sitting across Lucerys, his lone violet eye fixed on his mischievous husband. Aemond the one eye was a formidable figure in the business world, but he didn't really talk much in the family. Normally he would let Lucerys take charge of the bickering, since Lucerys was far better at making Aegon speechless than him, but he made sure to intervene whenever Lucerys had gone too far. Now was an example.

“Sorry, uncle.” Lucerys batted his eyelashes innocently at Aemond, “I will be a good boy from now on.”

Aemond’s expression softened, his tightly pressed lips relaxing just a little bit as he reached out to smooth Lucerys’s fluffy curls.

“Good. Cross the line again and you will be punished.” Aemond said in his usual soft but intimidating voice, his thumb brushing against Lucerys’s jaw.

Aegon groaned again and shut his eyes. Why had he done to deserve this? Why couldn't he just sleeping his hangover away on his luxury bed?

Joffrey showed up before Lucerys and Aemond could change the dining room into a porn set. The youngest Velaryon looked a bit worse for wear. He was wearing a pair of thick rimmed glasses, hiding his reddish eyes and the lower part of his face was covered by a mask. His hair was a mess, and he was in a set of ridiculous fluffy pajamas.

“Sorry I am late.” Joffrey said, his voice muffled by the mask.

“What takes you so long, little Joff? Have you picked up furry kink?” Aegon joked.

“Are you feeling better?” Rhaenyra asked after throwing Aegon a warning stare, “Sorry to wake you this early. I’ve told Doctor Gerardys to check on you later today.”

Joffrey had been struck down by the flu three days ago. He had spent the past three days on bed, but fortunately, today his fever finally broke. He still suffered from a pounding head and upset stomach, and he was shivering even with all the layers on, but he still nodded to his mother.

“I am better now, mother. Don’t worry.” Joffrey didn't take his usual seat, instead sitting down at the far end of the table to avoid spreading the virus.

“Where is your husband?” Alicent asked, even though she knew Joffrey couldn't answer her. One of her wonderful, or rather, annoying, traits was that she was able to ignore the blunt truth even if said truth was stuck right under her nose. For example, she knew too well that Daeron didn't give a damn about Joffrey, but she still pretended that nothing was wrong.

“No idea.” Joffrey replied, “Haven't seen him for a week.”

Rhaenyra scoffed. It was no secret that Daeron was seeing someone outside marriage, a young model from the Reach. He kept his mistress in a separate mansion, and he actually spent more time there than in the family estate. Rhaenyra hated her half-brother for neglecting her son, but Daeron was such a good actor in front of the cameras that any action she took would only end up in the biggest scandal ever. She could even imagine the headline, ‘IS THE PERFECT COUPLE A LIE? Targaryen’s biggest secret uncovered’.

Speak of the devil. Daeron walked into the room in his usual casual but classic clothes, crisp shirt, tweed vest and trousers, paired with leather oxfords. He looked well-groomed as he always was, clean shaven with slightly gelled hair, a sharp contrast to his flu-struck husband.

“God, did something bad happen? Are we going bankrupt?” Daeron murmured after browsing the room, “Why is Aegon already here?”

“Because I am actually a family man and I listen to my beautiful wife.” Aegon retorted immediately, “Unlike you, who chose to stay with his gold-digger mistress, little brother.”

Daeron shrugged, neither the word gold-digger nor mistress seemed to offend him. Joffrey always found it peculiar that how come his very existence was enough to offend his otherwise very well-tempered husband?

“Since everyone is gathered, let’s go down to business.” Rhaenyra cleared her throat and addressed the crowd, “Before you ask, Baela dear, Daemon is with the little ones, so he cannot attend today’s meeting. He fully agrees to my plan, by the way, which I will explain to you in a moment.”

“We are doing a reality show.” Alicent spoke, “All of us.”

Everyone seemed to be confused by the idea. Aegon was half-way yawning, his mouth opening to an ‘o’ like an idiot; Aemond quirked an eyebrow, the one on his blind side, which meant he was properly surprised; Helaena seemed to be the least affected, rocking Maelor in her arms as she hummed softly to the baby. On Rhaenyra’s side, Jace looked up from his phone for the first time today, having a silent conversation with Baela using eye-contact; Lucerys actually stopped stroking Aemond’s hand for a moment, but recovered soon enough; Rhaena looked genuinely pleased, for a reality show would definitely help her influencer career. As for the remaining two, Daeron and Joffrey, despite their strained marriage, their reaction was exactly the same. Reluctant, to put it lightly.

“Reality show? Who the fuck wants to watch us lying around and do nothing?” Aegon was the first to question, “It is the most narcissistic thing I have ever heard!”

“Actually, everyone wants to know about our lives.” Lucerys replied, “We are like the royal family of Westeros. No offense, Baela.”

Baela waved her hand dismissingly. She was a political activist, a firm believer of democracy and equal rights, so it was natural that she condemned the idea of royalty with passion.

“None taken, Luke.” She said before turning to Aegon, “Actually, cousin, I think you are the only one here who doesn't have a proper job. No one is going to lie around and do nothing except you.”

“Hel doesn’t have a job either!”

“I run a charity fund and also work part-time as an interior designer, husband.” Helaena chimed in.

“Since when?!” Aegon shrieked like a little girl, “You betrayed me, Hel!”

Helaena only shrugged, breaking a cookie into half and handed them to her twins respectively.

“There will be cameras 24/7.” Rhaenyra raised her voice, “I need all of you on your best behavior. We need to show the world that we are a functional family. No fighting, no scandal, no bullshit, understand?”

“We are anything but functional.” Aegon murmured, “They call us the incest clan.”

“The shooting will start one week from now, but the tech team will arrive tomorrow to set up the cameras.” Alicent said, ignoring Aegon as she always did, “You have one day to hide anything you don’t want the whole realm to know.”

Everyone turned their eyes to Lucerys and Aemond, but the couple seemed to be unaffected by the gaze. Lucerys helped himself to a chocolate cookie, while Aemond took a sip of his tea. For some reason, they all thought Lucerys and Aemond’s room would be some sort of sex dungeon, even though no one had actually seen it.

“You need to stay in the house for the duration of the show, my dear.” Alicent turned to Daeron, who was sitting next to her, “Take care of your lady friend.”

Lady friend was certainly a nice way to put it. Everyone knew Alicent was referring to Daeron’s mistress.

“Don’t worry, mother.” Daeron smiled to his mother warmly, “I will take care of everything before tomorrow.”

If Joffrey didn’t know his uncle better, he would say that Daeron was sincere. However, he was not that innocent boy who had fallen in love with his gentle and polite uncle anymore. He could see from the slight downturn of Daeron’s lips that the blonde was holding back his fury. Of course Daeron would be furious. He had made it clear that he couldn’t stand Joffrey at all.

“It’s tiring enough to pretend we are in a loving relationship for the media.” Daeron claimed one time after they had come back from a charity red carpet event, “I don’t want to put up with you in private too. I need room to breathe.”

Joffrey’s reaction to Daeron’s words was to leave the room as calmly as he could, but in fact, he was so embarrassed and hurt that he felt like crying. He hated himself for even hoping that Daeron might see him differently one day. He had abandoned hope that Daeron would ever love him back, but at least they didn’t have to be enemies. He hoped Daeron wouldn’t avoid him like a disease one day, but it seemed he was too naïve to hope so.

“This is all. You can stay for breakfast, but I would advice you to go through your things and make sure nothing inappropriate is lying around before the camera team arrives. This show is our biggest PR so far. No one screws up.” Rhaenyra made the final speech before sitting back and gulping down a full cup of tea.

Joffrey stood up first, murmuring an apology as he left the room. He had no inappropriate things to hide, but he couldn’t stand Daeron’s disgusted stare anymore. He rushed back to his room, shut the door, ripped off his mask and took a deep inhale. The room was spacious and decorated in the coziest way. Helaena helped designed it for him, but unfortunately, the king-sized bed only had one occupant so far. He was supposed to share this room with Daeron, but Daeron had spent only one night here. The next day of their wedding night, Daeron went back to his old room and made no intention to come back.

“Open the door.” There was an impatient knock, followed by Daeron’s even more impatient voice, “I don’t have time to play games with you.”

Joffrey only had time to put his mask back on before the door was pushed open by an annoyed Daeron. Daeron frowned as soon as he stepped into the overly heated room. The flu made Joffrey so cold that he had to switch the heater to max and put three layers on himself to stop shivering.

“Why is here so stifled?” Daeron complained and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.

Joffrey thought the reason was obvious, but he still answered his husband’s question.

“I am cold.” Joffrey said, “It’s the flu.”

“God. Now not only do I have to share a room with you, I also have to expose myself to flu virus.” Daeron crossed his arms, making no attempt at hiding his displeasure.

“You don’t have to share the room with me if it annoys you so much.” Joffrey said in a flat voice. He had learned to be unaffected by Daeron’s obvious loathing. He had no idea what he had done that made Daeron hate him so much. He was raised to be Daeron’s bride, a union made upon Joffrey’s birth. The Targaryens had been going through a hard time back then, so Rhaenyra and Alicent had to join force to fend off the snakes that wanted to devour the Targaryen fortune. As a show of good faith, they betrothed their youngest children at the time, Daeron and Joffrey. For Joffrey, his fate was set at birth, but for Daeron, who was three years older, he had lived the first three years of his life as a free man until he was forced to accept his fate. Joffrey doubted Daeron remembered those years, but Daeron always used it as an excuse to mourn his freedom.

“Haven’t you heard what my mother and my half sister said? The reality show will follow our lives 24/7. I have no doubt that they will sneak a camera or two in our bedrooms. What will the public think if they find out we sleep in separate rooms? Our public image will be ruined.” Daeron ruffled his curls frustratedly, “I can’t afford to be seen as a hypocrite. My career will be screwed.”

But you are, Joffrey thought. Daeron was the most hypocritical person Joffrey had ever known. He was all caring and in love with Joffrey in public, always keeping his arm around Joffrey’s waist, sneaking a quick kiss from time to time, and making sure to go to Joffrey’s important games. However, in private, he made it clear that he could not stand the sight of Joffrey. He was so reluctant to even speak to Joffrey that he mostly communicated with Joffrey via e-mails. How could someone be so fake? How could Daeron whisper loving words to his ear in one second, and look at him with disgust in the next?

“We will be at the bottom of the attention list.” Joffrey said, “People are more interested in Lucerys and Aemond’s sex life or even Aegon’s drunken nonsense than us. You can say we sleep in different rooms because I don’t want to spread my flu to you.”

Daeron considered the idea for a moment. It was a good excuse, actually. Once Joffrey recovered, he could find other excuses like going on a business trip or something like that. Hopefully by that time, the public would be too shocked by their siblings’ drama to notice them.

“Fine. I will have some of my things delivered to your room to keep up the façade.” Daeron said, his mood visibly lightening a bit from not having to share the same space with Joffrey.

“What are you going to do with your lady friend?” Joffrey couldn’t help but ask. He was always curious about Daeron’s mistresses. Yes, Daeron had more than one mistress during their marriage. What did they have but Joffrey didn’t that made Daeron rather stay with them?

“None of your business.” Daeron replied coldly, “I will take care of my business, and you mind your own. Do not think I didn’t notice that you are getting along with my ex-military uncle quite well.”

For a second, Joffrey was lost. What did Daeron mean? Uncle who?

“Are you accusing me of having an affair?” Joffrey asked disbelievingly, “How dare you? I’ve never done anything unfaithful-”

Joffrey couldn’t continue, for a sudden coughing fit made it impossible for him to speak.

“No? I have sources telling me that you have been spending a lot of time in the gym, even when it’s off season. I never know another football player who is as dedicated as you.” Daeron scoffed, “Who knows what you are doing in the gym where my uncle happens to work at?”

“I broke my ankle in the final, for fuck’s sake!” Joffrey was so angry that he felt dizzy, his vision blurring and his ears ringing as if someone was playing trumpet in his head, “I am doing my reheb! Just because you are a cheater, doesn’t mean I am too! And leave Gwayne out of this.”

“Well, whatever you say.” Daeron shrugged, “But let me make one thing clear. I am not a cheater. We are never together, nephew.”

Joffrey had to hold on to the bedpost to prevent himself from stumbling. He felt like a fool. Daeron was right. They were married, sure, but they were never a couple. Daeron never touched him except for the fake kisses and caresses for the cameras. Joffrey had no right to accuse Daeron of anything. Why he kept forgetting how much his husband hated him? Joffrey wished he had never fallen in love with the cruel man in front of him.

“I’ll admit, my uncle is good-looking. And properly blonde. You like blondes, no?” Daeron flipped his silver curls as if laughing at Joffrey’s despair, “I won’t blame you if you decide to screw him once in a while. I can even give you some tips about how to keep an affair hidden.”

“Get out.” Joffrey squeezed the words from his teeth, “Get out of my room. I don’t want to see your face.”

“That makes two of us.” Daeron turned to leave as if he had been waiting for Joffrey to kick him out ever since he entered the room, “Take some pills for the flu, all right? I don’t want you to cough to death.”

Joffrey didn’t know Daeron’s last sentence was more of a mockery or worry. He didn’t care, though. He cursed himself for showing his weakness to Daeron. No more. He would not lower himself to that. If Daeron decided to be cruel, the least Joffrey could do was not to care.

The show was a success, much to Rhaenyra’s relief. The polls just skyrocketed. More than 30% of the entire Westeros population watched the premier of the show, and the numbers were looking strong five episodes in. People were excited to see the inside the famous Targaryen estate, the Red Keep. How big and luxurious it was. Its current occupants, the Targaryen/Velaryon/Hightower gang was even more interesting than the mansion itself.

Aegon was, surprisingly, named the most loved Targs on the show so far. Jacaerys replied the Instagram post with a short Congratulations and a clown emoji. Baela was the darling in the lesbian community, even though she never publicly confirmed her sex orientation. Rhaena’s social media account gained another 500K subscribers since the show had aired, and counting. Aemond didn’t get much screen time, for he was a busy businessman, but Lucerys made it up by sharing his erotic, intense, heartbroken, and overly romantic tale of how he and Aemond turned from nemesis to soulmates. Even Aegon the younger and Viserys gained their own fan base by making cute faces at the camera. Just as Joffrey predicted, the camera seemed to ignore them for the most part, which was really a huge relief for both. There was one scene in episode two that captured Joffrey and Daeron emerge from two different rooms, but Joffrey’s excuse was enough to satisfy people’s curiosities. Daeron giving him a gentle morning kiss and making him tea helped, too.

Joffrey had succeeded at avoiding the camera’s attention so far, and perhaps that was why he became slack as the shooting went on.

“Thank you driving me home, Gwayne.” Joffrey smiled to the man on the driver’s seat.

“No problem. I need to pick up something from Alicent anyway.” Gwayne replied, taking a turn at the end of the road and entering the Red Keep estate.

Gwayne Hightower was Alicent’s brother, the only son of Sir Otto, the powermonger of Old Town. Instead of working for Hightower Inc., Gwayne chose to join the army after taking a gap year between high school and college. He finished his degree in the army, and had an honorable discharge last year. He now worked as a therapist specializing in sports injury and recovery. Joffrey got familiar with the man after his ankle surgery. For a world class football player like Joffrey, ankle injury was the trickiest one. If he didn’t recover properly, he risked losing his position in the league and the national team. Joffrey was still young, so he could not let that happen. Fortunately, Gwayne was very helpful in his recovery, and Joffrey had actually made huge progress so far.

Joffrey couldn’t help but notice the resemblance between Daeron and Gwayne. They were both blonde, Gwayne’s hair color a bit deeper than Daeron’s, and so did his eyes. Gwayne had grey blue eyes compared to Daeron’s light violet ones. They were both good-looking with board shoulders and toned arms, but behind the handsome faces, their character couldn’t be more different. Gwayne was gentle and patient, never forcing Joffrey to do anything even if Joffrey was having less productive day. He complimented Joffrey’s strong will and endurance, never implying anything about brunette being somehow inferior. Most importantly, Gwayne was sincere. Joffrey didn’t have to think about his every move in front of Gwayne. Unlike Daeron. Joffrey never knew which of his words might antagonize his Daeron.

“Are you feeling better now? Your voice still sounds funny.” Gwayne pulled the car over before turning to look at Joffrey, “I know some drink recipes to relieve sore throat, but I am sure your doctor has better approach than me.”

“Doctor Gerardys is great, but he only gives me pills.” Joffrey chuckled, “If you know some magic potion, please, I am all ears.”

“I can make them for you.” Gwayne suggested, his eyes gentle and his voice gentler, “Or I can send you the recipe and you can make it yourself. It’s mostly lemon and turmeric.”

“Why don’t you find me in the kitchen after finishing your business with Lady Alicent?” Joffrey suggested, and that was his first mistake. He had completely forgotten about the reality show. He only asked Gwayne to stay because it just felt so good having someone caring for him.

“Okay.” Gwayne nodded after a short pause, reaching out to tuck Joffrey’s scarf tighter, “Let’s go, then.”

Joffrey’s next mistake was letting Gwayne park near the front door. He should have been wiser and chosen to enter the keep from the one of the side entrances. There were cameras swarming the front entrance, and inevitably, Joffrey and Gwayne were captured entering the keep by the cameras. Joffrey’s third mistake was failing to expect the media’s craziness. That was why he was so shocked to find that he was condemned as a cheater by the public after the next episode aired.

Another blonde in the relationship? Is our perfect couple a lie?

It was a lie from the beginning, but Joffrey had never expected he would be the one to expose the truth.

#house of the dragon #hotd #joffron #my asks #joffrey velaryon #daeron x joffrey #daeron the daring #modern au #gwayne hightower #lucemond

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fatherforgivethem · 8 months

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I feel like Aegon and Helaena would be so protective of their children. Especially when it comes to when they have their first heartbreak. A modern take where the twins are teens and Maelor is around twelve.

- Like the image of Jaehaera calling her dad when the school dance doesn’t go right. Aegon driving there at full speed to pick her up. And when he finds her sitting at the stairs of the school he just puts his coat over her and leads her to the car. He takes her own for ice cream even though its late at night

- The thought of him telling her that she shouldn’t feel embarrassed by any of it. I can just see him going into detail about something embarrassing that happened to him when he was younger just to see her smile.

- And while she loves her father, she looks up at him and says “Dad? Can we go home? I want to be with Mom to.” Because she loves her parents so much and having both of them with her will make her feel so much better.

- Can you imagine Helaena being called into the school office because Jaehaerys got into a fight with another student. She sees her baby boy bruised and bloody and when they leave the office, he just bursts into tears.

- Because the reason that he got into a fight was because he caught the person he was seeing with one of his friends. And the fight broke out because he was just so angry.

- Helaena would hold him to her and whisper words of comfort to her baby. Seeing her son, any of her children, in pain because someone hurt their heart makes her feel helpless. Because the only thing she can do it hold him and try and make him feel a little better.

- She would take him shopping with her to small and cute shops that would cheer him up, and when they get home she makes all of them watch a movie together and her and Aegon stroke through Jaehaerys’ hair until he falls asleep.

- They were both there when Maelor came home crying because the person he liked didn’t like him back. Even after he had made a picture for them and used the money he had saved up to buy them a gift.

- They had taken him into their arms and laid with him in their bed. They had told him how amazing of a kid he was and how someone, the right one, would like him back.

- They lay there until Maelor drifts off to sleep between his two parents. Aegon makes sure to fill Maelor’s money jar up again.

#aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #helaegon #hotd #helaegon nation we rise #jaehaera targaryen #jaehaerys ii targaryen #maelor targaryen #hotd headcanon #I loves making this lollll #they are such a cute family🥹😭😭😭#sorry if there are any mistakes #I’m so tired lol

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lullaebies · 8 months

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Hey! Can you do some headcanons on what it would be like for Helaena and Aegon as parents if the Dance never happened? They were really young when they both died, so would they have more babies if they lived? What would it be like for the twins and Maelor to grow into teenagers, what would the marriage plans for them be like? Love your content btw ❤️

Oh sure!! This should be very fun. The Dance not happening AU could mean a lot of things so there would be many variables, so bear with me a bit haha. (And thank you for the compliment, dear! <333) [also I'm sorry for the length of this if you ask me about the kids I really can speak for HOURS about my hcs.] Helaegon as Parents, Part 2 - No Dance AU Headcanons

⁎ For the if they had more babies question - probably yes! I don't see them abstaining. I think as the first kids grow older Helaena might specifically want more childen, but generally they would just happen as it is the way of life, regardless of planning or not planning. ⁎ Speaking about more children - Helaena and Aegon would be so bad at naming, lmao. They wait until the baby is out to decide, lol. I think Jaehaerys was named after the Old King via Alicent influence and Jaehaera was named in tow to fit, so Maelor would've been the first true name they've chose (I personally imagine that was from Helaena; also for the record, I genuinely don't believe it had anything to do with Maegor lol). Anyways, they would suck at it, and I imagine they'll have a lot more joke names they talk about. Imagine Aegon coming to Helaena like "Daemon the Younger. To piss uncle off." (He got very inspired from Aegon III's naming pettiness😂) and Helaena is like "I should kill you and make our son Aegon the Youngest" LMAO. ⁎ I always said this, but I do feel like there would be a cycle of hardship in the family; Aegon and Helaena were both not exposed to the best of parenting and Aegon will continue to struggle with his substance abuse/vices, which will obviously have effect. I have gone on several tangents on how I can see him and Jaehaerys butting heads like crazy as the father vs the oldest son. I do think there are times Aegon would try harder to be an active parent, especially after Jaehaerys and him get into a big fight, or Jaehaera mediates, or Maelor being visibly upset. I also think there inherent guilt in Aegon for a lot of things, I do think he will try to be better after he gets a few slaps from his first children, as he doesn't want to be like Viserys. His younger children will get the better of it, likely. I like to think he could find power in the fact his kids believe in him still despite everything. ⁎ Helaena would be such a sticky mom ahhh. Jaehaerys could grow taller than Otto and she would still look at him like he's a baby, Jaehaera she would want kept close too (As Alicent wanted her close, cough) and not even speaking about Maelor! I do believe all the kiddos would have her side on most things - Jaehaerys and Maelor being Biggest Defender no. 1 and Intern Smoll Defender no. 2. Jaehaera is The Conciliator coded and she tends to be midway, she'll probably be the one who is most honest with Helaena. ⁎ If Helaegon have more kids, needless to say the first three would be a pretty hands on crew of sibling help. Probably particularly the twins. I think Maelor might have to go through an ick phase at having a younger sibling always on his toes, though really he was just the same to the twins when he was born.

⁎ Some Teenage personality headcanons: Jaehaerys - mr. Trying to be good enough and work hard to be good enough. Extrovert using humor to cope, can be shady and also defensive like dad. Feels like he has a very big responsibility to help mom and family. He takes to a warhammer as a weapon in the future as he has a grip of six✨ Jaehaera - Careful in her steps, emotional intellegence based girl who is a bit too kind on other people sometimes. Likes to sew, and she makes her own dolls as she grows older. Introverted but Tries. Can be awkward when she's not used to someone or can't tell what they're like. Maelor - forever the first family baby, but he is the type to try and push against it LOL. I actually imagine him a bit more bookish and curious. Skinnier kid but has quips and he talks back. I think he's shyer outside of the family, people that don't know him gaslight Aegon his son is not a menace at all, "all he does is read books in the library and be cute are u fr" vibe, but in reality he learned from brother to not take shit. He's a Grandma kid for sure, I like to think he reads to Alicent back when she's elderly. ⁎ To end this off, on marriage proposals and the likes: I think no matter what AU spoken of, one thing that Helaegon would always agree on is that they would prefer their kids to find a love marriage, and I very much believe they would not be into putting them into Targ incest shenanigans unless the kids express they want it. this is one thing they want to break the chain in and are in full agreement - helaegon do not want the kids to have the same burdens they had to deal with. Overall this topic is muddy because its very much depends on the cirucmstances of things, but in the grand scheme of things - if helaegon are not pressured for alliances/not reigining king and queen, love marriages would be preferred if not at least arranged marriages where the prospective spouse is well regarded and of fitting status. If they are pressured for alliances as king and queen - Houses like House Lannister that are Green supporters will likely be considered first, then general houses that can benefit the crown and stability of the realm (possibly even Rhaenyra's family if its to keep the peace), and only then proper houses where the kids find someone they like. It is the feudalistic monarchy way. At the end there would be an attempt to give the best for them, one way or the other.

#hope this works <3 #helaegon #helaena targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #prince jaehaerys targaryen #jaehaerys targaryen #jaehaera targaryen #maelor targaryen #hotd #my headcanons #answered #team green

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lemonhemlock · 1 year

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More on Otto as a tries but fails girl!dad and the non verbal communication with the greens. Just how he shows care for his daughter, even though he dooms her. He loves her, wants what's best for her, the family the realm but in doing so he has essentially signed off her execution.

When he tells her to once again visit the king and reprimands her for her self harm he holds her hands

One could argue that this is simply a manipulation tactic and while i don't completely disagree I have other evidence I'd like to present.

Look at how they're holding each other like this is a final goodbye. Neither knows when they'll see each other again. I know he (rightfully) warns her about Rhaenyra he cradles her face. Like it's something precious 🥺 (it is)

Who is this look of devastion for? The imaginary audience? He was not only fired but ripped away from his only daughter. Realizing the mess he's put her in. How she is now truly alone.

We know Criston was her sworn sword and one of the few people she trusted. It makes sense he stand behind her. He's got her back, but look Ottos there too.

In this episode when she was worried about her brother she looked at dad for reassurance and he provided it. Knowing just how concerned she must have been.

Whether or not he's being a manipulative bastard when he does this stuff before he steers her in his own direction, using this to keep her tethered to him, it's quite clear that he understands how important these moments are for his daughter. Can you genuinely look me in the eye and say that Tywin would do this with Cersei? Hold her like she's the most precious thing in the world to him? Nope he'd just command her to do stuff and as her father it is seen as his right to do so.

This family is so dysfunctional. You can love your child and wants what's best for them from the bottom of your heart, with all that you have but still mess up. In the modern day he'd probably be pushing her to a stable career like doctor or lawyer or whatever because he wants her future to be secure without realizing that it's not necessarily what she wants and being blind to how truly miserable she feels.

Sidenote: Wasn't Helaena his favorite grandchild, someone who was not a boy thus a potential heir? Otto is a girl! grandpa too. (If I'm not mistaken 😂)

When it comes to the girl! dad wars he wins because he taught his daughter accountability and how to not get screwed over in a bad trade deal, like idk give someone what is rightfully yours in exchange for being a consort to a king wiyh questionable lineage (Sorry couldn't help but shade the Viserys and Daemon)

OTTO DRIVES ME INSANE HE IS SUCH A DAD BUT HE IS SUCH A MAN TOO!!!!! WHY ARE FATHERS OF DAUGHTERS ALLOWED TO BE MEN???????

HE IS A GIRL GRANDPA TOO OH MY STARS 😭 They should show him with Jaehaera next, so he could add girl-great-grandpa to the allegations 😭

I also wish they had scenes together with Gwayne! In the books Alicent has multiple unnamed brothers, but Gwayne would have been enough, like can you IMAGINE the dynamics with him thrown into the mix??? Him with his DAD and his SISTER and his SISTER'S BOYFRIEND Ser Criston???? He got so shafted like he is the only person in this effed up family not to have a psychosexual obsession with Alicent?? Unfair!

I imagine they wanted to highlight Alicent's isolation as a source of her growing paranoia, but could you imagine??? Her having at least one more person is her small circle?? Standing up to their dad for her??? Holding her hand through her pregnancies??? Throwing shade at Rhaenyra together?? Bonding with Ser Criston over how much they want to commit regicide??

I'm not sure he stayed in King's Landing for all this period, but he could have at least visited once in a while? What we know is that he is named second-in-command of the Gold Cloaks at the start of the way. ALSO OTTO INTERACTING WITH A MALE RELATIVE OF HIS OWN GET THAT IS NOT A COMPLETE FUCK-UP??

#cersei would kill with her bare hands to get a hug like that from her dad #chaoticcoffeequeen #what a performance rhys ifans is putting in too #masterclass #he EATS every scene he is #CANNOT forget him beatboxing at rhaenyra #SIR GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT #*screams into pillow*#otto hightower #gwayne hightower #alicent hightower #alicent & otto

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two-white-butterflies · 1 year

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WAITING FOR A BUS

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Reader, Daemon Targaryen x Reader (MODERN)

Description: A new promotion at work prompts you to move into a small modest town with your boyfriend, Aemond Targaryen. There you meet a few friendly faces. It seems like life is going where it's supposed to. That is until you meet your new boss, Daemon Targaryen, who is your boyfriend's estranged uncle.

It doesn't help with the fact that you've been having dreams about him since birth.

masterlist | chapter twenty-one

Black was your husband's favorite shade - he wore it everywhere, from galas to charity events. Black was the color that reminded you of home - but you dreaded seeing it know.

"I offer my condolences," your small family walked towards the altar where Aegon was nearing Alicent's casket. "The doctor said she was living on borrowed time, we were all expecting it." Aegon replied with a bitter chuckle, staring at his mother's closed casket.

It wasn't his first funeral - the mother of his twins died the same way too. Aegon couldn't stand staring at his mother's dead body, with closed eyes and skin hardened from chemicals. "Who would've thought that she'd live five-years after her expected diagnosis?" he added, turning slowly to face you.

His eyes softened at the sight of Maekar. He had a soft spot for children. "Alicent was a radiant soul - she commanded respect wherever she went." Daemon compliments, his hands were wrapped around the small of your back - protecting you from the vipers.

"That I agree upon. Mom was scary - we all loved her for that." Aegon smiled gently walking away from the casket. You all walk beside him, finding your spot in one of the pews. "She died at the right time - she was in peace, the doctors told us that she didn't feel any pain." he informed and hum exits your lips.

"It's nice to hear that." you add with a deep breath. There were only a few guests occupying the chairs - it was too early in the morning for them to arrive just yet. Aegon leans on his chair, waving at his daughter, Jaehaera, who was playing outside of the clubhouse.

"We should stop talking about her - she doesn't like being spoken behind her back." he joked while squeezing Maekar's cheeks gently.

Maekar cooed at the touch of his cousin. Aegon's fingers were soft, cold and relaxing for the baby boy.

"By the gods, (Your name) he looks like you." he remarked with a slight chuckle. "Daemon swears different," you smile. Daemon's hands slither towards your own, entangling it with his comforting touch.

"Look at him properly, Egg. Maekar is a real Targaryen." he argued while combing through his son's hair.

"His hair, yeah - but look at his face." Aegon pointed out, earning an eye-roll from his uncle.

THE EULOGIES : Rhaenyra Strong

Rhaenyra steps into the podium, her eyes were wet with tears and with a heaving breath - she opens her mouth.

"Alicent was my childhood friend. She was eight years older than me. She was one of those girls that would braid your hair or help your mom around the house. She was my babysitter - and it was weird for her to marry my dad at first." she joked, earning a small laugh from the crowd.

"Our family didn't welcome her with open arms but slowly and surely she made her way into our hearts." she touched her chest, not bothering to wipe the tears that were flowing out of her eyes. "She was an educated woman who spent her life attending charity events, helping the poor and needy - and heaven is lucky to gain such an angel." she praised, looking at the casket behind her for a second.

"Wherever she is now - I'm sure that she's happy, and in peace."

THE EULOGIES: Helaena Targaryen

Helaena wasn't crying, her eyes weren't cloudy with mist, and her clothes weren't in mourning. But deep inside her heart - she was heaving for the loss of her mother.

"I can't remember my father, I was born a year before he died - and ever since I could remember ... my mother my only parent. She was the one who provided and took care of us." she praised with a shuddering breath. She didn't dare shed any tears.

"I remember going to college - and I didn't know what course I was going to take. I knew that everyone wanted me to follow my father's footsteps and to become an Engineer - but my mother knew better." she smiled, remembering the memory in clear color.

In all of the siblings - she was most closest to Alicent. She was the one who took care of her mother - changing her IV drip, and helping her go to the bathroom. She was the one most affected by her death.

"A day before enrollment - she told me that I could be whatever I wanted to be. That my skill in art was something that she was proud of. My mother shaped me, and turned me into the woman I am - now I don't know where to go because she's not walking behind me anymore." Helaena finishes and the tears finally flow out of her eyes.

Harwin walks to the podium, gently escorting his sister-in-law to her seat. Rhaenyra presses a kiss on the top of her head, whispering sweet nothings in an effort to console her.

"Who are these righteous ones? These saints who are in heaven?" Daemon hears the loud voice of Otto Hightower. He was never the one to listen during the mass - matter of fact, he was atheist. If the gods were real, they wouldn't allow injustice to happen. God wouldn't allow injustice to persevere around the world.

The Catholics and the religious had their explaination - but he didn't care for them. He was content with his beliefs - and his efforts in becoming a better person. After all, the purpose of religion was to become a better member in society.

He walks towards the garden, past the small fountain that he used to clog with coins. His mind drifts off to his nephew, Aemond, Alicent's favorite child. Cain to Abel. The one who wielded the rock against the world. He sees the boy sitting on one of the benches - and like a grown uncle, he still sees Aemond as a child.

"Aemond." he says firmly, like a man knocking on a little boy's door. "Daemon," the boy turns around - and the eyepatch was no longer in his eye. They were akin to each other - their names were anagram of each other names. Daemon scorns it - but he sees a piece of himself inside Aemond.

"Go away." he added, reminiscent of the conversation they had decades ago, only this time Viserys wasn't present to torment his son physically - but the mental scars remain.

"Why weren't you there?" Daemon asked, circling the man cautiously.

In the back of his mind, he could smell the scent of candy-canes and eggnog. He was transported to the boy's childhood room.

"It's not appropriate for me to be there, I promise you." the boy replied smugly, not willing to let go of his pride just yet.

"It's your mother's funeral - becoming a horrible human being doesn't mean that you're not allowed to be there." the older man replies with the tilt of a hat. "Fuck off." Aemond gritted his teeth. "I've already done what I can - four years in a mental institution and I'm back here." he grumbled, unable to meet his uncle's eyes.

Daemon keeps staring at the man - waiting for him to click and rant. "I fucking regret what I did. Is that what you want to hear?" Aemond raised his voice, clenching his fists and taking deep breaths.

Instead of responding to his nephew, Daemon places his hands behind his back - raising to his full height and feigning ignorance to everything that was happening. "You are welcome inside," he finished while walking away - not wanting to go back to the mass just yet.

Once the eulogies and the second-day mass was over, the family returned home (Harwin and Laenor were left behind in the Clubhouse) to rest and reunite with each other. Visenya took a quick liking to her cousin, always playing with his round cheeks and white hair. "Soft bones, Vissy - please be careful." Rhaenyra warned, already saying 'careful' for the third time in a row. "Kay mama." the girl responded while continuing to touch the baby.

"I'm sorry about Visenya - its her first time seeing a baby." Rhaenyra's eyes softened while attempting to pull her daughter away. You chuckle softly, combing through Maekar's hair.

"It's fine, plus - Maekar hasn't been around another kid too." you confirm hearing the children's laughter radiate through the house. This was your third time inside Alicent's house - your first time without her baking cookies for you.

Aemond stares at the portrait of his father - to be honest, he couldn't remember the story behind the picture. He seemed to be smiling, but the joy wasn't reaching his eyes - his father was carrying him on his back, holding a football and posing for the camera. He was wearing that stupid Casio watch - even the look of the watch brought back memories that he hid long ago.

He remembers being hit on his behind, crying for his mother and his siblings could do nothing but watch. He just wanted to touch his father's watch and he was rewarded with punishment.

"Maybe it's time to make peace with our parents." Aegon cleared his throat leaning on the door-frame. Their parents weren't perfect - but they provided and took care of them. "Father was afraid of going back into poverty - and mother was afraid of him." he explained, remembering their relationship very clearly.

"I can forgive mom, but I'm not forgiving him." Aemond clenched his fist, placing all of the portraits inside a box. "He was a good dad to Rhaenyra - I don't know why he wasn't good to us." Aegon hummed, helping his brother hide all the photographs.

"Because we weren't worth changing for." Aemond laughed darkly, closing the box in his hands. "He never loved us, that's for sure - but mom did. Mom loved us with all her heart." he mused.

It was the last day of the funeral - Alicent's body was lowered into the ground and the crowd was beginning to disperse. The only ones left behind were Daemon and Aemond. "I hope that you'll be okay after this." the older man hummed, holding an umbrella to protect him from the sun (a habit he picked up while being in an Asian country.)

"You're an orphan now - Aemond. There's some things you need to let go." Daemon advised, maintaining his distance. He loathed the man, hated him with all of his soul - but Aemond was still his family, the blood of his blood, the child he comforted once upon a time. Monsters weren't born, they were made.

He holds out a small box. The world 'CASIO' was spelled in bold letters. The box was dusty - filled with cobwebs, but Aemond knew what it was. "I hope that you're able to break free from our generational chains - the sins of our past. (Your name) has not forgiven you, and she never will - I hope that you can forgive yourself." he added, walking closer to the boy.

Daemon wonders if there was something he could've done to prevent Aemond's decline. He wonders if he should've stopped his brother from hurting the little boy. He thinks about the life they could've had - the life the boy could've had.

He hands the watch to Aemond.

And with a last breath, he bids his silent farewell.

He's got a lot to live without. As he never met, what could've been Aemond.

Will he forgive himself? Or will the cycle repeat again?

taglist: @urmomsgirlfriend1 @namelesslosers @immyowndefender @ammo2022 @perihelioneclipse @gracielikegrapes @joliettes@ammo23

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neonlight2 · 11 months

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Jaehaera Targaryen (oc)

Masterlist

Warnings: smut mentions, sexism, touch of homophobia, and mentions of incest (and step-cest)

Again— it’s the Targaryens, what do you expect.

(Only the older parts of the family cause… the younger ones don’t know the difference)

What we’re their relationships like as she got older?

Viserys

First off— Absolute pushover.

Shouldn’t be a surprise with how he treats Rhaenyra. Man will literally break all tradition, with the justification of “I am king”.

Jaehaera wants to wear pants instead of dresses. Done, without a second to waste. And if she did want to wear a dress, you best believe it was the best money could buy.

His darling daughter wants to study with high scholars— only the best teachers of course. Anything she wished to know or learn she’d be taught. Books would be imported from the farthest edges of Westeros. Oh— and best believe he built her a private library. He knows how she loves her privacy, how she detested the public and fuss of events. He’d catered to her every need as she grew.

Even when he didn’t necessarily agree— like with swordsmanship. Viserys would be so freaking worried at the beginning, not wanting his little girl to get hurt. But he lets her anyway.

And even though it’s “against the rules”, Jaehaera could compete in tournaments whenever she damn well please, and he was always there to watch with pride.

There was not a price in gold that would hinder her requests. If the girl has asked him for a fucking castle bigger than king’s landing, it would have been made— and he’d put every man he could to work in order for it to be done quickly. Amazons quick delivery service would have NOTHING on this man’s will.

However, she was never extreme in that fashion. The kingdom was honestly lucky that she was far more rational and conservative with money, or else they may be in poverty.

So as she got older, matured, and got around to marrying age— all suitors of all ages came in like filthy vultures. And of course, no one was ever good enough.

He thought the same for both his daughters, the only reason why he made Rhaenyra marry was in order to secure he claim to the throne— heirs. Jaehaera on the other hand…

Jaehaera at 14/15: Father I don’t wish to marry—

Viserys: GREAT ITS SETTLED THEN

Of course if she did fall in love or wish to marry, he wouldn’t be able to say no. It’s damn near impossible. I swear to god this man would actually rather die than say no to her.

Jaehaera would DEFINITELY become more of an adviser to Viserys as she got older. She was already like his own little personal spy, so as she got older, made more connections, and was actually able to stir the pot without being harmed (because now she’d love for a bitch to try—), that relationship only grew stronger.

Most people when they watch the two together could get mental whiplash I’m not even gonna lie. One moment Jaehaera is kneeling before Viserys calling him “my king” or “your majesty”— basically going through ALL the damn formalities even though viserys has told her a thousand times she doesn’t need to— just to act like a child the next minute. Sure, if she has something political or otherwise important to tell him, Jaehaera stays more calm, professional even. But the moment the formality is over and done she like, “Hi dad! Wanna watch me dual? Oh! I learned a new trick on Shkros!”

She’d also just tell him the most random shit and facts she learns, probably rant about stories or things she’s gotten insanely fixated on. Viserys would EAT THAT SHIT UP. He could listen for hours and smile or laugh at the girl.

Oh, and Viserys literally became deaf at some point to all slander toward her, even if it came from Otto. Man would not hear of any of it.

In his mind Jaehaera did no wrong. So when anyone questioned her innocence or reputation—

“All of these are mere, petty rumors from jealousy for my daughter’s brilliance.”

“I will not hear of it, next person to say such a thing will lose their tongue.”

“Jaehaera would never, and even if she had you have no proof.”

“Who are you to question the princess? My daughter?”

To the day until she inevitably starts leaving more frequently, they would meet almost every night in the kitchens, sharing bread and milk like the day they first met.

Sadly, around the time his sickness gets really bad, she would be gone even longer. He knew why.

She had spent months before trying to heal him, and she did a better job then the scholars and maesters could ever dream. But they both knew that it was only slowly his demise. There was no cure for time, as it was fast on viserys heels.

A lot of people thought they had a falling out during this time because of her absence, but the truth of it was that they had an agreement. Jaehaera had made a promise to secure and protect their family. Not just Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne, but the state of it all.

She went to every kingdom to make alliances, or to strengthen old ones. She made deals to compact no army could penetrate them. And she would be damned if she failed.

Jaehaera had barely the idea of what love felt like before she became Viserys’ daughter. So with all her being she’d protect her home, her life, his legacy, her family.

Daemon

Two words— Teddy Bear.

He’s an absolute simp.

Would and does worship the ground she walks on.

If you thought he was insufferable when she was younger, following her around, constantly seeking her attention, giving her anything she stares at too long, and talk about protective— times that by a million.

The moment he came back and saw how she had…matured. Daemon went feral. I’m talking glaring at every person who so much as glances Jaehaera’s way that wasn’t family. He even had a small bit of beef with Sir Harwin because of how close he had become to her. It was only until she told him to back the fuck off that he calmed down.

He’d also use every excuse he could muster to be close to her. And Daemon likes to be sly, or try at least, so it would start innocent.

*walking literally anywhere, even around the castle, and he hold her hand* “Don’t want you to get lost my little wanderer.”

*Leans against her: arm around shoulders, or wrapped around her waist to rest his head in the crook of her neck.* “I’m tired.” Or if your at an event, “You soothe the throbbing in my head, love.”

Then this bitch would push his luck.

He’d slowly slip his fingers up her shirt or any bare skin he could get his hands on— and being that she didn’t normally like to wear much, he had so many places to choose from.

“My hands are cold!” *it’s literally like 100 degrees out*

He also has a weird obsession with her hair. Like he’d dimly admire it at first, wondering what it feels like. Was it was soft as feathers? Or smooth as silk?

Well one day he impulsive touched it. Of course he made it seem as if it were a normal interaction— brushing it away from her open shoulders to show off the dip in the heavenly dress she wore to some banquet he couldn’t even remember the occasion for.

All he knew was that he instantly became addicted to the feeling of the strands between his fingers.

They’d be talking underneath the trees of the gardens and he’d randomly start petting her head. At first Jaehaera would tense up because of the foreign feeling, but after a few seconds and Daemon asking her permission, she’d let him to it again. Oh he’d be jumping for joy in his brain.

Especially loving it when her eyes would flutter shut when he’d start to scratch her scalp and massage her temples.

And however wholesome this man could be at sometimes, he’s mind would definitely wander. He’d start to wonder what it’s be like if she were underneath him, hair and body sprawled out for him to play with. To make her feel good.

Or perhaps if she were to ride him and as she leaned forward, her hair would drape around them, all while tickling his thighs, arms and face. Oh how pretty she would look.

Oh and don’t get him started about how hard he gets when she pulls her hair into a ponytail or high braid. All he could think about was taking her from behind, pulling on her hair so that her back would be flush with his chest.

God she drove him crazy.

So the infamous Prince, know for being I’ll tempered and cruel, would be siting with the girl in her free time, taking turns braiding each others chair.

What he doesn’t know is that she’s not as oblivious as he thinks. It wasn’t hard to notice how he’d have to shift in he seat around her, or the growing bulge in his pants as she laid her head in his lap— letting out shameless moans as he kneaded her scalp.

Jaehaera just thought in rather fun to tease him, and to make him think she was totally innocent in her acts.

But besides the obvious sexual tension— Dameon would respect Jaehaera a lot. Of course he’d still be hot headed, crazy, and rebellious. It was his nature. And it also happened to be hers in some cases.

It was almost like putting two delinquents in the same room with some gunpowder a few matches.

The only difference was that she was more rational when it came to future consequences. She actually looked ahead. Dameon… not so much. He’d rather jump into battle or war, only depending on himself and his sword “dark sister”.

But.. if he had to, the person who’d he’d listen to was Jaehaera. And that’s because in his eyes, she was always right.

And that was not to be disputed.

Rhaenyra

She’s spoiled. We all know that. So she’s definitely get more possessive of Jaehaera.

When she married Laenor, it was hard because she longed for intimacy that he could not give her. But she was content with him because she thought she had at least evaded being married to an imbecile.

So even though it was unheard of, Rhaenyra still insisted on sharing a bed with her almost every night. Both girls were always close, and comfortable with each other physically. Rhaenyra had been the second person to bless her with gentle affection through touch. One might say that other than herself, Jaehaera trusted Rhaenyra with her body the most.

They would cling to each other in the night, bodies intertwined, grazing each other carefully, or tenderly squeezing flesh. All of it was natural to them. And to Jaehaera it was all she’d ever known when it came to the pair. It was only after their incident at the brothel that caused a shift in their behavior.

Rhaenyra had only heard of what had happened with Jaehaera because of her fathers reprimanding. It was light compared to what she faced, but she still felt something brewing in her stomach. She couldn’t quite place the emotion, it resting somewhere in between jealousy and curiosity. And it scared her.

Soon she found herself growing paranoid and angered at everyone Jaehaera looked at fondly. Especially a particular maid of hers…

Soon Rhaenyra would lie awake at night, Jaehaera sleeping soundly beside her, and she’s let her mind wander to what she thought the girl may have been doing with other women.

Soon she’d been touching herself at the thought of it being her who received such attention from Jaehaera.

And later as she noticed Daemon’s actions toward them both she couldn’t help but dwell on the thought of having them both. Even after Daemon married Laena. She’s simply add her to the equation too; she knew how much Jaehaera fancied her.

However, as the drift between her and Alicent grew even larger— especially after the whole air Criston cole situation— she became more worried that Jaehaera would leave her.

She had no reason to worry, I mean Jaehaera absolutely adore the girl. She would do practically anything for her. And the two princesses were almost attached at the hip at some point.

Yet as Jaehaera began to venture farther out, her time away from home increasing every voyage, Rhaenyra would make sure to claim whatever time Jaehaera had to spare when she had returned.

Of course, she didn’t mind sharing this time with other people she loved: Viserys, Daemon, Laenor, Sir Harwin.

Jaehaera knew. Anyone could tell that her children were not sired by Laenor, but Jaehaera knew that they were his kids.

And that’s because she walked in on them fucking once.

To this day she’d tease Rhaenyra about it, occasionally praising her for how quiet she could be with such a large prick inside her.

(She would also confirm to anyone that asks that Sir Harwin is hung— because let’s be honest he is.)

And after Rhaenyra had Jace, she’s notice that happened to grab even more of Jaehaera’s attention. More of her protection. Jaehaera would visit more frequently, ask if she was being properly taken care of, if anyone had disrespected her, and constantly hovering around her and Jace when she was at home.

As much as Rhaenyra loved Sir Harwin, she couldn’t deny that Jaehaera was a huge reason for her having more children. For the more she had, she more of Jaehaera she got.

Alicent

Obsessed and paranoid.Gonna be real— we all saw this coming.

Alicent would definitely be giving yandere, but she would never tell Jaehaera when she could or could not leave. (Like shed be able to in the first place.)

At first, when they’re in their later teens, Alicent really just wants to keep Jaehaera in her life. So she sees Rhaenyra as a threat, because they’re at all odds. She gets extremely worried whenever Jaehaera starts to pull away because of her marrying Viserys, and a little scared. Alicent really didn’t like lying to her, but she was as equally as scared of her father’s backlash. So when Jaehaera started to catch on with the whole scheme, Alicent didn’t know what to do or think.

Jaehaera was never actually cruel to her in anyway. In fact, the rather opposite. She’d still join her for tea or visit her whenever Rhaenyra was busy with her duties. But there was always a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that made her need validation.

“You’re not mad at me are you Princess?”

Glancing up intently at her, Jaehaera would answer, “No, Ali. I just hate your father insists on hurts those I care for.”

Hitching her breath, there was a small flutter in the pit of her stomach. Jaehaera made it sound as if she were included in the category. That sent Alicent’s heart on fire.

“And don’t think of defending him darling,” Jaehaera snipped, standing up to grab ahold of her chin. “It’ll just make me hate him more.”

Would definitely become paranoid later on as Rhaenyra has kids because well… Jaehaera increasingly becomes more attached to her as she does. Not that Alicent’s children don’t get enough attention as is. Jaehaera spoils every single one of them. But Alicent doesn’t see it like that, so what does she do? Talks shit.

She’ll start sneaking in comments or rumors of Rhaenyra’s children’s the obvious hair color difference, and other features. How they’re “growing in to very clad, dark handsome boys” and how she “adores their curly brown hair”.

Then, on top of it all is— she thinks she’s getting away with it at first because Jaehaera will laugh occasionally and say something back. Soon she becomes unaware of the warning stares being sent her way. Her growing audacity eventually leads to a more intense reaction after she questions their birthright.

“I’m not sure if they would be given the thrown that easily.” She’d say calmly with a soft smile while pouring Jaehaera a drink.

She’s hear the princess hum and ask, “Why’s that?”

“Oh you know, their features are rathe strange for a Targaryen. Some might question if they are truly—,”

Alicent would be cut off quickly, and the bottle of wine would have slipped through her hands from shock and broke into pieces by their feet if it weren’t for Jaehaera’s quick hand. With one hand setting the bottle aside, the other held Alicent’s jaw firm, making it so she couldn’t talk, yet it would not leave a bruise on her skin.

Jaehaera’s were practically predatory as they glared into Alicent’s. And as she leaned closer to the woman’s face, Alicent couldn’t help but gasp at the proximity.

“Don’t start acting like your father Ali. It doesn’t suit you.” Jaehaera would whisper firmly, pulling away only to keep a burning gaze. “And if you ever say something like that again around me, I promise you, I will kill him.”

After her hand leaves her mouth, Alicent would rub the tender skin, weak in the knees and almost desperate for it to return. “Why?” She’s ask in a whisper.

Tilting her head to the side, Jaehaera’s expression softened and she caressed her cheek. “Because he would have killed something I care for. And I cannot allow that.”

Otto

He’s a petty bitch.

Would not know what the fuck to do when it comes to Jaehaera.

Would also try really hard to spread rumors about her under the kings radar. Probably called her a homophobic slur at some point and made a backhand comment about her being a woman. We all know it’s true.

He’s well aware that she hates him after Alicent marries Viserys. Would for sure get tortured by Daemons antics even more because of Jaehaera’s permission.

Honestly he’s just fucked, so he’s constantly trying to find a way to keep himself in the good graces of the king, so Jaehaera won’t kill him.

Also another reason why he’d push Aegon to succeed the thrown— also also another reason why the greens pull this shit while she’s gone on her voyages and travels. He knows he wouldn’t be able to get away with it otherwise.

Sir Criston

Another petty bitch.

Jaehaera finds him annoying after a while. She gave him a little sympathy at first because of the whole Rhaenyra brothel incident, but she’d always choose Rhaenyra.

Lightens up around Alicent because she likes her. But she’ll roast the shit out of him at any time. Unprovoked.

And if he really pisses her off best believe she’s threaten him (and let Daemon loose).

“I gave you the position in the kings guard, I could easily take it away. Even if it hurt Ali’s feelings for a while. She could never stay mad at me. She’d forget you in a heartbeat.”

Sir Harwin

Homies Fr

These two would just make a bunch of dirty jokes, cursing like sailors, and spar.

Canon that they would call each other bad worms as pet names:

“Good morning my little bitch how are you?”- Jaehaera greeting him in the mornings for training.

“Hey arsehole! You owe me one!” - Harwin after covering up for her to go sneak off with a lady/lord and/or when he’d lie about seeing Daemon first in the nighttime competitions.

Causal greetings or hellos: “Hello there cunt!” “Ahhh there’s my favorite little shit!”

Both were definitely into each other some point but it was a fleeting crush. He fell in love with Rhaenyra, she loved him, so Jaehaera loved them and that they were happy.

Harwin along with Laenor we’re her personality wingmen and cheerleaders.

He’d cover/lie for her in a heart beat. And he has soooo much respect for her. In another life they’d probably be siblings.

Laenor

I’ll say it again for the people in the back: Laenor is Jaehaera’s cheerleader.

If they had the word bestie back then, best believe he’d be like: “GO BESTIE, GO!!!”

Ton of gay jokes, but also would comfort each other being of society and internal homophobia because people fucking suck. (I’m looking at you Otto)

Definitely have seen each other naked, probably drunk or honestly skinny dipping. Also— because they’re constantly covering for each other so they can… Y’know… they’ve probably stood guard for each other at some point. So I can definitely see Laenor or her just opening the door once as the other and whoever they’re with is mid fucking, and be like: “can you hurry up Rhaenyra (or some other person) is looking for you?”

And if Laenor ever finished quickly, Jaehaera would say: “damn took you longer than I thought, ten whole seconds, I had my money on five.”

Oh and Laenor absolutely giggles or chokes on his drink anytime someone says anything remotely disrespectful toward Jaehaera or him because he knows this person is about to die.

Rhaenys and Corlys

Definition of second parents. Basically adopt Jaehaera whenever Viserys isn’t around.

Corlys is so proud of her when she gets older and leads a battalion and or her own voyages. He would also get teary eyes whenever he sees her helping Luke learn how to navigate and captain a ship, then blame it on “salt water that splashed into his eyes”.

He LOVES being a girl dad (excluding Laenor). Prizes Laena and Jaehaera. And even low key ships them because let’s be so for real… he knows. Later he’ll make jokes that it must be in the gene’s because both his kids came out fruity.

And Rhaenys and Corlys adore the relationship between her and their kids.

Rhaenys especially. She loves how safe and natural both her children are around her. They don’t have to pretend. She swears she’s trust her with both their lives because she knows Jaehaera would always protect them and vise versa. (Also ships Laena with her, and claims all the time that Daemon is just a third party.)

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blackcat419 · 6 months

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Modern Helaegon AU

Aegon and Helaena first started dating in highschool. They ran in the same social circle with Aegon being an emo pot head and Helaena being the weird but smart but girl.

In junior year, Helaena got pregnant and decided to keep the babies. The two had twins, Jaehaerys and Jaeheara, in the summer between Junior and Senior year.

Helaena and Aegon tried to stay together as a couple but decided that they wanted different things in life. The twins stayed with Helaena and her parents (Alicent mom and Criston step-dad) and visited Aegon and his family (to keep them unrelated it’s Viserys dad and Aemma mom with sister Rhaenyra) on every other weekend.

Aegon dropped out of highschool and tried to start a band with his friends but started to languish without purpose in life.

Helaena went on to graduate highschool with honors, get accepted into a top tier university for entomology, completing her PhD.

As the twins grow up, Jaehaerys becomes very popular and outgoing competing in a lot of sports and after school activities. Jaehaera keeps to herself and starts to get into her dad’s old rock music. Aegon will take the twins for a car ride and play AC/DC while singing along and Jaehaera starts head banging to it while Jaehaerys just covers his ears.

Aegon decides that he need to step up for his kids and be a better co-parent for Helaena. He finishes his GED and starts an apprenticeship with a sound engineer. He gets pretty good at his job and begins writing music for bands and sometimes steps in to add different instruments of the band is missing someone to play it.

Aegon and Helaena reconnect and fall back into love as they’ve grown up and are able to connect more deeply. They get back together and have Maelor! The twins are around 10 when Maelor is born.

Helaena takes Maelor to her lab instead of a daycare cause she loves her baby and doesn’t want him leaving her side. Baby Maelor also tries to eat some bugs and needs a play pen prison to keep him safe. Aegon teaches Maelor to play the drums and the baby ends up breaking the drum sticks a few times.

Aegon wants his kids to learn to play different instruments and teaches Jaehaera how to play the guitar and sing while Jaehaerys likes playing classic piano.

#hotd #house of the dragon #helaena targaryen #aegon targaryen #helaegon #modern helaegon #drabble

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maidragoste · 1 year

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The Council

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader (Daughter of Rhaenyra) x Aegon II Targaryen

the second part of this part3

please reblog cause i'm not showing up in tags again 😭😭

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

It's been a long time since Aemond felt at peace. But that's what he felt when he was with you and the children. Every time he saw you smile or heard one of the twins laugh he felt his heart warm and he thanked the gods for letting him live, for letting him come back to you and the children.

Reading to the twins before they fell asleep had become one of Aemond's favorite times of the day and for the children as well. There was one night when he had to go to a council meeting and the children were whimpering, sullen until his father came back and told them a story.

“Why are you so surprised? They already love you” you told him that night.

You weren't lying. The twins loved Aemond. Baelon always wanted his attention, always screaming excitedly or in extreme cases pulling his hair, and Aemon loved being in his father's arms, he always had the best naps in Aemond's arms. Sometimes you made fun of your husband because every time you told him to put Aemon in his crib he always refused with the excuse that he was afraid of waking him up.

"No, no, Baelon. Don't hurt your brother,” the prince said seriously taking his son's small fist to prevent him from hurting Aemon, who was sleeping in his arms again.

Baelon had been distracted watching his cousin Jaehaera and you making flower crowns but now that he wanted to give his dad a crown and saw him with his brother he got mad and wanted to hit Aemon. When he did not achieve his mission, what did he do? He started crying and his crying woke up his twin, who also started crying.

Just when you were lifting Baelon up to comfort him. One of your maidens appeared running, when you saw her you stood up, with some difficulty for the child you had in your arms, fearing that something had happened to Aegon, you could not bear to lose another brother.

"Princess, prince" he made the quick bow "The king requests that the council meet and wants you there too"

•••••

You and Aemond knew something bad was about to happen. They had never asked you to join the council before so whatever they were going to talk about had to do with you or Prince Aegon.

Aemond was sitting next to you, looking ready to plunge his sword into anyone who would look at you, and you couldn't stop thinking about holding his hand. But if you did, the rest would see you weak. You had to prepare to fight for your life and your brother's. You couldn't look nervous or you wouldn't be taken seriously.

"Well? What is the meeting for today?" Tyland Lannister asked breaking the silence.

"Cregan Stark" replied the king and you noticed how everyone tensed upon hearing the name of the guardian of the north. "He refuses to pledge loyalty to me," he said and handed a scroll to his mother. "And he's coming over here with his army of northerners."

"That damn idiot, Rhaenyra Targaryen is dead he has no one to fight for," said one of the men.

"I'm just going to bend the knee and swear allegiance to the true queen. Y/N Targaryen" Alicent Hightower read and you froze, you felt like all the air was suddenly gone "Give her the throne or we'll fight to get it back to her"

You didn't understand Why was Cregan Stark fighting for you? Yes, you are Rhaenyra's daughter but he didn't know you, he didn't know if you would make a better queen than Aegon. You didn't even fight in the war, you had been locked up taking care of your children while your whole family died. You didn't deserve the throne.

"You have to kill her!" one of the men said and Aemond soon had his sword pointed at the man's throat.

"Do you want to repeat that again?"

"Aemond, please," Alicent said not wanting there to be bloodshed.

"Kill him," said the king drawing everyone's attention "He can't talk like that about his future queen"

Aemond wasted no time slashing the man's throat. The table was soon covered with blood. He watched the scene satisfied but then assimilated the words of his brother.

"What do you mean future queen?" he questioned now pointing his sword at the king. You quickly got up and put your hand on his shoulder.

"Aemond lowers the sword before they accuse you of treason" you whispered.

"I'm going to marry our niece" answered the king with a smile and you felt that at any moment you could faint. The only thing you could think about was that the gods must hate you because not only are you married to the murderer of your brother and grandmother but now you were also going to marry the murderer of your mother. You still have nightmares about her being burned alive by the king's dragon.

"Aegon, you can't marry Y/n. She's already married to your brother" Alicent told him like she was talking to a little boy.

"Aegon the conqueror had two wives, I don't see why Y/n can't have two husbands," he replied.

Aegon had always thought of making you his wife. The only reason he agreed to be king was so he could marry you too. Helaena would be his wife out of duty and you out of love, you would be his Rhaenys. Of course, Aemond beat him, he married you after the last supper with his father while he was in bed with fleas. But now that didn't matter, nothing could come between you. Helaena was dead and neither his mother nor his brother could not refuse because the marriage was necessary or they would all end up dead at the hands of the northerners.

"I will not share my wife just because of one of your whims" Aemond refused angrily and the king snorted. Aegon was being nice, if he wanted he could have murdered his brother and married you but he didn't. He was willing to share you.

"It's not on a whim. It's to prevent a war," corrected Tyland. "We don't have enough forces to fight the Northlanders and I'm sure Jeyne Arryn is about to bring an army as well. The only way to get loyalty from them is if we make princess Y/n queen and the only way to do that is by marrying the king."

You didn't want to marry Aegon but after listening to Tyland you would. You wanted the war to end once and for all, and if the only way was to marry your mother's killer, you would. You couldn't keep being selfish, you weren't going to let more people die for your family. The town had already lost too many. Aegon and you had to put the war behind you and start rebuilding the kingdom, rewarding the people for all the damage they had caused.

"And what if Cregan Stark doesn't agree with that? He wants the princess on the iron throne, he doesn't want him" said Larys Strong.

"Y/n will rule as my equal. She will wear the crown that belonged to my father"

"Oh gods, all that's left is for you to let her sit on the iron throne," Alicent said.

"Jaehaerys came to sit on the throne along with Alysanne," Aegon reminded her.

You felt so confused. You did not know why Aegon was willing to give you so much power. Why didn't he do that with your mother? This all made no sense but you weren't going to question it.

"We'll talk to him," you said drawing everyone's attention. "Aegon and I will speak with Lord Stark. We will show each other how a united front and he will swear loyalty to me."

Aemond turned to look at you, feeling betrayed. Was this some kind of payback for Alys Rivers?

"Perfect. My lords, there is a wedding to organize" the king announced with a smile and left the room.

tag list: @afro-hispwriter @inmmyowndefender @justsumtuffstuff @crispmarshmallowllow @daduol @safrish @lilithskywalker @solacestyles @zverea

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gwenllian-in-the-abbey · 4 months

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how do you write jahaera in the fathers clad in fire? Does it come natural? Or do you have certain idea of who she is and based on that you write her dialogue you write her response?

because i just innately feel characterization of her in the story is so authentic. This makes me wonder how the heck you guys achieved that with lack of material on jaehara?

how do you see her personality, her values, her interests? How do you think she would express affection and love?

I love this! Thanks so much for asking about Jae!

The kids are some of my favorite characters to write. Aside from being a high school history teacher, I'm a mom myself to two teenagers, a son and a daughter. I draw on my own experience with kids a lot when I write Jaehaera, and my personal and professional knowledge of children! Kids are hard to get right, especially traumatized kids. Children, I think, are one of George's weak spots and he writes without a clear idea of what is developmentally appropriate for kids at various ages (think about the scene in F&B when three year old Joffrey tries to stop Aemond from claiming Vhagar). That's something we wanted to avoid. We want our eight year old to feel eight, our fourteen year olds to feel fourteen. Most of all when I write the children I try to think about what would be an age appropriate responses in the situations they face, what sorts of things my own children were fascinated by when they were at these ages, the kinds of reactions they had to setbacks and successes, and the sorts of relationships they formed with adults and with other children. (more below the cut)

It was important for us that all of the kids have personalities of their own that, while informed by their trauma, are not entirely comprised of their trauma. While they're traumatized kids, they're still kids! Our Jae has a fascination with the spooky and the weird that we extrapolated from her dragon being named Morghul, which basically is "Death" in Valyrian. It's a lot of fun to imagine the various odd myths and creatures and odd stories that Jae would get fixated on. Experiencing the real life horrors didn't make Jae less fascinated by scary things, but she likes her horrors to remain otherworldly. Stories about Ice Spiders are fun and cool, stories about scary men with knives are not. We also picked up on Jae's likely neurodivergence from the books, which tell us she was quiet and didn't show emotion like other children. Of course, those are accounts of people who didn't know her or really care about her. Our Jae is a bit older, so she does speak, and we see her through the eyes of people who love her and know her (or Baela, who is interested in knowing her), so her quirks are just that, quirks. Aegon is very protective of her and hates when people insinuate that she's simple because she's actually quite smart, and when it comes to her hyperfixations, she reads a ton. Basically, for her characterization, we took what little crumbs were there, and ran with them, extrapolating from there to create our version of Jae who is serious, opinionated, protective, possessive, and fierce.

I love that you ask about how Jae shows affection because that's a big part of the next chapter. Jae is much more likely to show affection with actions rather than with words. As Jae is usually quite possessive (as you saw when Gaemon played with papa's lute), it's a big deal when she shares something that is special to her, especially the things that bring her comfort (a trait she shares with her dad, only Aegon is usually sharing food or drink rather than things!). And if you mess with someone she cares about, watch out! To illustrate, here's a small snip from the upcoming chapter, when Baela's sister Rhaena makes a surprise visit with her dragon, Morning:

“Why are there two of you?” Jaehaera asked. She was sat at a low table nearby, a large paper in front of her as well as several inkpots with various colored inks, drawing what looked to be a large spider. Aeg sat beside her with a paper of his own, although his drawing was of Dragonstone’s keep. At Jaehaera’s voice he looked up, his eyes darting from Baela to Rhaena. “Princess Jaehaera, Gaemon, this is my sister, Rhaena. She and I look alike because she’s my twin," Baela said. Jaehaera narrowed her eyes, clearly skeptical. Of course, Baela thought, her twin had been a brother, not her own mirror image. “Aegon,” Rhaena said, a plaintive note to her voice. “It’s me. It’s Rhaena. Come here, sweet boy.” Aeg stood from the table, his eyes fixed upon Rhaena. Baela knew the exact moment he noticed Morning upon her shoulder, for he shook his head. “Why is it here?” His voice trembled. “Baela you promised.” “She’s just a hatchling, Aeg,” Rhaena said. “Her name is Morning. Don’t you want to meet her?” Aeg backed up, tears filling his eyes. Before Baela could stop her, Rhaena took a step forward. “No,” shrieked Aeg. “No! No! Rhaena, no!” Jaehaera glanced at him, her eyes wide, then glared back at Rhaena. “He’s afraid of dragons, stupid.”

I'll tag in @aifsaath in case she has anything to add!

#jaehaera targaryen #writing asks #our fathers clad in red #aegon iii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 7: Final Tribute]

A/N: I am wishing a very Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate! I am so thankful for all of you and your support of this fic. Only 1 more chapter left! 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, violence, babies, dad!Aemond, show events, drama at dinner, sexual content, witchcraft, death and destruction, dragons, a very very long chapter so maybe plan for a snack break...might I suggest a nice roasted pig??

Word count: 10.7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia @abrielleholland @crossingallmine @burningcoffeetimetravel @yummycastiel @lol-im-done @lovemissyhoneybee @nomugglesallowed @witchmoon @yoshiplushie @torchbearerkyle @sweetashoneyhoney @quartzs-posts @lauraneedstochill @nctma15 @queenofshinigamis @rapoficeandfire @hinata7346 @curiouser-an-curiouser @meadowofsinfulthoughts @imjustboredso @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @myspotofcraziness @bregarc @mikariell95 @doingfondue @justconfusedperiod @mommyslittlewarcriminal @graykageyama

Aemond holds her so that her feet can skim the warm, sun-sparkling surf. Laurel smiles, squeals merrily, makes ineffectual little kicks. She gawks down at the water with eyes that seem to fill up her whole face. She is scrawny still—no matter how much she is fed she remains small, much smaller than other infants her age—but tough and dauntless. She rarely cries. She reaches for everything. She watches you with those enormous eyes that hold an eerie sort of awareness, a stoicism that comes from something, somewhere, that predates her two short months in this world. It should not surprise you that she is a rare sort of child. She is built of bloodlines that run thick with magic.

Jaehaera and Maelor are constructing a sandcastle, decorated with stones and shells and flags made of driftwood speared through strips of dried seaweed. The handmaidens are attempting to prevent an irate Jaehaerys from stomping it into rubble. Helaena is staring out into the ocean towards Bearstone, her face grim and remote. Gulls swoop and squawk overhead. The end of the day is golden and hot and perfect; the sun is sinking rapidly into the horizon.

Aemond straightens, cradles Laurel to his chest with one arm, and offers her a small pink cat’s paw seashell. She clutches it, considers it, tries to eat it. Aemond laughs and takes the shell away, tossing it back into the waves. Laurel begins to fuss in protest, but settles when he kisses her short silver hair and soothes her like he always does: “Shh, shh, lykiri, shh.” She peers up at him and bats at his eyepatch with her tiny fist. When you are in private, he goes without it so she can get used to his sapphire, his scar; she is entranced by the cool blue glow, finding only beauty in what some would call monstrous.

A maester appears, ambling with some difficulty across the sand to meet the prince. You take Laurel from Aemond so he can receive the scroll. He unrolls the parchment and reads it, his brow furrowed.

“Who have you been colluding with?” you tease. “Your maester friends in Dorne?”

“Something like that.” He stows the scroll away in his tunic. His boots sink into the wet sand like a punctured ship into the depths. The wind gusting in off the sea tears at his long hair. You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. Laurel grabs at your moonstone pendant.

Far above in the orange-indigo sky, there is a flash of crimson and a shrill, clicking sort of shriek. The handmaidens gasp and duck their heads. You look up to see a dragon soaring over the walls of the Red Keep: blood-red, lithe, lightning-quick, unapologetically lethal. You’ve only ever heard of one dragon that fits that description. Caraxes. Daemon. You turn back to Aemond.

“They’re here,” he says simply.

“Since when?”

“Since this afternoon. I saw Jace and Luke in the courtyard. They did not accept my invitation to train.”

“And have they grown up to be…” you begin. Aemond smiles, dimples springing up in his cheeks; he already knows what you’re going to say. You are a book he has poured over for nearly a year. For the first time, you wonder if he’s memorized the rhythm of your footsteps, the lines of your shoulders, the slope of your jaw. You wonder if you have any new pages left for him to read. “Strong boys?”

“I wouldn’t say they’ve grown very much at all.”

“Why are they in King’s Landing?” Rhaenyra has been biding her time on Dragonstone for six years; it must have taken something truly urgent to lure her back into such an unfriendly court.

“Vaemond Velaryon has disputed Luke’s claim to Driftmark. His grounds are…obvious. The boys aren’t Laenor’s, thus they cannot inherit his titles. Rhaenyra has come seeking judgment in her favor.”

“Very interesting. Best of luck to her.”

“I wouldn’t be too optimistic. Otto and my mother are the ones doing the judging.” He lifts your chin, kisses you, nudges his nose playfully against yours. He has been like this since you had the baby: attentive, affectionate, but chaste. He does not touch you with heat, with lust. And at first, that had been more than alright; you were recovering, and then you were consumed with caring for Laurel—always so small, always so spellbinding—and even now you are only just beginning to feel like yourself again. Yet there are moments when you catch glimpses of that familiar, animalistic longing in your thoughts, your body: a memory here, a twinge of yearning there. That part of yourself is waking up like embers fueled with fresh air. You hope that Aemond still desires you in the same way he once did. You hope that when your flesh reunites you will not disappoint him. Now, he studies your face. “Do you pity them? The bastards?”

“I don’t blame them for who their father is, they cannot help that. I do blame them for what they did to you. What they have never atoned for.”

“Well, we will soon have the pleasure of seeing them humiliated,” he says brightly. “Tomorrow. In the Great Hall.”

“I’ll dress for a bloodbath.”

He chuckles, touching his lips to your forehead. “I’ll meet you upstairs. I need to send a raven first.”

You and Helaena take the children inside: you rocking Laurel to sleep in your arms, Helaena carrying an almost-too-heavy Maelor on her hip, Jaehaera trotting along beside her, Jaehaerys trying to clomp on people’s heels. The exasperated handmaidens struggle to corral him as you glide through the hallways towards the royal family’s chambers. Helaena is telling you about the web patterns of spiders when you round a corner to find an unfamiliar face.

She’s Princess Rhaenyra, she has to be. She has white hair and pale eyes and wears the black and red of House Targaryen. And yet, she is different than you had imagined her; she is regal but soft somehow, placid, subdued, some might even say diminished. She does not look like someone who would carry on a torrid, profoundly reckless affair. She does not look like a woman who would set the realm ablaze for a chance at the Iron Throne. Perhaps motherhood has smoothed over her roughest edges; perhaps suffering has humbled her.

You stare at each other in the middle of the hushed hallway—you flanked by Helaena and the handmaidens, Rhaenyra accompanied by two girls who can only be Daemon’s daughters by Laena Velaryon—and try to think of something to say. At last, Rhaenyra’s gaze drops to Laurel, bundled in a blanket stitched with a green dragon.

“Oh, she’s a brand new little thing! Might I see her?”

You do not relinquish your daughter, but you position her so Rhaenyra can get a better look. She stirs and stretches but does not wake.

“A darling,” the princess declares diplomatically. Her eyes linger on the baby’s silvery hair. “What do you call her?”

“Laurel.”

Rhaenyra smiles, just barely, as if she’s won a victory. And for the first time you see the venom in her. “Not a Targaryen name, that’s for certain.” She lays a hand on her pregnant belly. “We are expecting another in a few months’ time. After five sons, I am convinced this one is a girl at last. We plan to call her Visenya.”

It occurs to you how many things you have in common: mothers lost in childbirth, arranged and dispassionate first marriages, tenacity, magic, merciless love for a Targaryen man. And yet here you stand on opposite sides of a gaping chasm. “Congratulations.” What else can one say?

“It’s terrifying, isn’t it?” Rhaenyra asks. “When you realize what you’d do for your children.”

“Yes. I think if someone cut out her eye, I’d burn them alive.”

The princess blinks at you, stunned; and there is a moment when it is possible to unravel these generational knots of resentment and bloodletting ambition. There is a version of this exchange in which Rhaenyra apologizes for what happened to Aemond, for her callousness that night, for prizing a single lie above untold lives, for wielding her father’s fondness for her like a blade with which to cut others’ heads off. She considers it, surely; and instead she hardens, sharpens, grows claws and fangs. “I have heard of you, Lady Mormont. You’ve reached very high.”

“And you’ve stooped low.”

Rhaenyra blows by you like a storm wind, her footsteps echoing through the hallway. One of Daemon’s daughters bows her head demurely, but the other—Baela, you think her name is—flings you a glare of prideful, poisonous malice. She is very much Daemon Targaryen’s daughter. She is the type of woman who Aemond might say he’d met his match in, had they been born into different circumstances.

You can hear voices rising throughout the Red Keep. The handmaidens are gossiping frenetically among themselves. Jaehaerys growls and kicks at the wall. Beyond the glass windows, rain starts to fall and thunder booms. In your arms, Laurel begins to cry.

“He comes home late, covered in rain,” Helaena murmurs, looking at fingernails she’s chewed down to the quick.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your dresses are a kaleidoscope of gemstones: ruby, onyx, emerald, turquoise, rose quartz, pearl, tiger’s eye, sapphire, moonstone. On your vanity are pieces of jewelry to match. There are also twenty-seven blue winter roses, dried into shriveled, perpetual life and kept in a white vase.

“You should wear your namesake,” Aemond says. He stands behind you and rests his hands on your shoulders. You smile at each other in the mirror’s reflection. He is in good spirits, eager, proud. A part of that is the shame that Rhaenyra and her sons are sure to suffer. A part of that is his own prowess: his swordsmanship, his intellect, his dragon. And, you have come to realize, a part of it is you as well. He is impatient to show you off. You have no eminent blood relatives, no wealth, no sons…and yet to Aemond you are a fortune. You choose a billowing, ethereal gown that sparkles when sunlight hits the fabric. Your husband weaves matching chains of moonstones into your hair.

You enter the Great Hall with the rest of the Greens. Otto Hightower, in the king’s absence, will preside over the dispute. Alicent wears a jade-colored dress and seven-pointed star necklace like armor, like it will keep all her encroaching enemies at bay. Helaena is wide-eyed and jittery. Aegon is, much to his own regret, hungover but not inebriated at the moment; Alicent and Aemond have bullied him into relative sobriety for the duration of Rhaenyra’s visit. You stand between the brothers, always on Aemond’s good side. He periodically touches your hand, your hair, your shoulders. Sir Criston remains by the queen, watching her like a sailor studies the sky for signs of a storm: dark clouds, spiraling winds, scattering flocks of birds.

As Otto ascends the Iron Throne as Hand of the King and Vaemond Velaryon states his claim to Driftmark, you take stock of Rhaenyra’s eldest sons. It is clear why Aemond is so heartened by their presence, here in King’s Landing for all the nobles to see and spread word of throughout Westeros. Jace and Luke, whatever their favorable attributes, are utterly unlike what the world expects from Targaryens or Velaryons. They are short and dark-haired and somehow benign in their features: homey, ordinary, pug-nosed like the Strongs are known to be. They do not sweat that unnerving, commanding otherworldliness from their pores, that magnetism that totters on the blade’s edge between greatness and insanity.

Aemond smiles darkly as he ghosts his fingertips across the back of your neck. He has the looks of a true Targaryen. He has a full-grown, legendary dragon. He has you. The gods have set things right again, they have put the universe back in order. He is at the top of fate’s wheel; the bastard boys and all their defenders are at the bottom.

When Rhaenyra tries to refute Vaemond, Alicent scolds her like a child, reminding her to wait her turn to speak. The futility of her cause is becoming evident on Rhaenyra’s face. Otto and Alicent will never acknowledge her sons’ legitimacy. Not even Luke seems especially enthused by his own claim to Driftmark; he looks skittish, almost anguished. His doelike dark eyes land on Aemond and then bolt away. Aemond only grows more amused.

Aegon turns to you. Is this over yet? he mouths, then mimes swigging a cup of wine.

It is Rhaenyra’s turn to plead her son’s case. She steps forward. Daemon watches her in a way that is somehow familiar to you, and then you place it; it is the same way Aemond watches you, proud, possessive, linked by a gravity that is bone-deep and older than words. Daemon even looks and moves a bit like your husband, albeit less controlled, less premeditated. You remember once being able to tell that Aemond had never killed a man. There is no mistaking the fact that Daemon has spilled a tide of hot pulsing blood, and furthermore would be delighted to again.

Rhaenyra speaks as her time here draws short, as Luke’s claim to Driftmark dies. Everyone knows it, Blacks and Greens alike, they’re just waiting for the judgment to be handed down. And then, and then…

The doors to the Great Hall open and his entrance is announced. In nearly a year, you have never once seen the ailing King Viserys. He was not roused from his sickbed by the joust, by the feasts, by your imprisonment, by the trial by combat that nearly claimed Aemond’s life, by the birth of your daughter. Aemond rarely speaks of him. He doesn’t seem to have many memories of the king at all, the man who watched as the mangled flesh of his son’s eye was sewn shut and felt no outrage. Only now does Viserys appear to take his rightful place as king. Only for Rhaenyra.

Otto dutifully surrenders the Iron Throne and comes down to stand with his family. He and Alicent exchange a wary glance. As Daemon helps Viserys—weak, emaciated, decaying—to his seat, Aegon raises his eyebrows at you. Helaena fidgets anxiously. You tug on your moonstone pendant. Aemond is a pillar of stone. Here is one thing Rhaenyra and her sons have that he never will: the king’s unconditional love.

The winds have changed direction. Rhaenys announces her and Lord Corlys’ support for Luke’s Velaryon inheritance, as well as her intention that her granddaughters Baela and Rhaena marry Jace and Luke. Vaemond’s face is furious, while Rhaenyra’s grows cautiously assured; House Velaryon has chosen a side in the coming war, the one everyone knows of but cannot yet name.

King Viserys did not protect Aemond when his eye was cut from his skull and his life endangered, but he protects Luke now, not from jeers or blades but from his mother’s obvious indiscretion: he affirms Luke’s claim to Driftmark. The Great Hall is hectic with whispers and cynical looks. The nobles here at court may never have fully warmed to you, but many of them loathe Rhaenyra: due to her arrogance, due to her lies, due to her marriage to the rogue prince…and yes, due to her womanhood as well. While you cannot fault her for this last fact, there are plenty of shortcomings left to weigh the scales against her. Only Vaemond Velaryon, after exalting the longevity and uninterrupted bloodline of his ancient house, is willing to give voice to what so many others are thinking.

“My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned…” He turns to Luke, trembling with rage. “I will not see it ended on account of this…”

“Say it,” Daemon dares, his icy deep-set eyes gleaming, and again you can see shades of Aemond in him.

“Her children…” Vaemond says. “Are bastards!” He looks to Rhaenyra, briefly, with palpable revulsion. “And she…is…a whore.”

Aemond is smiling again. His father is less pleased. King Viserys, slow and feeble and wheezing, yanks a dagger from his belt. “I will have your tongue for that.”

There is a whistle of steel through the air, and Daemon’s blade Dark Sister severs Vaemond’s skull crosswise just above the mouth. Helaena whirls away, clapping her hands over her ears; both you and Alicent reach out to console her. The man—now a corpse—drops to the floor, spilling out blood and brains like wine sloshed in a too-full cup. The room erupts into gasps of shock, disgust, dismay. If the noble families of Westeros required any further proof of Daemon’s undomesticated savagery, they now have it.

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon says, smirking down at Vaemond’s body.

“Disarm him!” Otto Hightower bellows.

“No need.” Daemon wipes his sword clean and sheaths it.

Helaena is whimpering as you embrace her. Aegon is clearly regretting his sobriety. Aemond is staring at his uncle, his blue eye alight, entranced and awed and hungry; for it is not often that he meets his match in someone. As you watch, his finger go—unthinkingly, instinctively—to the dagger at his belt, and they rest there on the hilt shaped like the roaring bear of House Mormont.

~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere in the few hours between the audience in the Great Hall and the dinner arranged by the pitiful, dying king, Aegon managed to rectify his dreadful lack of intoxication. He is now quite drunk and delighted to be back in his preferred state. Aemond is berating him in the corner of the dining room.

“Perhaps I don’t drink too much,” Aegon says, swaying as he pokes his brother in the chest. “Perhaps you drink too little.”

“I drink exactly the correct amount, thanks for your concern.”

Aegon slurs, speaking to you this time: “Don’t you think he drinks too little?”

“I think you should find your seat at the table before you end up under it.”

“Well alright then.” Aegon staggers off.

“Tonight is important,” Aemond tells you, low enough that nobody else will hear. Servants are lighting candles and setting the vast table; Alicent and Rhaenyra, sitting just a few paces apart, pretend not to notice each other. “I asked him to be responsible, to be prepared, to for once put duty before self-indulgence—”

“Let him have the wine. A time will come…a week from now, or a month, or a year…when he will have to renounce his vices for the good of the realm, but that time is not now. Let him enjoy his hedonism while he still can.”

Aemond frowns as he glares in Rhaenyra’s direction. “Even when the noose is tightened, they expect us to break bread.”

“Perhaps there is an advantage in it for you,” you say, laying your hand against his cheek, his scar. “Perhaps this is your chance to study them, to learn where all their bruises and cracks are.”

He smiles, lifts your hand from his marred face, kisses your palm. Candlelight illuminates him like flames. “You are truly a terrible influence, wife. You’ve made me so tame.”

“I’ve been known to ride a dragon too, you know. A very fearsome dragon. Tall, silver-haired, spends long hours in the library reading about philosophy…” You wink and turn to go to your seat. Aemond pulls you back, hooks a hand beneath your jaw, devours you with his roaming, ravenous eye: your parted lips, your throat, your breasts, your hips, lower. You can feel your muscles unraveling, opening, growing supple. You can feel all of your self-conscious trepidation melting away. On the blurred, firelit periphery of your vision, you can tell that Daemon is watching.

“I want you,” Aemond whispers.

“So take me.”

The doors open and King Viserys is carried in by the Kingsguard, propped up helplessly in his chair. Aemond releases you and stands with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture diffident but his lips still curled mischievously, distractedly. You can guess what he’s thinking, what he’ll spend the entire meal playing out in his mind before he gets to have it. When King Viserys is positioned at the center of the table, Aemond takes his place at the Green’s end. You sit between him—always on his good side—and Helaena. Your eyes scan the guests; Jace and Luke are ogling you with a mix of horror and fascination. Daemon is smirking with his chin propped on the heel of his hand. Alicent is staring blankly at the wall.

Aegon bends across Helaena so he can say to you: “That was very decorous. Entirely appropriate for a family dinner. Maybe when they serve dessert you could fuck on the table, right between the apple cake and the blueberry tarts.”

“That’s a fine idea, I’ll certainly consider it.”

He cackles and slumps back into his seat, guzzling a cup of blood-red wine.

“How good it is to see you all tonight,” the king says. “Together.” His eye—he has only one remaining, and surely that is the work of the gods’ irony—floats over you without much interest. He barely acknowledges any of his children with Alicent, nor do they strive to capture his attention. Perhaps they learned the pointlessness of such efforts a decade ago. Perhaps the part of them that longed for the king’s affection and approval died with his rotting flesh.

“Prayer before we begin?” Alicent prompts, and the king agrees. “May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love…” Beneath the table, Aemond nudges his knee against yours. You return the gesture. “May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long…” From the opposite end of the gathering, Luke stares at Aemond as if still trying to puzzle out how the runt of a boy he blinded grew up to be…well…that. “And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

Daemon sighs and rolls his eyes dramatically. “Yes, and perhaps they can find a new wife for Axel Hightower too.”

“If he’s fortunate, he’ll be freed when I suffer an entirely coincidental fall from a horse,” you pitch back. Aemond chortles, a low rumble from deep in his chest.

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems,” the king continues forcefully. Through a forest of flickering candles, Daemon’s eyes dissect you as he twirls his wine cup, thoughtful and amused. “My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses.”

Aemond says nothing, but you can read the words in the lines of his face. Further bolstering the strength of the Blacks, you mean. Absentmindedly, he skims his fingertips across your knuckles. Goosebumps spring up on your arms.

The king raises his cup. “A toast to the young princes and their betrothed.”

Everyone obediently lifts their cups, but their expressions are less than celebratory. Otto Hightower broods. Alicent bites her lower lip. Luke blanches; he is young, so very young.

Aegon taunts: “Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.”

“And perhaps just the one,” Jace returns. “You wouldn’t be acquainted with the idea.”

The king says: “And let us toast as well Prince Lucerys, the future Lord of the Tides.”

Cups are raised again. Rhaenyra beams with pride. Aemond leers at Luke as he drinks.

“You’ll be great,” Rhaena tells her future husband. She is a sweet girl, wise and sympathetic and grounded. She must be more like her mother. That’s good; she’ll make a fine companion for Luke when he’s sent off to rule Driftmark.

Aegon leans into Jace again. Jace flinches away. It does take some getting used to, as you are well aware; Aegon has, at best, a tenuous understanding of personal space. “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that.”

“Let it be, cousin,” Baela warns. You find it unfortunate that she was born to be on the wrong side of this war. She would have made a valuable ally.

“You can play the jester if you wish,” Jace tells Aegon. “But hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

Having not received the reaction he was hoping for, Aegon returns his attention to his wine. Luke and Rhaena are whispering back and forth, giggling innocently; she’s finally gotten him to smile. Aemond reaches beneath the table to rest a hand on your thigh. It skates upwards, and then back down again, very slowly. You sip your wine and try not to react visibly, but hot blood rushes into your face. Aegon squints at you and Aemond with bleary eyes, his mouth stretching into a grin.

The king hauls himself to his feet. Aemond’s hand stills but remains on you. “It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world…” Aemond shakes his head, just barely, just enough for you to notice it. His face was not dear enough for his father to mourn its butchering. He does not look directly at Viserys. He looks at you instead. Again, Daemon is watching. “…Yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.”

The king reaches up to the golden mask that covers half his face. It takes you a moment before you realize he’s going to remove it. Alicent takes a series of shallow, uneasy breaths. Aegon grimaces and gulps his wine. Beneath the mask, there is a gaping, wet cavity where the king’s right eye once was. His cheek is mostly disintegrated; one can glimpse his teeth and tongue moving behind the curtain of dark, shredded flesh. To her credit, Rhaenyra does not turn away. There is horror on her pale face, but there are other things too: compassion, mourning, loss. She does truly love him, you think to yourself, and you wonder what Alicent’s children’s lives could have been like had Viserys not already filled the chambers of his heart to the brim with Aemma’s daughter.

“My face,” the king pants. “Is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king, but your father…” Aegon forces himself to raise his eyes to Viserys, then immediately regrets it and buries his face in his wine again. “…Your brother, your husband…” Alicent winces like she’s been hit, but tries to hide it. “And your grandsire. Who may not, it seems, walk for much longer among you.”

You are struck with a sudden vision of Otto Hightower holding Laurel, talking to her like she’s already his closest confidant, tickling her toes, singing to her some ridiculous tavern song common in the Reach, kissing the crown of her head again and again. To your knowledge, King Viserys has never once asked about your daughter.

I cannot pity this man, you think, contemplating the dying king. You do not avert your gaze from his hideous affliction. You do not forget all the ways in which he has failed Alicent’s children. In fact, I might even hate him.

The king says as he lowers himself back down: “Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong—”

“Interesting choice of words,” Aegon mumbles.

“—If the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances, if not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.” Exhausted from the effort, the king languishes in his chair and sucks in rattling breaths. Alicent comforts him and helps him refasten his mask. No one speaks, but all the Greens are thinking the same thing. It is easy for the king to urge forgiveness when he was never wronged: never ignored, never dismembered, never groped with unwanted hands, never sacrificed on the altar of Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne, a claim so much of Westeros refuses to support. He would set the world ablaze for her, and expects you all to smile and toss sticks into the flames as they lick around your ankles.

Ever the favorite child, ever affixed to the king, Rhaenyra offers a toast next. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the queen.” Alicent peers up at her reticently with large, tearful eyes. “I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that she has my gratitude…and my apology.”

“Apology for what?” Aegon hisses under his breath. He is right; the words are worthless in their ambiguity. Apology for monopolizing the king’s love? Apology for cursing Alicent for complying with old men’s schemes and marrying Viserys? Apology for what happened to Aemond? Apology for the interminable enmity that remains? Apology for dividing and jeopardizing the realm? Apology for WHAT? No matter her meaning, Daemon is not enthused. He glowers and sulks. Daemon Targaryen is not a man who apologizes for anything.

Alicent collects herself before replying. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers, and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow.” She stands and toasts Rhaenyra. “I raise my cup to you and your house.” She pauses, then adds: “You will make a fine queen.”

Otto Hightower raises an eyebrow. Aemond’s forehead wrinkles before he can smooth it again; his hand squeezes your thigh. Is it a lie to soothe a dying man? Is it to deceive Rhaenyra, to disarm her? Is it wistful thinking for a miraculously peaceful end to all of this? Surely Alicent cannot think it possible for Rhaenyra to reign. As long as Aegon lives—and then Aegon’s sons, and then Aemond, and then Daeron—there will be tens of millions who raise banners and swords to try to put them on the throne. It is a truth that is larger than any of their individual wills. Rhaenyra cannot let them live if she hopes to be queen. Even if she wanted to spare them, Daemon would not stand for it. She must either be kept from the Iron Throne…or she will wear the Greens’ blood like rubies. The dinner guests ignore this fact, for tonight at least. They nurse their wine and clink silverware against their plates as they eat. Candlelight paints you all in flames and shadows.

Aegon is sorely disappointed with the dearth of chaos he’s caused this evening. He gets up to refill his wine cup and snakes between Jace and his betrothed. “I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” he tells Baela. “But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

Jace jumps to his feet and slams his palms on the table.

Baela tries to calm him. “Jace…”

Beside you, Aemond rises. He doesn’t say a word; he just stares, wearing firelight like furs, his scar very loud. Aegon meanders back to his seat. Jace does some quick calculations, trying to figure out how to deescalate while saving face. He is bolder than Luke, but still far from ferocious. And he is clever enough to know how to keep the king’s love. He pounds Aegon’s shoulder and raises his cup.

“To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond,” Jace says. “We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope that we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles. And congratulations, Prince Aemond, on the recent birth of your only child, your…” He hesitates deliberately. “Daughter.”

The table is hushed, all eyes on Aemond. He is examining Jace like he’s trying to decide the best spot to place a blade. Aegon observes his brother, waiting for a signal. Aemond looks to you. You shrug, ever so slightly, sipping your wine; you are determined not to be bothered. The Strong boys’ time of reckoning will be upon them soon, but not here and now. At last, Aemond sits. The table comes back to life like the earth at springtime.

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena says.

“Well done, my boy,” the king praises Jace. Aegon gags audibly.

Helaena stands next. “I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon.” She offers a soft, sympathetic smile. “It isn’t so bad, mostly he just ignores you…except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

There are awkward titters. Helaena isn’t sure what they’re laughing at. You reach out to grasp her hand when she sits. “That was very, very kind of you,” you say. She nods gratefully.

“Good,” Otto adds, and Helaena beams.

The king calls for music. The dining room blossoms with the noise of lively, cheerful strings. Jace—quite unexpectedly—offers Helaena his hand for a dance, and she is delighted to accept. You fill your plate with meat and fish and vegetables but eat sparingly. Aemond eats nothing. He watches you, and he watches Helaena, and he adds spoonfuls of dishes to your plate that he thinks you might like but declines to taste them himself. Aegon drains cup after cup of wine. Alicent tends to the king. Daemon tends to Rhaenyra, his arm draped across the back of her chair, making her laugh and feeding her morsels of food with his fingers. He is the mate of her choice, that’s for certain; she glows for him, she would kill for him.

When the king’s pain grows too great, he retires to his chambers for sleep and milk of the poppy. As Viserys is carried out, a large roasted pig is brought in. The scent is rich and fatty and mouthwatering. The servants place the pig in front of Aemond, and he immediately begins cutting into it to serve you a portion. That’s when you hear the snickering. At the other end of the table, Luke is smirking. Rhaena stares at him, not knowing what it means, but you do; Aemond has told you about the Pink Dread. Aegon has too, for that matter. It rolls across your husband’s ravaged face like a wave: the taunting and cutting and stitching, the excruciating cleaning of his wound each day for months afterwards, the muscle memory of trauma that never quite forgets the blade, the howling absence of repayment. A debt is still owed. A debt will always be owed.

Aemond brings his fist down on the table and stands. The music cuts off. He raises his cup. “Final tribute,” he says, and glances down at you. You would not stop him, even if you could; these words are long, long overdue. Aegon has perked up, though his eyes are still glazed with drink. Alicent is gnawing anxiously on her thumbnail. Across the table, Daemon is grinning. “To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey.” If his intentions were not clear before, they are now; he has conveniently left out Rhaenyra’s sons with Daemon. “Each of them handsome, wise…”

Don’t, Alicent’s eyes plead.

Do it, provoke Daemon’s.

Aemond continues: “…Strong.”

“Aemond—” Alicent begins.

“Come,” Aemond says, ignoring her. You and Aegon hold your wine cups aloft. “Let us raise our cups to these three strong boys.”

“I dare you to say that again!” Jace shouts.

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment,” Aemond says, stepping towards him. “Do you not think yourself strong?”

Jace’s fist collides with your husband’s face on his blind side. Aemond barely recoils; his wine remains undisturbed in his hand. When Luke bolts to his feet, Aegon—no great foot soldier, but committed to the cause nonetheless—smashes his face into the table. Luke yells and struggles. The room is in uproar, but when Aemond shoves Jace to the floor and turns back to you, he is smiling. He has tasted the Strong boys’ power and is wholly unimpressed. Guards rush to restrain Jace and Luke. Rhaena detains Baela, who is swiping at Aegon like a shadowcat. Aegon circles back to the Greens, probably a little terrified of her. Helaena has fled to safety at Otto Hightower’s side.

Alicent grabs Aemond’s forearm. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?!” What she means is: Why would you sabotage what little chance we have at peace?

“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother.” Aemond rips his arm free. “Hm, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs.”

Jace breaks away from the guards. “It takes courage to speak of bastards when your child was born to another man’s wife!”

Aemond reaches for his dagger. Jace fumbles for his own. Daemon steps between them.

“Wait, wait,” he says, and Jace instantly retreats. Rhaenyra sends her children from the room, as if they needed help appearing any more juvenile. Then Daemon turns to Aemond. They measure each other in a taut, razor-sharp silence. You go to Aemond’s side, not to stop him but to show that you support him even when his own father does not, that you will always and unconditionally, that you do not shy away from battles. Daemon’s menacing, deep-set eyes flick to you, linger there, and then return to Aemond. There is a cunning sort of understanding living in those eyes like fanged animals in caves. The viciousness on Aemond’s face dies. It is replaced by something unsettled, something fearful.

“Hm,” is all he says. He nods towards the doors, telling you to leave first. You cross through the threshold and Aemond swiftly follows after you. You hurry through halls and doorframes and empty rooms. Together, you enter the deserted Great Hall.

“What was that about—?”

Aemond pushes you against the wall, kisses you breathlessly, runs his hands up the length of your body from your hips to your throat. “It doesn’t matter.” You moan into him as he pushes your thighs apart and kisses you again. He tastes like wine and heat and bloodlust. He tastes even better than you remember. “I want you,” he says. “Now.”

“Yes,” you answer. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“They’re going to come looking for me, Mother and Otto. They’re going to want to discuss what I did and pick it to pieces and start drawing up plans. If we go to our chambers they’ll find us, probably within five minutes—”

“Then do it here.” You glace to the stairwell where he took you that very first time, back when you were a widow and he was a prince in need of a politically expedient marriage and Rhaenyra was tucked neatly away on Dragonstone.

He caresses your face, suddenly gentle. “Are you sure you’re ready? I won’t be angry with you if you’re not.”

In reply, grinning and flushed, you take his hand and lead him to the stairwell. You descend together past the cobwebs and jagged stones walls and cold drafts and the torches, bathed in firelight. In the abyss of this secret place, he strokes you and tastes you and is so impatient that he rips pieces from your gown like the missing scraps of membrane on Vhagar’s wings.

When you gasp as he slips into you, he stills. “Pleasure, yes? Not pain?”

“Pleasure,” you agree, biting at his neck, the movement of your hips guiding him back into a rhythm.

“You are mine,” he whispers when you are both spent, sweat-slick and drenched in each other, throbbing with long-awaited release. He kisses the side of your face again and again as he catches his breath. “You are mine, you are mine, you will always be mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There is sunlight on your bare skin. There are gulls crying outside. You can hear the crash of waves, the rustle of wind through the leaves. King’s Landing is awake again.

Your eyes still closed, you reach out to Aemond. His side of the bed is empty, and this is not so unusual; he often wakes before you to train or hunt or strategize with his family. Last night, Otto Hightower had indeed been waiting when you and Aemond returned to your chambers; he had politely diverted his gaze from your ripped gown. Perhaps the Greens’ ambitions have called your husband away again already. There is nothing to fear: Rhaenyra and Daemon have returned to Dragonstone, King Viserys has returned to his sickbed, the world is back in order. You open your eyes.

You bark out a startled yelp when you see Aegon. He’s perched on the writing desk with a cup of wine. You groan, sitting up and rubbing your face with both hands. “Why do you insist on doing this?”

There are deep, violet circles under his eyes, even more pronounced that usual. His clothes are stained and common. He wears a strange, mournful smile. “I’m just saying goodbye.”

“…You’re what…?”

He hops down, gulps the rest of his wine, tosses the cup on the floor, and walks out of the room.

“Where are you going…? Aegon?” You stumble out of bed and yell after him: “Aegon! Where are you going?!”

You dress yourself as quickly as you can and venture out into the Red Keep. Something is wrong. There are no footsteps, no pleasant jabbering, no laughter, no frivolous droves of nobles. Aegon isn’t in his rooms. The courtyard is empty. You feel a sudden stab of fear and rush to Laurel’s bedroom, but she is dozing peacefully under the supervision of her wetnurses and handmaidens. You depart to find Helaena. The princess is in her chambers, but engrossed in embroidering a black-and-red spider and says only that Aegon isn’t there, and of course you already knew that. Aegon is almost never with his wife.

“Do you know where the others are?” you ask her. “Aemond? Sir Criston?”

She shakes her head. “It comes from the sky.”

“Helaena, please…”

Her hand juts out to snag your wrist. “Stay away from the fire,” she hisses, gripping you so fiercely that her fingers leave pallid imprints in your flesh. Then her face clears and drops back down to her embroidery.

You are headed to Alicent’s chambers when Aemond intercepts you. His height fills up the hallway, blocks the sunlight, casts shadows. “There you are! I was looking everywhere—”

“Have you seen Aegon?” he asks, his voice urgent.

“An hour ago, but not since. Why?”

“Did he tell you where he was going?”

“No. He just said that he was saying goodbye.”

“Seven hells,” Aemond exhales, aghast.

You take his hands. When you do, he brings your knuckles to his lips and kisses them absently, his thoughts far away. “What’s happened?”

He looks at you for a long time before he speaks. It is a moment you can never come back from. “The king is dead.”

You know what this means. You’ve always known; you just thought you’d have more time. Aegon knows what it means too. And when he felt its full and final and crushing weight…he tried to escape it.

“We have to find Aegon,” your husband says. “He ran, and if we can’t drag him back…if he gets out of the city…” He shakes his head. “We need him to be king. We need him to send terms to Rhaenyra. We can probably convince her if we move quickly and our side has enough strength. She’s not stupid and she’s not suicidal, and if she is offered generous conditions for herself and her bastards she might concede and the realm need not burn. That is my mother’s most ardent wish, and so we will give it a chance. But we need Aegon. As long as he lives, it has to be him. He’s the firstborn son. He’s the true heir. The people will not follow anyone else.”

“I’m sorry it can’t be you,” you say softly.

“That’s done. There’s no use fighting it. It can’t be changed.” He gazes through the window into the mazelike alleyways of the city. “Do you have a spell for this, Moonstone?”

“For locating a lost person? I’ve seen one performed before, but never done it myself.”

“What would you require?”

You try to recall. “Ashes. A mirror. Willow bark. A candle of transparent wax. An object belonging to the person, like blood or hair or a sweated shirt. And something beloved by them…in this case wine, I suppose.”

“How long will it take?”

“Not long. I think I can find everything here.”

“Ask the maesters if you need any assistance,” he says. “They will help you.” And that’s true; they are devoted to Aemond, and so they will cross oceans for you as well. “Sir Criston and I must search the city. If we cannot locate him by noon, we will return for your counsel.”

You smile up at Aemond, combing your fingers through his long silver hair. “You make me sound so important.”

“You are,” he replies, as if it is obvious, and before he can vanish he remembers one last thing. He reaches into his belt to give you back your dagger from Bear Island. He balances it on his palm like scales of judgement. “I suppose you’ll need this.”

“You’ve grown attached to it, haven’t you? You like to think you own it now. That you’ve claimed it, perhaps.”

“I’ve grown attached to everything about you,” he says. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

You find ashes in the fireplace. You find a mirror on your vanity. You obtain pulverized willow bark and a clear candle from the maesters. In Aegon’s bedroom, you remove a handful of white-blond strands from his hairbrush. In the Red Keep’s kitchen, you procure a flagon of red wine.

It is risky to perform a spell in broad daylight, but the circumstances leave you no choice. You spark the candle to life with your dagger and flint on the side of the heart tree that faces away from the castle, and you pray to the Old Gods that nobody spies you and gets too curious. You burn Aegon’s hair in the flame. You scatter the ashes and willow bark over the cold grey glass of the mirror, and then you sprinkle on drops of wine from your fingertips, repeating the words you once heard your mother say when two of your brothers went missing during a hunting expedition: “Lost in the waves, lost in the trees, lost in the sky, now show me what they see.”

As you are about to wipe the glass clean, Aemond and Sir Criston appear in the godswood. They are both wearing cloaks to conceal their identities as best they can…as if there are a plethora of towering, silver-haired, one-eyed men running around King’s Landing. They are also emptyhanded.

“What on earth is she doing?” Sir Criston asks with apprehension. He is aware on some level that you dabble in the occult, but adamantly avoids the details. He is a devoted follower of the Seven, after all; although perhaps he would have absorbed whatever religion Alicent subscribed to with the same zeal. Perhaps she could have had him chanting to the Old Gods under a heart tree within an afternoon. “I don’t need to kill any more bears, do I?”

You chuckle. “No, Sir Criston. Not just yet, anyway.”

You clear the mirror with one sweep of your hand. Then you tilt the glass so the sun ricochets off of it, igniting the reflection in blinding white-gold light. Squinting, your eyes pained, you peer into the mirror. There is candlelight, and stones, and a large hollow space, and…and…

“This is ridiculous,” Sir Criston laments. “This won’t accomplish—”

“Quiet,” Aemond says.

There is a face. No, not a face, a statue. Not just a statue. A sculpture of the Mother, and then the Smith, and then the Warrior, and then the Stranger. They revolve in a ceaseless pattern like the clouds passing by overhead.

“Oh, what irony.” You look up at Aemond and Sir Criston. “He’s in the sept.”

You are waiting in Aegon’s chambers when they bring him back. He is struggling and shrieking and sniveling, dragging his feet like a petulant child. His cheeks are scraped and bloody.

“You bitch,” he says when he sees you, but he is more heartbroken than wrathful. “I wouldn’t have given you up.”

“I wouldn’t have run.”

Aegon ruptures into red-faced sobs. His limbs hang lifelessly, brokenly as Sir Criston and Aemond hold him. Your voice turns kind. You lift his shagging hair out of his eyes. They glisten with tears, with misery, with dread. “We need you, Aegon.”

“You don’t,” he chokes out. “I could disappear, I’d be happy to in fact, I could go to Pentos, or Volantis, or Myr, or…or…”

“As long as you live, you are the heir,” you tell him calmly. “And none of us would harm you.” You cradle his swollen, battered face in your hands, and he lets you. “You can do this, Aegon. You are capable of it. You will grow into it. And we will help you.”

He lets loose a bray of cynical laughter. “Do you have a spell for that too, witch?”

And Aemond wrenches his brother roughly off his feet and drags him away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is less than twelve hours later when you find yourself back in Aegon’s chambers, this time carrying a pouch heavy with dust the color of pale rose quartz. The prince is under heavy guard to prevent another escape attempt, but he has been allowed some comforts: there are, from what you can discern in the frenzied nest of blankets, no less than two women snoring faintly beside him. Aegon is turned towards you with his eyes closed, his chest bare, slack-jawed and drooling, one hand dangling down to the floor. His coronation will be tomorrow.

You kneel to spread the fine shimmering powder beneath his bed: rosemary, sage, sea salt, black jade, a handful of teeth from a bear, a single fang from Balerion. Aemond did not suggest this precaution, although he went with Sir Criston to supply the bear teeth; he knew you would have thought of it already. When you rise, Aegon is staring at you.

“This is a strange reversal of roles, Moonstone,” he says. It is the first time he has ever used Aemond’s name for you. You weren’t even sure he was aware of it. It glides off his tongue effortlessly, like he’s known it all his life. He speaks no apology, but it is there swimming in his watery blue irises; it passes between the two of you in the blade-cool moonlight. “Now you are watching me sleep.”

You lay two fingers against his full lips. “I wasn’t here.”

“I’ve already forgotten you.” And then he rolls over, pulling up the blankets to cover his head.

~~~~~~~~~~

The smallfolk who have been corralled into the Dragonpit like cattle gawp with wide, wheeling eyes. They aren’t sure why they’re here. They’ve heard rumors, surely—and rumors can be powerful things—but they are slow to find their footing in this brand new world. They are so desperately afraid to hiss or clap at the wrong moment and end up hanged as traitors.

On the platform beneath a massive glass window that lets in sunlight like a downpour, you stand on Aemond’s right side. Helaena is to his left, and then Sir Criston and Alicent. The old queen is anxious, clasping her hands tightly together so she will not reveal too much of her humanity by wringing them. Most nights, you and Helaena bring the children to Alicent’s chambers and spend several hours there with her. She doesn’t quite feel like a mother to you yet, but you have learned enough of her to know that one day soon she will. She sews green blankets for Laurel decorated with seven-pointed stars and white watchtowers and dragons…and, occasionally, the roaring bear of House Mormont.

Otto Hightower addresses the crowd. He tells them that the king is dead and there are alarmed, doleful murmurs, perhaps less for the king—a sick old man who they have not laid eyes on in years—than for those who will survive him. An unclear succession can bring war, chaos, fire and blood…and Rhaenyra’s inheritance has been the subject of tipsy tavern debates since long before Aegon was born. The smallfolk might have less love for royals than you would care to admit, but they have more than enough for themselves: their families, their companions, their painstakingly scrapped out existences. You look into their filthy, creased, indomitable faces and are reminded of Bear Island.

“But it is also the most joyous of days,” Otto announces. “For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him.”

There is a tentative reception to this news from the crowd, scattered shouts and applause. They have heard rumors about Aegon too, but they cannot say they know him. The guards file in. The horde parts to make space for them, common men and women jostling for the best views. The trumpets sound to proclaim the new king’s arrival. He appears—white-haired, raccoon-eyed, with an all-consuming dread that could be mistaken for dignity—and approaches the platform through an archway of drawn swords, a rainbow of cold clanging steel. The smallfolk peer at him with desperate curiosity, trying to discern what he carries in the lines of his shoulders and spine: competence, wisdom, pride, brutality, disaster. In turn, Aegon glares up at his family with bitter animosity. Tears burn in his eyes. Aemond and Otto chose his clothing, his crown, every detail of his coronation. Aegon can choose only his own grudges, fed and fattened like rats lapping up splashed milk in alleyways.

When he ascends the steps, Alicent kisses Aegon’s forehead and then moves to stand by his wife, the new queen. Helaena is dressed in a delicate, mournful blue. There is a ladybug clinging to her right index finger. She looks at you miserably. You offer her a small reassuring smile. Helaena does not smile back.

Aegon glances to Aemond, to you, and then he kneels. The septon anoints him and prays for the blessings of the Seven. Aegon’s mouth quivers; his hands shake. The smallfolk study him like a constellation they are still trying to discern the shape of. Sir Criston brings forth the crown of the Conqueror—black and red, onyx and flames—and places it on Aegon’s head. Aemond watches with an expression you can’t quite read. He breaks his concentration and warms, beams at you, brings your knuckles briefly to his lips. You catch several people in the crowd chuckle at the exchange, astonished, endeared. Regardless of the rumors, they have never properly met Aegon before; and they have never met you, either.

The smallfolk are growing louder. They are clamoring, nodding. Whatever they have heard, here is a young and able-bodied king, here is a dragonrider, here is an uncontested Targaryen, here is a man they can cast as a hero. Alicent bows to Aegon. So do Helaena and Aemond and Sir Criston and Otto. You bow lower than any of them. Aegon’s lips curl up at the edges when he sees this, just barely. And as he is introduced to the city for the first time as king, the crowd erupts. Something changes in Aegon’s drawn face; something brightens in his eyes. He unsheathes the sword Blackfyre and waves it in the air, and the cheers and applause become deafening thunder. Helaena can’t bear to look at Aegon, but you can’t take your eyes off him. He is radiant, ecstatic, ablaze. For the first time in his life, he can feel a worthy purpose surging through his veins. He can feel love.

“Long live King Aegon!” the people exalt. “King Aegon! King Aegon! Long live King—”

And then the stone floor explodes under them. The Dragonpit fills with dust, screams, the hellish shrieks of a dragon. Aemond grabs your arm, pulls you behind him, draws his sword. It is pointless; there is nothing in the world that could stop this fire from devouring you if it is loosed. From behind the curtain of churning debris, Meleys growls and screeches. Her massive red tail sends smallfolk hurtling into the walls, crushing bones, severing arteries. When the sun rose this morning, Princess Rhaenys was under lock and key in the Red Keep; yet now she is here, enraged, betrayed, armored, deadly. She has chosen her side after all. You’re on the wrong one.

Otto is yelling for the doors to be opened so people can escape, but there is no escape for the Greens. You are cornered. You are staring into the scorching golden eyes of a dragon.

“Get Helaena!” Alicent commands Sir Criston, and as he lunges for the new queen Alicent steps in front of her firstborn son. She and Aegon cower there together, united at last in these dwindling final seconds of their lives. And then you have an idea. You attempt to shove past Aemond, but he pushes you back. You peer around his shoulder, trying to catch Rhaenys’ eyes.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer, you scream soundlessly. There is no man so accursed as the kinslayer.

The uncertainty hits Rhaenys’ face and ripples out like a stone tossed into water. Her eyes go blank, empty. The reins go slack in her limp hands. Aemond turns to you, only now realizing; he is hopeful and yet so bone-rattlingly afraid to hope.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, KINSLAYER.

Rhaenys reappears. She gathers up the reins again. A decision has been made.

Meleys opens her jaws and roars. The walls quake, the destroyed floor rattles, the whole world shudders beneath her fury…and yet no dragonfire burns you to ash. Meleys whirls away, takes flight, soars out of the Dragonpit and into the clear blue sky. Alicent’s knees buckle and she collapses into sobs of relief.

Rhaenys carries the threat of murder away with her, for the moment at least. She will also carry word of Aegon’s coronation to Rhaenyra.

~~~~~~~~~~

He stands before Vhagar in the dying light. The day’s last sunbeams are speckled over the choppy waves; a storm is rolling in. His coat whips and cracks in the wind like sails. You hold Laurel in your arms; she is drowsy but valiantly battling sleep. You have both come to the cliffside to see him off.

“Storm’s End isn’t far,” Aemond says. “I’ll stay one night and be back in the morning.”

“That’s what you think now. Just wait until you wake up to find all four of Borros Baratheon’s daughters in your bed.”

He laughs, shakes his head, grazes his thumb across your cheek. “I’d tell them to assume new identities and flee to Essos. I’ve acquired a rather formidable wife.”

You search his face, not wanting to be afraid, not wanting to be weak. Rhaenyra is out there somewhere, in the mist, in the nightfall. So is Rhaenys. So is Daemon. “Do you have to go alone?”

“Aegon is needed here. There are other tasks to be attended to. And if there is an attack on King’s Landing, he and Sunfyre can defend the city until I return.”

The prospect of Aegon defending anything would have once been dubious at best; now it is a surety. He has been king for three days. With each sunrise, he wakes earlier, works longer, drinks less. He grows confident. He grows content. “Of course.”

“It is my responsibility, Moonstone,” Aemond says softly, and you understand. He is the reason why the Greens cannot assume the aid of House Baratheon. Axel Hightower’s words echo in your skull: The great houses of Westeros will not forgive this slight. You will have to crawl on your knees begging them to support you in what comes next. “I will bring my regards, my apologies. And I will also bring an offer of Daeron’s hand in marriage to whichever daughter Borros chooses.”

“Hopefully not Floris. Unless Daeron has a fondness for donkeys.”

“I prefer bears myself.”

You clutch Laurel to your chest with one hand and hold out your dagger from Bear Island with the other. “For luck,” you say. This is a joke; Aemond is not a man who believes in luck. He believes in magic. “I want it back when you return.”

“You can try to take it from me.” He grins and tucks the dagger into his belt. “Fear not, wife. This war hasn’t even begun yet and it’s already almost over.”

You balance on your tiptoes to kiss him, to breathe him in, to twist your grip into the collar of his coat and drag him in closer. His long silver hair thrashes around you in the wind. His forearms and neck are dusted with your protection spell; Sir Criston jests that his title should be changed from Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to Chief Bear Executioner. Aemond traces the wrinkles on Laurel’s velvet-soft palm; her tiny hand closes around his finger.

“You know what I’m going to say,” he tells you. “It’s what I always say.”

“You’re coming back.”

“I’m coming back,” he agrees.

He tears away from you both, climbs up the rope netting to Vhagar’s saddle, disappears into the southern sky as the dusk snuffs out those last threads of fiery, golden light.

~~~~~~~~~~

Storm’s End is only four hours away by dragonback. Rhaenyra waits all night for Luke to return. He never does.

At first, she tells herself that Lord Borros Baratheon surely offered her son a feast and lodgings, that he is perfectly well—overindulged, even, plied with wine and meat and flirtatious serving girls—and that he will travel back to his own House the following morning or early-afternoon. But as the sun sets over the Narrow Sea exactly twenty-four hours after Luke’s departure, there is still no sign of him. Daemon flies on Caraxes to fetch the prince. He returns with Arrax’s severed head, washed up on the thunderous, stony beach of Shipbreaker Bay.

There are more than mere rumors; there are witnesses. Daemon tells Rhaenyra everything. Aemond threatened Luke in Lord Baratheon’s hall. He pursued Luke on Vhagar. There were roars and fire and shouts in the lightning-split sky. There were ragged pieces of Arrax that fell into the sea like rain. Luke did not reappear. He never will.

Rhaenyra’s wails hemorrhage from her in wrenching, gasping torrents. She cannot stop. She cannot bear it. Each time there is a sliver of silence she hears his screams. Each time she closes her eyes, she sees her child—his outstretched hands, his dark matted hair, his face contorted in shock and terror—tangled in Vhagar’s entrails, alone in the darkness, in the gore. She will never be rid of this. It will be a cavernous, inescapable loss. It will be a hatred that replicates in her bone marrow until no part of her can remember a time before.

“I’m so sorry,” Daemon says as he cradles her like a child, his hands smoothing her hair, long and loose and bone-white, the mark of the magic in their blood. “I’m so, so, so sorry.”

“He has done this.” Rhaenyra’s words are gutted and pitch-black. “That monster. That vile beast of a man. It is not enough that they stole my father from me, that they murdered Harwin Strong, that they killed my daughter in the womb. Now they have…they have…” She cannot speak of it. The words do not exist.

“We will burn Arrax’s remains as a true Targaryen. And we will have vengeance.”

“What will happen to Aemond’s child? What will happen to the Mormont girl?”

Daemon considers this. “He will send them away,” he decides. “That’s what I would do. He will send them somewhere he thinks is safe. He will hide them until the war is won.”

And in the bloodstained silence, the two of them—uncle and niece, husband and wife, rulers of Westeros in name only—look at each other for a long time.

#aemond x you #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond imagine #aemond fic #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic

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