#jace velaryon x oc character

[camilbarnessss]

" So Be It "

《 Jacaerys Velaryon 》

The princess Daera Targaryen, Prince Jacaerys's brave sister wife, is secretly weded to the Prince Aemond Targaryen, for he is her true love. However, when The One-Eyed Prince and herself start to dream of children of their own, she recognizes what is to be done to hide the true parentage of the child: she needs to bed her "fake" husband, Jace, who may yet be a total gentleman, but finds himself melting under the enchants of his lady wife. Literally.

¤ Jacaerys Velaryon x OC Character [ Daera Targaryen, older daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Laena Velaryon ]

ACLARATIONS:

¤ Word count: 2.5K

-This piece is actually belonging to a much larger fic of my own, The Invitation, about Aemond Targaryen. This part is belonging to the 7th chapter of the second season, The Dance of The Dragons, but turned out so great that I just had to publish it as a one stand and. besides. I feel there is a scarce of Jace's fics, so I wanted to cooperate :)

-As this was not written as a one-shot, there might be a little lore during the chapter, but I edited it a little so all may be understandable. So, SPOILERS of my fics.

-But, to be clear from now on: Jace and Daera are married since a year ago, as well as Aemond and Daera (in secret). They are cousins, but have always refered as "sister" and "brother" to each other for they literally grew together in Dragonstone and are really close, as well as the rest of the siblings (Daemon and Nyra's children). As they were forced to wed by The Greens and The Blacks after Daera was found coupling with The One-Eyed Prince (which they obviously hated, and it was Jace himself the one who proposed the betrothal to "save his sister"), their marriage is sort of a solution, hence why they have never had none sexual interaction. They've only just kissed, and not even many times. Right now, at the moment, the whole family is at King's Landing, and it is the afternoon after Vaemond Velaryon was murdered in The Iron Throne room. And...yeah, I think that covers all the important things.

-Jacaerys is eighteen already in this fic, matters to say, and Daera is nineteen.

So, shall we begin?

Warnings: cursing, infidelity [Daera is Aemond's wife], dry-humping, first sexual experience [Jace's], sub!Jace, incest [brotherXsister]

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Enjoy :)

《 ... 》

Princess Daera is at her chambers of The Red Keep, at the moment, standing in her balcony as she, serenely, caresses her belly, feeling its flatness, but dreaming about the day it will be buldged with the babe already inside.

Her dearest love, Aemond, just yesterday put inside her their upcoming child, during the romantic evening they shared at their secret place. Her daughter, Alyssa, as they both would love to name her, is already within her body, ready to grow into a beautiful strong dragonrider.

How exciting this is?

-Daera?-. Some knocks in the door, and a voice from behind it, made the princess to turn her head around, calmly-. Are you in there?-. Jacaerys asked, politely.

-Come!-. She allowed, getting her hands off her belly, and walking to the insides of her chambers again.

Jace comes into the room, greeting her with a kind smile. She copies it, as he closes the door.

-Oh, you come alone?-. Daera raises her brows, smiling.

-Uh, yeah! Yeah-. Jace nods, raising his brows again-. I was walking through the gardens with Rhaena and Luke, but I left them alone, and they didn't even notice-. He narrates funnily, walking.

The princess laughs funnily.

-They are so silly-, she mumbles, burlesque.

-They definitely are-. He agreed, jumping and falling on her bed with total confidence. Daera scrunches her lips, amused, with her back leaning on a wall-. Ohh, great, I've been walking all day-. The prince sighs, comfortable, crossing his hands behind his head.

-Do not deprive yourself from the comforts of my mattress, then-. She huffed, and he laughs funnily, laying in there.

-Uhh, Baela sat to sew with some ladies of the courts, gossiping-. He keeps telling, and she snicker amusedly, rolling her eyes-. And, lastly, Lady Beesbury is pampering Joffrey with endless cakes-, Jace sighed, smiling.

-Oh, very fucking good, the boy fawns over desserts-. Daera nods with her brows furrowed, and he copied her, calmly breathing.

The princess sighs, leaning the back of her head on the wall.

-Well, then I am fucking glad of being your last resort-. Daera jokes with a snicker, tilting her head.

Jacaerys immediately gasped, raising his head to look at her with his eyes wide open.

-No no no, you are not, I am sorry!-. He instantly denies, shaking his head. She laughs maleficently, clapping-. Do never think that, Daera-. The young man tsked his tongue-. You are my wife-, he remembered with a low voice, almost to himself.

Daera blinks when she hears him. She clicks her teeth a little, and thinks about Alyssa.

She has, indeed, thought about the fact that she obviously will have to say that the babe borned to her, will be Jace's. To be honest, she has thought of it since the idea was put in the table by herself and her husband.

To be far more honest, she is completely up for it, if that means that she will have her child. Daera knows the matter is delicate, hence why she hasn't asked Aemond, and also because they haven't had time. However, she knows he'll have to agree on this, because they both want children, and they obviously can't wait that many years from here until she has the power of queenship.

Princess Rhaenyra, when she was weded to Ser Laenor Velaryon, long may he rest, had an explicit agreement with him, regarding the parentage of their children. They were fathered by Ser Harwin Strong, of course, but there was not one moment when Laenor didn't supported that, discreetly. She didn't have to bed him, when they finally got things clear, and so the princess freely had her children with the man she loved at the time, and beared them with endless dearness.

Princess Daera, though, does not posses that kind of discrecy with her husband, Jacaerys Velaryon, for he is extremely loathe of her true husband, Aemond Targaryen. She cannot whisper to his ear if he would allow her to have The One-Eyed Prince's children and accept them as his.

So...she has to bed him. And if that is what she ought to do to give birth to Aemond's sons and daughters, then so be it.

Daera lifted her gaze back to him. Just with that single move, something changed in the air of the room.

Jacaerys, lying on her bed, looked back at her, with his arms still crossed behind his head. He opens his lips, having felt that switch of ambience.

-And- and about the thieves, the ones you killed, umm...-Jace clears his throat-, uhh- wow, must have been quite an experience, huh?-. He asks, lifting his brows with extreme interest.

-Um, I suppose it was-. The princess shrugged, calmly heading towards the bed. He gulps, nodding.

-Yeah. Did- did they do something- something bad, after all?-. Jace curves his brows, clearing his throat again.

-I cut their hands before they could-. Daera softly whispers, reaching the bed, and beginning to climb on it. The brown-haired boy gulps, only looking at her eyes-. I wasn't going to wait for the damage to be done-, she says.

-Smart-, he nods-. You...you didn't wait, then-. He whispers.

-I always do what I want-. The princess mumbled, lying over her shoulder, and looking at his eyes with deepness.

Jacaerys gulped, again.

Afterwards, he couldn't stop his eyes anymore, and they glanced down to her near body. He started having those thoughts again when staring at the curvature of her waist and the thickness of her thighs behind her red skirt, when looking at the generosity of her neckline, where her covered breasts come up and down along her slow breathing.

Jacaerys thinks to himself how he is husband to the most beautiful and, forgive his bluntness, most sensual woman of The Seven Kingdoms. Countless are the men that would kill for having her touch, not to say for having her as their wife. Her smell is said to drive man insane, and he is a victim himself. While those men kill each other for the princess...he has her lying right beside him, on the bed.

Inevitably, the brown-haired gets nervous, gulping yet again, and moving a little on the mattress.

-What do you think we'll have for- uh- supper, tonight?-. He asks, curious.

The princess looks at him, centimeters away from his face.

-What do you fancy?-. She questioned back, whispering, taking all the breath of his lungs.

She knows what she is doing.

Jace hums, closing his eyes, and not keeping himself anymore from granting her a kiss. Daera sighs heavily, closing his eyes as well, and answering to his lips with slowness.

The spouses both kiss each other in total silent, sensing the fresh breeze that comes from balcony. Jace places his hand on her cheek, caressing it, and she places her hand behind his neck, pushing closer. He moaned, surprised, and then again when she started to go faster with her lips. The prince shakes, answering the best he could.

Jacaerys feels her hand starting to caress his hair. She is his sister, and this is not at all the first time she caress his mane like that, but this time was completely different. She hided her whole hand into his brown jungle, caressing it deeply, and then gave him a little pull, making to grunt, and to feel a prominent tickle in the between of his legs.

-Daera-, he whispered, breathless, when the kiss ended.

-Yes?-, she mumbles, playing with her lips around his, breathing around them. He sighs, bemused, mesmerized by her purple eyes-. Do you want me to show you?-, she proposes, with a thread of voice.

-What?-, he sighs, in trance.

Daera thinks about Aemond. This is not infidelity, she convinces herself. Is not. She doesn't wishes to ask him wether "if she can", because that would only bring a really big unnecessary discussion, and she knows it, and prefers go avoid that. Since when does she asks for permission? She will tell him, and that is it. This is something that must be done, for their child.

The Rogue Princess, in all of her cockiness, grabs the hands of her brother, and makes him to quickly move in the bed. Mesmerized, he follows every move she made him do. And, within three seconds, he ended up seated in the mattress, leaning his back on the back of the bed.

Daera meets their lips again, kissing him first, for the first time ever. Jace sighs, furrowing his brows, moving his nervous hands on the sheets under. Afterwards, the princess climbs on top of him, and suddenly, she ended up seated on his leather pants's lap.

In that moment, Jace let out the strongest of moans, opening his mouth and eyes with surprise, and fascination. He looked down, shocked, seeing her open legs wrapped around his, clenching his sides. He breathes fast, turning as red as a tomato, nodding with silliness.

-Seven heavens-, he whispers.

His wife grabbs him by the neck, and starts kissing him again, stoppless. The prince moaned from deep his throat, wrinkling the sheets on his hands, not daring to place them on her, though he so much wants it. Daera, aware of his lack of touch, thanked it, and kept kissing as if she didn't notice.

The princess gripped his body with her legs and, afterwards, she started to circle her hips around him, dancing over his lap. Jacaerys straight out whimpered inside of her mouth, speechless, closing his eyes strongly. His heart started to beat so fast as his pants grow everytime tighter before the strong touches of her. Oh gods, he is feeling something. There is that thing under her skirt, in the between of her legs, rubbing against what is the between of his. It is so soft, even with the fabric in the middle, and is making him go insane.

Daera broke the kiss, opening her lips into a moan that will shame herself for the rest of her life. She wasn't expecting a sudden punch in her core by the pants of Jacaerys, and she definitely wasn't expecting such a thick and beefy cock, his, pushing against her. The princess blinks multiple times, thinking of Aemond, seeing his eye on her mind.

-Fuck-, she sighs, rocking her hips and making her dressed cunt to pamper Jace's awaken cock.

-Oh, gods-. The prince sighed as well, so silly and blushed, not believing The Rogue Princess got him this hard, with just seconds. He has never had a woman touching him like this, until now, less meandering above his dick-. Sister-, he moans, weak.

-I could not wait more-. She whispered against his lips, taking his hands, and interlocking their fingers. He groans, looking at her with teary brown eyes, constantly peering at her wrinkled skirt rubbing endlessly against his erection-. I know you want me, brother-. She seduced him with a honeyed voice.

-I do, I do-. His weak breath answers, with his chest coming up and down. Daera bites her lips, placing their united hands above of his head, trapping them in the back of the bed. Jace moans, feeling he is losing his mind-. I am sorry-, he whispered, blushed.

-Ouh do not be-. She sing-songs, tilting her head, and leaning it closer to his, watching at his eyes. He breathes fastly, seriously starting to believe his sister is some kind of witch. How does she holds so much power?-...I want you too, Jace-. Daera forced herself to say.

Jacaerys opened his mouth, moaning, and she took him by surprise by kissing again, now bringing out her tongue unexpectedly, making him to flinch and moan louder than before. He feels her expert tongue licking the most sensible part of his mouth and lips. She bites his lips, and then kisses them with slowless as her hips keep moving. He does as much as he can, also using his tongue, and licking hers with his, groaning when finding the sweet flavour of her saliva.

-Daera-, Jace breathes fastly. She humms, licking above his lips while he said her name. He whimpers, trembling whole, unbelievable-. I- I can't-, he whines, seeing her tongue, intimidated by the arrogance of it, and ashamed by the inexperience of his.

-You can-, she promised him, whispering, making the most perfect circles with her hips. The prince cries, not knowing that he is being really loud.

They are dry-humping in Daera's bed, filling the air with fast breaths and loud moans, feeling their private areas touching and rubbing harshly against each other under the fabric of their clothes. Jacaerys feelis his cock twitching and pulsing, and Daera is ashamed to admit that her cunt is somewhat wet, not having resisted to the strength of the prince's manhood, it is so meaty.

Nothing will ever compare to Aemond, she says to herself, trying to only picture him.

-Sister-, Jacaerys whispers when they ended another kiss, and he groans when seeing a thick thread of saliva hanging between their lips-. Daera-, he names with no breath, feeling her harsh grip on his trapped hands, and her fast moves on his strong cock-. Daera!-, he moans sharply.

She kisses his lips for a second, and then again, and then again, and then abruptly gets her tongue into them again. Jace cried loudly, melting under her, and answering with weakness, for he is just overwhelmed by all the pleassure that he never had even a little taste of before in his life.

-Daera!-. Jace's body suddenly tensed up completely, and his factions all wrinkled as his mouth let out the biggest of moans, shaking and trembling under her.

The princess grips his hands harder, and makes slow circles with her core over his cock when she felt it twitching endlessly. Jace whines time after time, with his chest coming up and down, and his face turning even more red than before.

He saw stars in his closed eyes, and when he opened them, found the brightest of them.

Daera breathes fast in front of him, with his saliva around her mouth, and strands of hair in the middle of her sight. Jace moans weakly, blinking slowly, staring at her with his mouth opened. The dance of hips has ended, and now he just feels a pulsing thing still against his pants.

The princess quietly blinks, furrowing her lips while she looks at him with a silly expression, blinkless. The prince, with no breath, gulps strongly.

-Le-...let me go clean myself-. He whispers, completely blushed.

Daera blinks bigly, foolishly starting to nod.

-Of course, of course-. She starts to get off him, kneeling on the bed at his side. Jace moaned lowly shen she moved. Inevitably, his sister glanced at his pants, finding a remarkable bulk in there.

The princess opens her mouth, bemused. It is bigger than Aemond's, for the fuck's fucking fucks.

Jace gets off the bed, and she flinches when he limps.

-I'm fine, I'm fine!-. He instantly assured, raising his hands. She blinks, seeing him slowly walking away-...More than fine-, he foolishly whispered.

Heading onto the washroom, Jace blinks in shock, feeling how his undergarments are literally soaking with cum, endlessly. He'll have to run to his rooms, right now, to take an immediate bath.

The prince sighs, not believing that he just had his first sexual experience, and what a experience it was.

《 ... 》

Masterlist of the main story, if it interest you ♡

#house of the dragon #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon smut #jacerys velaryon #house velaryon #house targaryen #oc character #oc character house of the dragon #jace velaryon x oc character #smut #fanfic #the dance of the dragons #+18

[daenaera-t]

The Bastard Queen

ACT1:CHAPTER 1

WARNING:none at the moment summary: Another babe is born to the princess.

The sun was bright, currently hiding behind the white fluffy-looking clouds in the beautiful and bright blue sky that was evident above the kingdom of Kings Landing, the castle standing tall and proud as it had been over the years way before half the people in the kingdom living were even born at the moment.

The streets were crowded outside the wall of Red Keep as the markets were full of civilians trying to buy stuff for themselves and their families as children's laughter could be heard all around, the little people running around and bumping into the adults, ignoring their scolding that the adults were giving them as they continued to chase after one another and there pet animal they had.

Inside the old-looking castle, attendants and guards could be seen all around as the servants did their chores and the guards stood against the walls, postures straight while keeping an eye out for any trespassers that were to come and injure the royal family. The sounds of chatters could be heard all around the castle, people speaking about the princess and her new born son and the youngest child out of her four children that she had, now three of them being boys while one of them being a girl.

In one of the many rooms in Red Keep, three children could be seen inside as they played together while waiting for their mother to return, their biological father in the room with them. Ser Harwin Strong watched as his two sons and daughter played the game they had been playing for the past couple minutes, hoping his lover was alright. It was then that their attention went to the door as the princess and her husband walked inside. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen smiled when she made eye contact with Harwin, who stood up to his feet, smiling through the pain she was in she made her way to him.

Ser Laenor Velaryon trailed behind his wife, gently rocking the new born babe in his arms as the children grew excited at the sight of their mother. The only daughter of Rhaenyra , Daenaera Velaryon, was the first up to her feet as both her twin brother and little brother followed behind her.Jacaerys Velaryon, dropped the dragon toys he had been playing with down and was quick to follow behind his twin sister.And the second youngest, Lucerys Velaryon, quickly grabbed a hold of the skirt of his sister's dress so he wasn't too far behind, making sure to not tug too hard that it'll rip while they rushed to the spot where the egg they had picked for their new sibling. 

Daenaera grabs a hold of the lid of the object, lifting it up to reveal the hot dragon egg they had chosen.

"We chose an egg for the baby." Lucerys tells her.

Rhaenyra lets out a pained chuckle, sitting down on one of the sofas with the help of her lover. 

"That looks like the perfect one."

"I let Jace and Luke choose." Daenaera informs.

The sizzling sound could be heard as the smoke was rising from the pot just as Lucerys was slowly reaching a hand forward to touch the egg.

However, Daenaera and Jacaerys were quick to grab a hold of his hand before he could burn himself, to which he snapped it back and towards his chest before Daenaera placed the lid back on. 

Glancing to her mother, the girl moves around her brothers until she was seating herself beside her mother.

"Not everyday an egg leaves the Dragonpit, Princess." Harwin states. "I thought it best to escort the children."

"Laenor and I thank you, Commander." Rhaenyra replies.

Harwin nods, looking to his son. "Another boy, I heard."

"What a fine knight you are going to make, eh?" Laenor mumbles to the babe.

"Might I?" Harwin asks.

"Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey." Rhaenyra tells her husband.

Looking up from the infant, Laenor replies with a curt nod as he gently places the new born child, a child they named Joffrey after Ser Laenor's very first lover, in Ser Harwin's arms. Rhaenyra watched with a tired smile before she felt a smaller hand be placed on hers, making her look beside her to see her only daughter staring at her in concern.

"Are you alright, Mother?" Daenaera questions in concern.

Rhaenyra smiles, tucking a strand of her brown hair behind her ear. "I will be, my darling. For now, I am just glad to see you."

The older princess caresses her daughter's dark hair, both smiling at one another as Rhaenyra leans forward and presses a kiss to her daughter's forehead. It was when Lucerys questioned his father if he could hold Joffrey that had them looking over to see the second youngest reach up to his younger brother, but Harwin had been quick to use a hand to slightly push the boys hand away, not wanting to wake up the babe while Laenor moved the boys to the door, looking to the girl he thought of as his daughter, giving her a slight look.

Pressing a quick kiss to her mother's cheek, Daenaera walked past the two adults and out the door with her brothers as Ser Laenor closed the door behind them. Laenor led the three children to the Dragonpit where the two sons of the king and the queen were already at. Prince Aegon II Targaryen smiled at the sight of the Velaryon girl when they made eye contact, not noticing his younger brother, Prince Aemond Targaryen, moved his lips as he made a gagging  sound, while rolling his eyes at the sight of the loves truck gaze in his older brother's eyes.

The sounds of chains echoing throughout the dark Dragonpit could be heard, followed by the squeaky sounds of one of the many dragons inside the pit as two men walked along either side of a dragon, their grips tight on the chains. One of the trainers placed a hand on Jacaerys back, moving him forward a bit while the prince stared at his dragon, Vermax.

The sound of Aegon yawnig rather loudly could be heard, but no one seemed to pay any mind to that as Jacaerys took at least two more steps forward. He glanced over his shoulder at his sister, who nodded at him with a small smile before he looked back forward. Reaching up, Lucerys placed his smaller hand in his twin sister's, feeling her hold it back as he leaned into her. The men soon let go of the chains when they were told to, no one seeming to be scared that Vermax was now loose as the creature made its way towards the prince Jacaerys.

"Call Vermax to Heel, Prince Jacaerys." One of the trainers instruct.

"Dohaeris!" Jacaerys calls out in High Valyrian.

Vermax comes to a stop, standing tall as he and the prince stare at one another before the creature let out a slight roar, stepping forward and that had Jacaerys stepping back while commanding the dragon to halt in High Valryian, to which the dragon obeyed. Someone soon walked in with a goat tied to a rope, the sound of the animal catching the dragon's attention.

Vermax ignored Jacaerys as he moved towards the goat when it was tied up, two workers placing their sticks in front of the dragon to stop.

One of the trainers voices explained that they should learn to hold mastery over their dragon, just like Aegon had learned with his own dragon, and once they were fully bounded to their owner, they wouldn't take instructions from anyone else.

"Can I say it?" Jacaerys asks, receiving a nod as he looks at the others excitedly before stepping forward. "Dracarys, Vermax!"

The two workers moved out of the way as Vermax walks towards the goat, standing up a bit before it was blowing out fire, burning the animal in front of him alive. The others all watch and hear as a screech escapes the goat before Vermax came to a stop, stomping forward until he was leaning down and eating the now lifeless and burnt animal. Patting Jacaerys' shoulder, the trainers walked off with the others as the children ventured to the end of the dark part of the Dragonpit.

"Aemond, we have a surprise for you." Aegon informs his brother, making Daenaera look at him curiously.

Aemond furrows his brows. "What is it?"

"Something very special." Lucerys excitedly replies before he was running forward, the others following behind in a walking pace.

"You're the only one of us without a dragon." Aegon points out, getting a nod. "And we felt badly about it, so we found one for you."

Aemond raises a brow. "A dragon? How?"

Aegon shrugs. "The gods provide."

While he didn't show it, the young prince found himself being hopeful at the thought of them finding a dragon for him, even if it wasn't likely.

Looking to his left, he examined Daenaera's face to see if she hadn't known about this. Snorts echoed from the darkness within the Dragonpit, followed by Lucerys pants as he ran up the ramp, a rope in his hand.

Aemond's shoulders dropped, his hands dropping to his sides at the sight of a very chubby and pink-looking pig instead of a dragon. Daenaera rolls her eyes at the makeshift wings they had made out of hay and tied it to the animal.

"Behold-" Aegon begins.

"The Pink Dread!" All of them, other than Daenaera, exclaim before their laughter could be heard.

"Be sure to mount her carefully. First flight's always rough." Aegon states.

And with that, he let out a loud pig snort in his little brother's ear, causing Jacaerys and Lucerys to laugh even more before they did the same as well, walking off afterwards, their laughter echoing throughout the Dragonpit. Reaching over, Daenaera gently squeezes Aemond's hand, making him look at her before she walks off, ready to scold her brother's for following Aegon's lead and taunting Aemond, all while the said prince watches her leave.

#fanfic #house of the dragon #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #fanfiction #oc #aegon targaryen #aegon x reader #house of the dragon season 2 #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon aemond #hotd #rhaenyra targaryen #viserys i targaryen #rhaenyra targeryan #daemon targeryan #jace velaryon #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond fanfiction #original character #alicent hightower #Spotify

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy

Rating: Explicit Chapters: 13/25, part 1 of 3 Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong, Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen- I'll Be a Better Man Jace witnesses a mostly normal family dinner among the Greens. Aegon and Abby choose each other.

“They cheered for us!” Daeron exclaimed. “Tessarion flew across Highgarden and everyone cheered to see us. And I got to see Garmund - he’s a page for Lord Tyrell now, and they left a few days after us. We took the Mander up and I saw Lord Fossoway at Cider Hall, and then Bitterbridge and we got off at Tumbleton and Aemond! We saw Vhagar! She was flying over the Kingswood. ‘Twas brilliant! She scared half the guards with us, since the only dragon they’d ever seen was Tessarion.” The exuberance of his younger brother brought a hint of a smile across Aemond’s scowling face, and his violet gaze shifted from where he watched Jace and Baela to look down the table, leaning closer towards Abrogail who was smiling indulgently as she soaked her bread in the soup. “Did you? She quite enjoys it out there, and roosts in the cliffs. Perhaps she thought Tessarion was a screeching swan.” Helaena giggled and Daeron sputtered in indignation at the tease. Even Otto Hightower looked amused, a strange fondness in his expression while the king was content to enjoy his course, humming occasionally and giving a hint of a smile before drawing Lord Otto into conversation about the Westerlands and the Ironborn. It struck him as odd. Had he not missed Daeron? Was he not interested in the journey from one coast of their land to the other? And all the boy had seen? Daeron was talking about the small villages along the Mander, and how Ser Gwayne had explained the river villages were similar to those of the Riverlands themselves.

@fyeahhotdocs, @ocappreciation, @stannisfactions, @fragilestorm, @starcrossedjedis, @darkwolf76, @arrthurpendragon, @dopedaegus, @hiddenqveendom, @mantillon, @lightofthearrow, @songsonacliffside, @acrossthesestars, @insabecs, @moireia, @dragonsbone, @corporalicent, @jadore-andor, @selfproclaimedunicorn, @gwenllian-in-the-abbey, @notbloodraven, @impales, @arcielee, @thesunfyre4446, @duxbelisarius, @thatmagickjuju, @dream-beyond-the-fantasy, @qyburnsghost, @godswood-girl, @randomdragonfires, @mimikoflamemaker, @murmel-malt, @rainwingmarvel7, @solisarium, @tremendouswolfsaladranch, @theothermaidoftarth, @lullaebies, @julyzaa, @jotterjots

#my fics #house of the dragon #hotd fic #hotd oc #fyeahgot #fyeahhotd #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen x oc #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen fanfiction #house strong #house strong fic #jacaerys velaryon #fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #this chapter makes me happy #and I'm proud of it #and I just love character development #and Jace is like 'totally gotta keep everyone at the table calm' #meanwhile Helaena and Daeron are the ones actually handling it #when you go to your weird family's house to find out they're not that weird at all

[lazychildoflife]

I've got just over two weeks before heading back to uni and I've got the larger plot points for the Lucerys Resurrection fic figure out.

This is fun and hard.

Like noone has asked but I want it.

#lucerys velaryon #aemond targaryen #aemond x lucerys #lucemond #lucerys strong #house of the dragon #awholelotofdeath #wow #not like i wasnt expecting it #but its a lot #i have one oc for this but luke is my main character #the oc does play a major role #like she resurrects him so she is very important #cregan stark #is my boy #if anyone is mean to him #ill sic luke on them #not these two bonding over jace #is cregan jaces boytoy or is jace cregans boytoy #eitherway luke just wants the war to be over and is very angry #you think aemond and daemon has anger issue #think again #my boy luke has a lot of issues #and has a lot of time to think #cannibal is a overgrown cat who wont stop eating #this is way too many tags #oh well then #im done

[sarana174]

Been feeling down lately, does anyone know any good Aemond/Jacaerys x OC, Helaena x Jacaerys, Aemond x Helaena fics?

#aemond x oc #jacaerys x helaena #Jaecaerys x oc #aemond x helaena #aemond targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #helaena targaryen #jace x helaena #Aemond Targaryen x Helaena Targaryen #aemond targaryen x original character #Jacaerys Velaryon x OC

[fioiswriting]

Reunion | oneshot

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

[Part 2]

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not). Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.

Words count : 7600

Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever

Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!

Enjoy 🖤

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met The night we met - Lord Huron

The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment. Ashes. Fire. War. It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss. It was like a long howl and then sudden silence. Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.

For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him. There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side. The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.

It had been the best solution, you knew. 

For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded.  He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight. He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface. He had searched and no body had been found.

So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.

The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.

You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair. But it still hurt.  It sill fucking hurt.

Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation.  A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years. A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother. And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges.  And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled.  Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.

Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.

During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever. Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger. 

Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.

And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders.  Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.

But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it.  He knew. He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans. And the humiliation was all the more bitter.

First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own. 

And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.

You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed. When he had become more forgiving. When he had trusted you. When he had become gentle. When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly. When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.

You loved him.

So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice. Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.

Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?

Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands. You felt as if you were losing your mind.

But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.

Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.

It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell.  Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost.  King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.

But above all, it was haunted by him.

The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.

You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you.  Probably glad to see his friend again, too. Your friend, to both of you.

But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.

Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all. It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.

On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.

When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.

"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you." 

You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor.  You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.

"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.

It felt good to be back.  It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family. It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you. 

Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.

The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead.  It must have been your imagination.  You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.

Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest.  Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there. You feel as if you are being followed.

At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed. In the gardens, with your son. Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.

But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.

You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep. All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.

One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.

The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.

And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged. Fuck. Fuck.

You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.

"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen. 

That voice. It couldn't be.

Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.

It can’t be.

That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.

"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."

The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.

It is impossible.

He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.

Is it a ghost? Is it a hallucination?

"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.

You have so much to say to him. So many things to reproach him for.

His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears. 

The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver. You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets.  And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.

You want to kiss him. You want to slap him.

He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.

The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.

"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.

He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.

"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company. 

He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how. Why.

He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to. Who you were married to.

A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal.  You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead. 

But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.

"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly. 

There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway. 

"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"

"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him.  You've waited three years, what's another moment? But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be.  You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't." 

"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.

"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."

The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs. 

"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you.  You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin.  Not a sound leaves your lips.

"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."

Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall.  Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself -  but you can't help feeling your heart clench.  You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.

"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time. 

You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again. You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.

"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him.  A bit of anger, perhaps, too.

"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly.  Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."

Everything is so confused in your mind.  A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy.  Of love too.

You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond. Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.

"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."

You nod. Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words. The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips. 

There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.

His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.

"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."

You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.

"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."

His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.

It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.

You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet. You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion.   You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts. All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you. 

The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know. But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.

"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.

His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.

Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.

"On your knees then."

The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago. You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit.  He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.

Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely. 

Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes. He doesn't look away from you.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion. 

His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."

You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly. 

"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder. Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.

His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience. 

He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps. 

" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.

The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.

"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you. 

The memory was so close and yet so far away.

Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.

"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him.  He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.

"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.

"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence.  You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you. You have this power over him and it's delicious. 

His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching. 

He doesn't let go of you. 

"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him.  It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.

His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his. 

Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you. 

You need him to make you feel whole again. Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him.  You had always burned for him.

In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.

There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.

His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.

He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow. 

He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other.  Your hands are buried in his long silver hair.  You can feel how wet you are between your thighs. You need him desperately, right there.

The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.

"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet? 

Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.

"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress. 

You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.

"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."

"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."

Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.

You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away. You grunt in frustration.

You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.

He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.

He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation. He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices. 

The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.

" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body. 

He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.

You feel whole again and you want to cry.  You never want to lose that feeling. You want to keep him, against you, inside you.

You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.

"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command. He always has that need to control. He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.

"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable. 

You need him. 

When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.

Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.

"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."

The praise is sweet music to your ears.  You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.

You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.

"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.

Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him. Your moans grow louder.

"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."

The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him.  It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse. It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.

I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you. 

He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.

The weight of his body on yours is comforting.  For the first time in years, you feel alive. For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.

When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness. 

You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.

Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you.  You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment. He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.

And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.

You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.

"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."

When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy. 

He lets out a hm and pauses.

"Is he yours?"

You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth.  You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?

"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.

"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"

Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment. You should lie.  You know you should lie.  To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years.  You only need one word.

You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.

"No, he's not." 

The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.

"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece." Disappointment.

You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.

You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips. 

" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."

You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye.  It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.

"What did you say?"

You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words.  You want to bury your face in his chest. You breath. 

"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.

It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.

Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image. He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.

Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.

"My son," he repeats in awe.  It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity.  Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.

"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.

He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.

And this time, he makes love to you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret. Your hand rests on his.

"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.

It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.

Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.

"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"

The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings. It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.

"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know." 

He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.

"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him. 

You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him.  You know he would have made a good father. You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.

You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand. You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up. 

Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know."  Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence.  He has always suffered from his father's indifference.

You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.

"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.

You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions. 

But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

[starogeorgina]

Violent delights

Warnings: Character death

Pairings: Jacaerys Velaryon x oc

1.11

Jacaerys face falls as he watches his sons play underneath a weirdwood tree within the walls of Winterfell. His lips press into a thin line as a fearful look crosses his features. You could only imagine what upsetting thoughts plagued his mind. Jace only looks away from his elder sons when Daemon starts to fuss in your arms.

“I should take him back inside.”

Daemon hadn’t been outside for longer than ten minutes, but you still felt it was far too long for a newborn to be in such cold weather. You had decided to take the children on a walk to spend the last few hours before you left for Dragonstone together. Rhaenys was happily petting Lord Stark’s heavily pregnant direwolf, while Aemma clung to your side. Avery and Aethan had adapted to the new climate better than their sisters; both of them were fascinated by the snow.

“I’ll take him,” Jace says quietly. He stretches his arms for you to give him the baby. Jacaerys kisses him on the forehead and says, “I’ve hardly held him since he was born. I fear he’ll think I’m a stranger when I see him again.”

You felt terrible for Jacaerys; he was questioning his ability as a father, and blaming himself for what happened to Luke. He had convinced himself that he should have flown to Storm's End with your brother before heading north. But if that had happened, the most likely outcome would be that Aemond would have killed them both.

“You’re his father, Jace; you’ll never be a stranger to him.”

You remain outside for a little while longer, watching as your child enjoys themselves, but when the winds pick up, you tell them it’s time to go back inside.

Clara had agreed to stay with them in Winterfell, which made you feel slightly more comfortable that they would have a familiar face watching over them. When you enter the bedroom, you notice Jacaerys dozing off in one of the chairs near the fireplace, and Daemon leaning against his bare chest, sleeping peacefully.

You run your fingers through Jace’s hair and say, “My sweet boys.”

Jacaerys leans his head against your hand that’s resting on his shoulder. His eyes look painful with how bloodshot they are. “Leaving them is going to be awful,” he says quietly. “It was hard enough leaving the children with you in Dragonstone, but now it’s different. We will be so far away, and we have no idea how long the war will last. It could be a long time before we see them again.”

“Our mother will have her throne back before long, and then our children will be safe to return to their home.”

He repositions the babe in his arms and says, “We'll need to say goodbye soon.”

It had been decided that you’d leave at night, and with the sun starting to disappear behind the clouds, there wasn’t long left. Leaving your babies behind was going to kill you on the inside; it would be the hardest thing you’d ever need to do.

—

It was apparent from the moment you arrived back in Dragonstone that something had changed. The air has a stillness to it; a horrible sensation of death lingered in the air. The dragonkeepers and servants kept their heads low as you walked by them.

Seeing Jace’s lip start to tremble, you link your fingers with his. “We will get through this; I don’t know how, but we will.”

“I don’t think I can... Luke…Luke… I’m still expecting to walk in and see him.”

Hearing Jacaerys voice break causes tears to well up again. You were fighting so hard to remain strong, but you could feel your walls starting to crumble. You remain hand in hand as you walk in silence to the great hall. Upon entering it, you are greeted by a few lords and knights who lower their heads as they address you and Jacasrys. With your mother being next in line to the throne, you had grown up used to being treated as royalty, but never before had you seen fear in the eyes of those who looked upon you. Your eyes land on Baela and Rhaena, who both look as if they have been crying, with your grandsire by their sides.

Jace speaks up, his voice clear of all emotions. “Princess Rhaenys, Lord Corlys.”

Your grandsire nods his head and says, “My prince, princess.”

An awkwardness lingers for a moment before you decide to break it. It was obvious your grandsire was holding back on something, so you looked to Princess Rhaenys and said, "Grandmother?”

She lets go of Baela’s hand and approaches you with a serious look on her face. One of the many things you admire about your grandmother was the way she got straight to the point; she never held back from telling you the truth. A sympathetic look crosses her face. “I’m sorry to inform you that Prince Gaemon is dead.”

You take a step back, feeling as if you’d just been hit. “He’s dead?”

“While you were in Winterfell, two men posing as fishermen managed to make their way into the castle during the night and slay him while he slept.”

Jace’s fingers slip from yours as he stumbles slightly, and his face turns paler than you've ever seen before. One of the lords quickly places a chair behind Jacaerys before he falls to the ground.

Your grandmother raises her brows slightly before saying, “There's more. The night Prince Gaemon was killed, he was asleep in the nursery that belonged to your children.”

“They mistook my brother for one of my sons." Tears roll down your cheeks. “Aegon sent them to kill my boys, and now my mother has suffered another loss, another child taken from her.”

“What of those who killed my brother?” Jacaerys asks.

Your grandsire speaks up: “The men who committed such a heinous crime have since been sent to death by dragonfire.”

You feel as if your heart is physically turning into stone inside your chest. Lucery's death broke you; it left you feeling as if there was a hole in your heart that could never be mended, but learning of Gaemon’s death angered you. He was just a boy. “My brothers,” you sob. Sweet as they were and dead as they are, your family couldn’t suffer anymore. You wipe your tears away with the back of your hand and notice the look your grandparents are giving each other: “What else?”

Your grandmother clears her throat. “One of the servants who were taken advantage of by Aegon has come forward and sworn their loyalties to Queen Rhaenyra. A girl named Tiana claimed she overheard a conversation between Aegon and Alicent from the day you returned to the keep.”

“What did they say?”

“My nephew can keep his bitch, but I will keep my daughter, or I will have their heads.”

You gulped down; you felt physically sick hearing what Aegon said. Jace squeezed your hand; it was frightening knowing how Aegon really felt. You had tried to convince yourself that he didn’t really want Aemma and would soon forget about her. You look up and see your stepfather standing in the back of the room. You make eye contact with him and nod.

A silent agreement that the plan you once refused to participate in was going forth. You’d do anything to protect your family, even if it meant deceiving them.

—

You watch as Viserion, Vermax, Syrax, and Caraxes circle the sky above Dragonstone. For a fleeting moment, you thought you saw Arrax emerging from the clouds when the fifth dragon joined, but your mind was playing cruel tricks on you; it was only Seasmoke, the dragon that bonded with your late father.

Another person you’d lost.

“Who do you think was behind it?”

You turn around to see your grandmother approaching you; she has a sad smile on her face. Without explicitly explaining her question, you knew what she was referring to. “Ser Criston or Aemond, I suspect. Aegon will likely be too drunk to even think for himself, and Alicent and Otto wouldn’t approve of killing a child.”

“They wouldn’t?”

“They know the repercussions of their son's actions will be disastrous for House Hightower.”

“Hmm,” she says, standing beside you. “The farmers and fishermen that live in villages below the Dragonmont are being questioned, while Prince Jacaerys leads a discussion in the small council. He has suggested that they recruit dragonseeds to attempt to claim the six riderless dragons that live on the island.”

A proud smile graces your lips. “That sounds like a good plan.”

“And what plan are you and Prince Daemon plotting?”

“No amount of milk from the poppy will blunt the pain of the greens taking Visenya, Lucerys, and Gaemon from my mother. They won’t stop coming for her, my siblings, or my children. This war is no longer just about who sits upon the iron throne; it’s about keeping those we love safe.”

Your grandmother hugs you and says, "Your father would be so proud of you.”

You fall into her embrace easily. Aside from Daemon, you truly believed your grandmother, Rhaenys, was the only one who wouldn’t judge you. “If I tell you, you must promise to never tell another soul.”

“I promise, dear girl, I won’t betray your trust.”

—

It felt weird laying in your shared bed with Jacaerys without your kids for the first time in years. Once your husband had fallen asleep, you’d leave to meet Daemon. Then there was no turning back.

“Lyarra?”

You roll onto your side and say, “I thought you were asleep.”

“I love you desperately.”

You cup his face. “I love you, and there’s nothing I won’t do to protect you or our family.”

He pulls you closer so your head is resting against his chest. “We protect each other, it’s how we’ll get through this.”

#house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon fanfic #jacaerys velaryon x you #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #violent delights #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon/you #jace velaryon fanfic #jace velaryon #Jacaerys Velaryon x oc #Jacaerys Velaryon/oc #Jacaerys Velaryon x fem oc #Jace Velaryon/oc #jace velaryon fanfiction #Jace Velaryon x oc #jace velaryon x you

[cregan-starks]

Flames of Deceit

Summary: Aemond and Visenya reunite amidst the Dance of the Dragons.

Words: 13,005

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x OC, Cregan Stark x OC, Alyn Velaryon x OC

Warnings: canon-typical incest (Aemond and Visenya are cousins, as well as uncle and niece), book and show spoilers, Westerosi geopolitics, mentions of imperialism and slavery, canon-typical violence, war, blood and gore, fire and burning, mass death, mention of amputation, mentions of torture and captivity, mentions and threats of execution and physical harm, mentions of poverty and starvation, parental neglect, food and eating, alcohol and drinking, sexism, victim blaming, slut-shaming, ableist language, explicit language, nudity, smut (vaginal sex in flashbacks), unresolved sexual tension, grief/mourning, trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, survivor guilt, mutual pining, emotional/psychological abuse, verbal abuse, mentions of pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, and death in childbirth, mentions of child/infant death, mentions of infidelity. If I missed any warnings, please let me know! Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: This totally didn’t take me almost 7 months to write. Cregan Stark is the protagonist of Fire & Blood. Rise, Cregan nation. My OC Visenya is Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s daughter, and Jace’s older twin. Superfecundation, baby. Visenya and Jace are born in 111 AC, not 114 AC. The Battle in the Gullet still occurs in 130 AC, soon after the events of this one-shot. Reblogs and comments are encouraged and immensely appreciated. If this does well, I’ll post a reader version.

Credits: Huge thank you to my betas @maharani-radha-writes 💛 @aereth 💖 and @revolution-starter 🩶, and to @haystack-boy @lavendertales @buttercup--bee @agirllovespancakes and @oloreaa for their constant patience and support. It means a lot, and I’m immensely grateful. Apart from my OC Visenya, all characters belong to George R.R. Martin. Gif by @aemondtargaryensource (x)

Ao3 | Masterlist

EARLY 130 AC

HARRENHAL, THE RIVERLANDS

          The sheer immensity of Harrenhal had provoked dizziness in Visenya. She had heard the story innumerable times. For four decades, King Harren Hoare had built greedily and obsessively, sacrificing thousands of slaves, and beggaring the riverlands and the Iron Islands. The indestructible construction had been no match for Balerion, whose fire had consumed the tyrant and his sons inside it, ending their line. Most Westerosi believed that the phantoms of the Hoares wandered the castle halls. The fortress is costly to maintain, and it devours its possessors. Qoherys, Harroway, Towers… All extinct. Whether cursed or not, Harrenhal remained a strategic location – the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms.

          The current castellan – and Larys Clubfoot’s great-uncle – Ser Simon Strong had recently surrendered Harrenhal to Daemon Targaryen. The presence of Caraxes might have contributed to his hasty decision. Following the victory at the Burning Mill and the subsequent submission of Stone Hedge – terminating Green strength in the riverlands – Queen Rhaenyra’s allies had commenced their gathering at Harrenhal, in accordance with the Prince Consort’s stratagem.

          Visenya had departed Dragonstone on the same night that Daemon had summoned her, having been granted safe passage by the Velaryon ships patrolling the Gullet. At the outbreak of the war, the Sea Snake’s fleet had closed off Blackwater Bay, choking trade to and from the capital.

          As soon as she had dismounted her dragon in the castle yard, she had sensed the eerie ambience that had haunted Harrenhal’s colossal curtain walls and fissured, melted towers. Formidable and dreadful. Harren’s monument and tomb. Blackwing had responded to Caraxes’ fervent shriek with her own, flapping her wings at him. Happy to be reunited.

          Her father had offered her a warm welcome and a tight embrace, had even insisted that she sit on his war council, wherein she had befriended Alysanne Blackwood, whom she had grown quite fond of.

          At last, Visenya had thought, on the morning that Daemon had sent for her. Though she loved him dearly, her father hadn’t invited her there because he had missed his daughter. Visenya had met with Daemon alone, in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths – she had counted thirty-five – grander than the throne room in King’s Landing, the discolored ceiling looming loftily above them. Her father had donned his chain mail over his crimson tunic.

          Does he sleep in that? Or am I the threat?

          ‘Ser Crispin and the Kinslayer are marching on Harrenhal,’ Daemon had informed her, instead of “good morrow”, pressing a rolled parchment into her palm, ‘They mean to join forces with the Lannisters’, at Stoney Sept.’

          Her heart had jolted at the mere mention of his title. Aemond… At the Usurper’s farce of a coronation that the Hightowers had compelled her to attend – dressed in green – Visenya had kissed him farewell, forsaking any glimmer of hope for a future with him. I have demonstrated where my loyalties lie. I have chosen my family.

          Her lilac eyes had skimmed over the scrawled message on the sheepskin, the wax sigil foreign to her. The White Worm?

          ‘You are strangely poised,’ Visenya had observed, suspicious, studying her father’s amused expression.

          ‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ he had confirmed, smirking wickedly, curling his hand around the hilt of sheathed Dark Sister. Another one of his traps… and he’s pulling me into it. Daemon had gently cradled her cheek, purring, ‘I have a mission for you, sweetling.’

EARLY 130 AC

STONEY SEPT, THE RIVERLANDS

          Her host had encamped half a day’s ride from the town, with sufficient provisions for a fortnight. The arduous advance and the muddy soil had wearied men and horses alike, so Visenya had relied on the Greens’ tardiness to provide the respite that they had needed.

          Her dragon had brazenly exploited that ploy – napping during the day and hunting at night, increasing the risk of being discovered. Surpassed by Vhagar in age and size, Blackwing had never been ridden before a seven-year-old Visenya had claimed her. They shared a temper, a wildness, and a fierce devotion to each other. My twin in dragon flesh, Jace would jest.

          ‘You have become too spoiled,’ she had reproved, affectionately, tapping Blackwing’s dark scales, heated to the touch.

          The beast had objected, idly, releasing a guttural noise, smoke rising from its nostrils.

          For five days, her scouts had reported nothing of enemy activity. Her anxieties had continued to fester and to gnaw at her. What if I fail? What if I die? I would condemn my people in vain. And Aemond… What am I to do about him?

          On the sixth day, they had burst into her tent, blurting that the Greens had arrived at Stoney Sept. The maester had quickly dispatched a raven to Prince Daemon, at Harrenhal.

          ‘We attack at dawn,’ Visenya had declared, resolute.

          I’ll do my best, father.

          The fray had been gruesome, stretching for hours upon hours. A thick mist had settled over the Blackwater Rush, impairing visibility. Visenya had been the surprise element, concealing herself to deceive her foes, and striking unexpectedly, in the midst of battle. She had flown on her daunting Blackwing, laying waste to men and reserves indiscriminately, amongst the sounds of steel clashing with steel, shields splintering, arrows whistling, and soldiers screaming as they fought, suffered wounds, and perished. Hundreds of Greens had been engulfed in her dragon’s flames.

          Aemond had been slow to deter the princess. Afraid to face me? Visenya and Blackwing had used the fog to their advantage, climbing higher and higher into the sky – the Kinslayer chasing after them on hoary Vhagar.

          ‘Dracarys!’, she had ordered, and Blackwing had descended on Vhagar, unleashing a cloud of fire that had only incensed the latter.

          The dragons had spun, locked in a vicious struggle of claws and fangs, wings thrashing, until Aemond had suddenly swiveled Vhagar, slamming her into Blackwing. Their deafening roars had pierced the air. The collision had knocked Visenya from her saddle – the searing flames licking at her arm – and had sent her plummeting towards the Blackwater below. Having crashed into the Rush, she had surfaced seconds later, her hefty armor and the river’s currents hindering her endeavors to stay afloat. Visenya had looked up, able to distinguish a faint form lunging at another – the beasts’ screeches reverberating far above.

          Blackwing will not be coming to my rescue.

          Her tribulations hadn’t stopped there. A glimpse at the golden dragon banner of the Pretender, and she had realised that the currents had pushed her in the wrong direction… too late. She had already been spotted by the scouts on the shore, who had alerted their captain. They had aimed their crossbows at her, waiting for the Blackwater to present her to them on a silver platter. I think not.

          Visenya had bitten into the hand of the man who had dragged her out of the water, then she had tossed him into the Rush.

          ‘Cunt!’, the next attacker had bellowed, charging at her.

          Slowed down by her injuries, her movements had been clumsy. Visenya had ducked under his first blow, stumbling to retain her balance. She had unsheathed her sword to parry his second blow, and had driven her blade through his breastplate. She had slashed a guard’s belly, his entrails spilling out. A soldier’s glove had caught her weapon, yanking it from her grasp. Disoriented by a swift welt to the side of her head, Visenya had been tackled to the ground – the impact rendering her breathless. Two fists had savagely pummeled her face, again and again and again – a massive weight crushing her. She had desperately fumbled for her scabbard, had withdrawn her dagger, and had slit her aggressor’s throat. Hot blood had spurted out, blinding her. She had been hoisted to her feet, her dirk wrenched away. Howling with rage and frustration, Visenya had scratched at the man’s eyes with her nails, had kneed another in the groin, and had torn off an archer’s ear with her teeth.

          Alas, she had been one enfeebled person against all of the odds… and a dozen Greens. Her apprehension had been inevitable.

          The capture of the commander had prompted the capitulation of her army. Visenya had been delivered to Ser Crispin in chains, covered in blood, dirt, and grass, braids disheveled, dragonscale armor soaked, body aching, left arm throbbing. I will not quail. Those traitors will receive no such satisfaction from me.

          Attired in the white garments of the Kingsguard, Ser Crispin had been the living depiction of virtue and chivalry. Lickspittle. He had immediately discarded courtesy, referring to her as a “bitch in dragon’s clothing.” In retaliation, Visenya had dubbed him a “sheep in sheep’s clothing”, earning herself a cuff across the face from his steeled gauntlet. Blood had flooded her mouth, her cheek stinging sharply.

          Ser Crispin had further commented that her men had been rather committed to her, alluding that she had fucked them to obtain their service. Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.

          ‘It’s not as high of an honor as warming the Dowager Queen’s bed,’ Visenya had admitted, slyly, and had spat on his boots, ‘Hand of the Usurper. Does he wipe his ass with you?’

          Crispin would have hit her again, had the Prince Regent not intervened. Wary, she had surveyed her surroundings for Vhagar – not in evidence. I might wind up her supper.

          ‘Enough, Cole,’ Aemond had interrupted, solemn, causing Visenya to tense, drawing their attention to where he had been standing, imposing, smeared with ashes and smoke, ‘She may be our prisoner, but she is still a princess, and shall be treated as befits her station.’

          Any shred of scorn had abandoned her, ousted by fear and uncertainty. Her father had foreseen this. If you bend, you will break. Remember who you are. She had inhaled deeply, striving to even her respiration. I am the blood of the dragon, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, and heir to the Iron Throne. I will not cringe for them.

          Aemond had instructed the maids to prepare her a bath and a warm meal, and to fetch her dry clothes. Visenya had grinned, baring her bloody teeth at Ser Crispin, as the guards had led her away. She had been escorted along the smoldering ruins of houses, inns, and brothels, trampling charred corpses – mindful of her step. Carrion crows had circled above, the timid sun peeking from grey clouds. The foul, stifling stench had twisted her stomach, tears needling her eyes. Mine and Aemond’s handiwork. Only the sept, the square, and the trout-shaped fountain had remained intact. When dragons flew to war, everything burned, her mother had warned at the Black Council. What have the people of Stoney Sept done to merit this devastation? What power do they have over their lives? We play our grisly game of thrones, and the commonfolk bear the immeasurable cost.

          The encampment had spread interminably – miles of pavilions, armories, forges, stables, latrines, wagons, and baggage trains – crawling with Greens cussing, mocking, and shouting at captives, pages distributing letters, squires polishing armor, honing weapons, feeding, watering, and combing horses, patrols walking to their posts, smiths hammering boisterously, cooks chopping vegetables, skinning rabbits, disemboweling deer, and roasting boars, giggling washerwomen hurrying by, and maesters ministering to the wounded. The turmoil had imbued Visenya’s senses. Mesmerised, she had watched a wailing, writhing man have his leg amputated, until one of her assigned guardians had shoved her forward.

          She had assumed that Blackwing had flown away… but, having escaped the battle unscathed, and always loyal to a fault, her dragon had landed in the enemy’s camp, razing barracks and roaring ferociously, seeking its rider. After it had mauled the Greens who had attempted to approach it and shackle it, Aemond had begrudgingly permitted Visenya to comfort her feral companion. Blackwing had nuzzled its snout against her, coiling its tail around her, protectively, while Visenya had murmured “lykirī”, caressing its scales – her taut restraints impeding the action. Her chest had constricted agonisingly when the traitors had forcibly separated them. I will return for you, I promise.

          She had been ushered into a vacated chamber, where the maids had obediently unchained her wrists, had removed her armor, had unbraided her hair, and had helped her undress for her bath, evading her glare and her nakedness – scarcely addressing her. What grim tales have they been told about me? Under the ewerers’ supervision, Visenya had washed herself – her uninjured arm vigorously scrubbing her skin with a bar of soap – and had dried off on her own, using cloths and rags. They have taken away my gear. Her indignation dwindling, she had slipped on the plain shirt, brown breeches, pelts, and a pair of flat shoes that they had brought her – tucking her salvaged brooch in her pocket. Is this meant to humble me?

          She had sluggishly eaten her bland yet nourishing food, on a bench, by a candle, goggled at by blushing serving lads.

          Aemond had summoned her to his tent, along with the maesters, who had cleansed her burns, had applied a poultice that had reeked of lavender and vinegar, had bandaged her arm, and had rubbed balms on her cuts, bruises, and split lip. Visenya had endured their ministrations in utter silence, grinding her teeth and clenching her fists. She and Aemond hadn’t exchanged a single word.

          The pavilion had been modest for the Prince Regent, consisting of a firepit, an oaken war table – stripped of its tomes, maps, scrolls, ink, and wax – chairs, rugs, and a featherbed, with books scattered atop it. The colors red and black dominated the tent of a proud and eminent Green, who carried the golden banner of the Pretender. Aemond cannot deny his Targaryen heritage. Had Otto Hightower dyed his locks silver-white and ridden a dragon, he could have sat his ass on the Iron Throne and ruled in his own name. Instead, he urged the King to make my mother his heir, coerced his daughter to seduce him, and installed his grandson on the throne. Puppets upon puppets, plots within plots.

          With the maesters dismissed, Visenya finally had the opportunity to regard Aemond. He hadn’t changed much since she had last seen him, at his brother’s false coronation. In the fire’s light, he had been a sight to behold; the flames illuminating his attractive, distinctive features, his mouth seemingly lodged in a permanent smirk, his eyepatch obscuring his missing eye, his tresses cascading down his back. Aemond had cleaned himself up, shedding his armor – now resting on a rack – for his usual black leather tunic, fastened with a belt that had his sheathed dagger attached to it, and a lengthy coat sewn with fur around the neck. He cast a tall shadow in the pavilion, his posture impeccable. Half dragon, half feline.

          ‘There’s a lack of dresses,’ informs Aemond, obdurately calm, retrieving a flagon of wine and two cups from the servant at the tent’s entrance, ‘And we had to find clothes that would suit you.’

          ‘I gather that there’s some poor stable boy currently running around naked,’ quips Visenya, tugging the pelts around herself.

          Aemond huffs through his nose, amused, and sets one of the goblets on the table, proceeding to fill it with Arbor Red for her. The war evidently hasn’t affected the Usurper’s notorious love of drinking. Lord Redwyne smelled profit, and pledged his support to the Greens, to ensure that their wine supply never dries. An onerous task. The Pretender has ample ambition in that respect.

          ‘Don’t fret,’ assures Aemond, upon heeding Visenya’s skeptical, arched eyebrow, ‘It’s not poisoned.’

          ‘Surely someone spat in it,’ she guesses, convivial, swirling the liquid in her cup.

          Aemond smiles, drinking his wine. Visenya tentatively lifts her goblet to her lips, and sips. Delectable flavors invade her mouth, soothing her nerves – albeit a little. She mulls over her next words… half carefully.

          ‘I reckoned that you and Ser Crispin would share a pavilion,’ she confides, lewdly, crossing one leg over the other, ‘Though your prides would not fit together.’

          Aemond’s gaze darkens, his mouth subtly pressing into a thin line. His disposition could make Mushroom miserable... and it has.

          ‘You could lose your tongue for such insolence,’ he cautions, sternly.

          ‘What’s new?’, suspires an indifferent Visenya, ‘I can write this down as well.’ She pauses to take a swig, then demands, bluntly, ‘Where is Blackwing? And my men?’

          ‘The dragonkeepers are tending her,’ explains Aemond, irritation in his tone, leaving his empty cup on the table, ‘Your men are being questioned.’

          Good fortune. They know nothing. The laughter and singing outside contradict Aemond’s claim. Drunk on victory. A weakness that she could later exploit. If I could reach Blackwing… lest they harm her.

          ‘Blackwing was your companion prior to Vhagar,’ she mentions, heatedly, flexing and unflexing her hand, ‘If you touch her–’

          ‘You are in no position to launch threats, Visenya,’ chastises Aemond, coldly, prodding at the logs with a poker, the wood crackling in the fire, ‘Your treatment depends on my good will. As does your fate. You have my word that Blackwing will not be harmed.’

          ‘The word of a kinslayer,’ spits Visenya, venomously, eyes darting to him, ‘If you are under the impression that minor acts of benevolence shall convince me to talk, you are gravely mistaken. You overestimate my family’s trust in me.’

          ‘They trusted you enough to put you in command of an army four thousand strong,’ reminds an earnest Aemond, ‘And you expect me to believe that you have no knowledge of your twin’s whereabouts?’

          I wouldn’t trade Jace for the Iron Throne. ‘We shared a womb, not a brain,’ she corrects, tracing the rim of her goblet with her digits, contemplating refilling it. I need my wits about me. ‘You are wasting your time, nuncle. Mine, too. Fetch your torturers, and be done with all this bother.’

          ‘I will do no such thing,’ he rebuffs, inclining his head.

          ‘You will torture me yourself?’, asks Visenya, feigning innocence, brushing her loose silver-white hair over her shoulders.

          ‘You are being difficult, Visenya,’ he accuses, exasperated.

          ‘What do you intend to do with me?’, she interjects, involuntarily fiddling with her absent rings, ‘Executing me would be unwise. I presume that you will have my dragon killed, and me delivered to King’s Landing, where your usurper of a brother awaits, warming my mother’s rightful seat… or is he still broken and bedridden, lost in poppy dreams?’

          ‘Mind your tongue, Visenya,’ warns Aemond, louring at her, melting some of her resolve.

          ‘The Clubfoot will probably throw me in a cell and dispatch his floggers to visit me,’ she concludes, scratching her thigh. Stable boy must have had fleas.

          ‘I’m not sending you to King’s Landing,’ announces Aemond, with apparent mirth towards her gesture.

          ‘You will ransom me to my father?’, taunts Visenya, smirking wickedly, ‘He’s the poorest man in the Seven Kingdoms.’ Aemond’s demeanor refutes her insinuation. She continues, all semblance of jest vanishing, ‘You cannot justify keeping me here. Once the Pretender learns about my capture, he will order you to send me to King’s Landing.’

          ‘Aegon does not concern me,’ he grumbles, clasping his hands behind his back.

          ‘Pār ivestragī nyke jikagon,’ she advises, coyly. Aemond hums, musing, a glimmer in his eye that doesn’t indicate outright negation. ‘We are at war, and you allow your feelings to cloud your judgment?’ (Then let me go.)

          ‘Iksi daor rȳ vīlībāzma,’ argues a mild Aemond. (We are not at war.)

          So, you did not slaughter Luke? That’s a consolation. ‘Iksis bona skoro syt emā daor ossēntan nyke?’, inquires Visenya, masking her anger. (Is that why you have not killed me?)

          ‘Killing you would be as imprudent as freeing you,’ he reasons, purposely oblivious, ‘You are worth more alive than you are dead. You lost a fair battle, you surrendered, and now you are my prisoner.’

          ‘I’ve heard stories about how you and Ser Crispin treat your prisoners,’ she disputes, mordant, ‘And I never yielded. You ride the largest dragon in the world. That’s hardly a fair match.’

          Cole and the Usurper’s forces had sacked the port town of Duskendale, putting the ships at the harbor to the torch, hundreds of men, women, and children to the sword, and beheading Lord Gunthor Darklyn for supporting her mother’s cause. Hundreds more had been massacred at Rook’s Rest, where Lord Staunton, too, had been relieved of his head. Besieged by the Greens, he had barricaded himself inside his castle walls, and had requested assistance from the Blacks. With Prince Daemon at Harrenhal, and Queen Rhaenyra griefsick in the aftermath of her son’s murder, command of the Black Council had passed to the Velaryons. Rhaenyra had forbidden her children from answering their ally’s plea, so Princess Rhaenys had flown to Rook’s Rest instead. She and Meleys had fallen in battle against the Pretender, the Kinslayer, and their dragons. Sunfyre had been rendered flightless, the Usurper had suffered severe burns, and Aemond had assumed the title of Prince Regent – to rule in lieu of his older brother.

          Visenya’s side hadn’t fared any greater. A wroth Sea Snake had blamed Rhaenyra for his wife’s demise. Jace had named him Hand of the Queen, to appease him – a measure that Visenya had commended. Better than Ser Crispin.

          ‘You ambushed us,’ reiterates Aemond, incredulous, ‘We would have presented you with terms, to avoid bloodshed.’

          Oh, please. You don’t believe that. ‘Fuck your terms,’ curses Visenya, waving dismissively, ‘I suppose that being twice a kinslayer would have marred the carcass of your reputation.’

          ‘I spared your life,’ he chides, vaguely baleful.

          ‘A clemency that you did not extend to my brother,’ she sneers, bilious, her nails digging into the table’s surface.

          ‘Half-brother,’ deadpans Aemond, promptly.

          ‘If you had to slay your own kin, personally, I would have picked your dear brother, the Pretender,’ proffers Visenya, honeyed.

          ‘Perhaps you should have killed him,’ he retorts, untroubled, ‘You had your chance.’

          Her family had gone to King’s Landing for the Driftmark petition, where her father had created a ghastly spectacle – publicly beheading Vaemond Velaryon for defaming her mother and her brothers. The Targaryen method of solving quarrels. Viserys himself had sat the throne, and had favored Luke as the heir to Driftmark – adhering to the Sea Snake’s wishes.

          Due to his declining health, the King had been the first to retire during the subsequent supper that they had all attended. Visenya hadn’t been surprised by his condition; she had frequented the capital, unlike her parents and her siblings. The gathering had soon turned disastrous. Jace had invited Helaena to dance with him – offending Aegon and Aemond. She is so sweet. Alicent had been evil to marry her off to that cunting demon. None of them deserve her. Visenya herself had danced with Daeron, grinning the entire time. We had once been engaged... I could have loved him. He would have been a dutiful Prince Consort and a doting father to our children. Aemond had toasted to her Velaryon brothers, referring to them as “strong.” Fighting had erupted betwixt her siblings and her uncles, and her father had intervened to break them apart.

          That evening, her family had sailed for Dragonstone, but Aemond had insisted that she stay in King’s Landing with him. Against her better judgment, Visenya had accepted. She ponders whether it had been a ploy of the Greens to take her hostage, and Aemond had simply played his part. Her grandsire had tragically expired overnight – poisoned by the Hightowers, according to her father. Visenya isn’t so certain. He hadn’t required meddling. He had been rotting for decades.

          On the morrow, the Greens had locked her in her chambers. Visenya had refused to swear obeisance to Aegon – had even spat in his face – and to bow at his false coronation. Blackwing and the Princess Rhaenys had come to her rescue – emerging from underneath the Dragonpit on Meleys. Visenya had mounted her dragon, and had addressed the crowd, her voice clear and fierce, laced with fury.

          “People of King’s Landing! The Hand and the Dowager Queen deceive you. King Viserys named my mother the Princess Rhaenyra heir to the throne. For twenty-four years, the succession remained indisputable and unchanged. Rhaenyra is the rightful and lawful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By crowning Aegon, the Hightowers have committed the highest of treasons and have usurped the Iron Throne, violating the King’s will. Aegon shall show you neither kindness nor wisdom. Remember today. Remember that you lived by the mercy of Rhaenys the Queen Who Should Have Been and myself. If the Hightowers do not cease in their treachery and do not bend the knee, I vow to return with fire and blood!”

          Blackwing had roared so intensely that the Conqueror’s crown had been hurled from the Pretender’s head.

          Aemond has the right of it. We could have bathed Aegon in flame, quelled their rebellion then and there.

         On Dragonstone, the news of Viserys’ death and the Hightowers’ betrayal had driven her mother into an early labor. Her father had descended into madness, determined to levy war. Their losses had continuously piled… and the Seven Kingdoms would bear the cost.

          ‘I am no kinslayer,’ snarls Visenya, slighted by the idea, tearing her gaze away from Aemond.

          ‘I made you a generous offer that would have foiled the war,’ he broaches, the grievous memory still raw for him.

          Oh, how could I have displayed such ingratitude? She wouldn’t describe his proposal to marry him and rule together as “generous.” It had been an odious humiliation. Aegon – who had not wanted the throne, declaring himself “unsuited” – would have embarked upon a ship and departed Westeros permanently. The Iron Throne is not his to relinquish. Visenya knows that Aemond has no love for his father, but asking her to usurp her mother’s throne? An audacious affront. She had vehemently spurned him, and they had traded sour words – their prides injured.

          ‘Our families would have started a war to kill us for it,’ drones Visenya, flatly, ‘And what of my parents? They would have never abided by your… solution.’

          ‘They have no consideration for your happiness and welfare, yet you still toil in their service,’ observes Aemond, provocatively.

          ‘And you have?!’, she opposes, her fist slamming on the table, ‘You conspired to usurp the throne and slaughtered my brother, the Princess Rhaenys, and their dragons. You are in no position to launch accusations.’

          ‘Even now, you feel compelled to defend them,’ he comments, dejected.

          ‘Lucerys was my blood!’, snaps Visenya, wrathful, standing from her seat and storming up towards him – stopping a couple of feet in front of him.

          ‘As am I!’, booms Aemond, towering over her, ‘And you have never defended me half as much as you did him! He took my eye when I was but ten, and to even that the imp felt entitled, while you gladly dismissed it as an accident and moved on!’

          Outside, Blackwing and Vhagar grow agitated, shrieking and flitting their wings, stirring the wind. It seemed to Visenya that Aemond had often been harsher on her than he had been on Lucerys. He loves me… or he used to.

          ‘It was an accident,’ she maintains, tamer, ‘We were children. Our parents mishandled everything. I’ve told you numerous times that I profoundly regret what happened to you. It’s the truth. I cannot undo Luke’s actions.’

          It’s been ten years since then, and forgetting the incident has been impossible. Aemond wears the consequences of it on his face, in his daily life. Our unease at the sight of his gash is a small price to pay.

          He had delivered several blows – and had broken Luke’s nose – afore he had been overwhelmed by all five of her siblings, and Lucerys had slashed one of his eyes. Visenya’s absence from the fight had spared her from the interrogation, wherein Rhaenyra had suggested that Aemond be “sharply questioned”, Alicent Hightower had demanded Luke’s eye to compensate for Aemond’s, and Viserys had been eager to abandon his conciliatory obligation. The discord had exposed the personal feud between Rhaenyra and Alicent – their rhetoric diverting from “vile insults were levied against my sons” and “my son has lost an eye” to “duty and sacrifice are trampled under your pretty foot” and “you have been hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.” The Queen had gone so far as to attack the Princess – slitting her arm with the King’s dagger.

          Visenya hadn’t spoken at all – displeasing Aemond and her siblings. To her, matters hadn’t been so absolute. Although Aemond had claimed Vhagar too soon – disrespecting Laena Velaryon’s memory – his assault and maiming had been unwarranted. I love Rhaena dearly, but Vhagar was not stolen. The dragon never belonged to her. Aemond and Vhagar chose each other. Visenya had later communicated her opinions to him, and she had reassured her sister that she would have a dragon.

          The next morning, the Targaryens and the Hightowers had exchanged false courtesies and falser apologies. Her family’s exile to Dragonstone hadn’t prevented Visenya from writing letters to Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron, or from flying on Blackwing to visit them in King’s Landing.

          Alas, the bloody seeds of strife had been sown.

          ‘No, you cannot,’ concurs Aemond, glancing at her lips, ‘No one can. That is why I sought justice for myself.’

          ‘Justice?’, echoes Visenya, disdainful, her glare piercing, ‘Had you had your other eye, you would still be as blind as you are now.’

          Aemond growls, lashing out and grabbing her roughly, their lower bodies pressing together. Visenya glowers at him defiantly, placing her hands on his breast, to preserve some distance betwixt their upper bodies. The effort shoots a jolt of pain along her arm.

          If he meant to scare her, he failed. Aemond would not harm me.

          ‘Hold your tongue, Visenya,’ he exhorts, through gritted teeth.

          ‘Or what?’, she challenges, her face inching closer to his, ‘You will have it removed? You will butcher me as you did my brother?’

          ‘You are brazen, to speak of your half-brother, of my wrongdoings and my crimes,’ berates Aemond, his jaw clenching, ‘What of your family? What of my nephew Jaehaerys?... Iā tresy syt iā tresy. Nyke gīmigon īles aōha kepa.’ (A son for a son. I know it was your father.)

          Aware of what Aemond alluded to, Visenya hesitates, her response withering on her tongue.

          After the tragedy at Storm’s End, a raven from her father had arrived at Dragonstone. An eye for an eye, a son for a son. Lucerys shall be avenged. She had deduced that Daemon had hired the assassins who had executed Prince Jaehaerys – the Usurper’s six-year-old heir – with Alicent, Helaena, and the latter’s other children as witnesses. Visenya had confronted him about his heinous deed at Harrenhal. Undaunted, her father had firmly admonished that the “pious one-eyed flea of a traitor who slobbers over you” had slain her brother.

          In retaliation for Jaehaerys, the Pretender had sent Ser Arryk Cargyll to Dragonstone, to assassinate Jace and Joffrey. The knight had entered the castle in his Kingsguard attire, disguised as his twin Ser Erryk – Queen Rhaenyra’s loyalist – whom he had encountered on his way to the royal apartments. By the conclusion of their duel, the two had mortally wounded one another.

          I owe the Hightowers nothing, least of all my sympathy. Children should not be the target of our ire. How do we differ from the Greens if we perpetrate and perpetuate the same crimes that they do?

          ‘Nyke ēdan daorun naejot gaomagon rūsīr bona,’ clarifies Visenya, sincerely, albeit faintly. (I had nothing to do with that.)

          ‘No, you are merely the spectator,’ scoffs Aemond, haughty, ‘Proudly passing judgment while others bloody their hands. You are passive. Passive in your beliefs, your guilt, your love.’

          Visenya blinks against the tears that prick her eyes, her breath hitched. His cruel and bitter words cut deeply, rooted in years of grievances, enmities, neglect, and abuse. Aemond had once been a sweet, innocent boy – her closest friend, her betrothed. He’s the product of his conditions, his upbringing, and his parents’ influence… as am I. Both confined in a prison of our parents’ sins. Perhaps we inevitably inherit the burdens of our forebears.

          Though Visenya may not be the sole reason for his resentment, she is present. Aemond hadn’t blamed her for her family’s actions. He condemned her for not loving him enough. That is unfair. I’m not culpable of that.

          A consuming poison has been dribbling inside of her, on the verge of gushing. Visenya has strayed too near to the edge – now wavering, uncertain whether she wishes to tread the line and unravel the truth. That is not why I am here...

          ... but her decision has already been established.

          The truth is important to me.

          Summoning her courage, Visenya reaches behind Aemond’s head to peel off his eyepatch, lifting the veil between them. I need to see him, so that he cannot deceive me. She tosses the item aside, neither shrinking nor averting her gaze. She caresses his face, drinking him in – his scar, the sapphire in his eye socket, the flesh that had healed crookedly. Aemond tenses, watching her intently, his respiration ragged. His grip on her slackens.

          ‘Gōntan ao ossēnagon zirȳla kesrio syt hen issa?’, murmurs Visenya, circling his wrists, impeding his retreat. (Did you kill him because of me?)

          At the Black Council, Jace and Luke had offered to act as their mother’s messengers, to acquire support for her claim. The twins had been tasked with the difficult mission – negotiating with the Eyrie, the Three Sisters, White Harbor, and Winterfell. Lady Jeyne Arryn would declare for Rhaenyra if dragonriders defended the Vale. Jace and Visenya had met with Lords Borrell and Sunderland at Sisterton, and at White Harbor, they had arranged for Joffrey to marry Lord Desmond Manderly’s youngest daughter.

          The news of Luke’s death had accosted them in the Vale. Visenya had collapsed in Jace’s arms, wailing as her twin had embraced her tightly. She had agonised over her brother’s demise every night, plagued by what she could have done to save him, weeping into a tumultuous sleep. Visenya had never listened to the rumors and the gossip. Lucerys had been her family, her brother, her blood. I fed him, bathed him, read to him, sparred with him, played with him… yet I could not protect him from Aemond.

          She possesses little knowledge of what had occurred betwixt Luke and Aemond at Storm’s End. The weather had been atrocious, her brother’s dragon too small to withstand it. In the following days, bits of Arrax’s carcass had washed up on the shore of Shipbreaker’s Bay. Luke had never been recovered. He may have died a dragonrider’s death, but he had died alone and afraid. Had his demise been slow and painful, or swift and painless? Her brother had sworn on the Seven-Pointed Star that he would not fight – merely deliver the Queen’s message. Aemond had taken no such oath. Had Visenya known, she would have held on to Luke and besought him not to go.

          If I had flown to Storm’s End in his stead, Aemond could have slain me, and my brother would still be alive.

          ‘Daor,’ whispers Aemond, at last. (No.)

          Visenya stifles a sob, tears escaping her eyes, dampening his thumbs. She foolishly believed that her grief would wane. His confession barely scrapes the surface. Visenya feels no relief, no closure. Has she been on an erroneous campaign to absolve herself of any responsibility, to alleviate her own conscience, and to forgive Aemond – chasing these ends to the detriment of Luke’s memory? If I wanted to bring justice to my brother, I would have slit his killer’s throat and let him bleed out on the ground.

          When Aemond succumbs and pulls her into him, Visenya doesn’t resist. The buckles of his tunic are cold and rough against her cheek, contrasting the warmth that he radiates. She releases the exhale that she has been withholding. Her greatest flaw rears its hideous head – a flaw that has sown division amongst her family and has rendered her an outcast. Visenya had suffered for her refusal to forsake her friendship with Aemond, enduring disapproving scowls from her parents, mean jests and malicious accusations from her siblings, and a lack of compassion – all serving to remind her of her tenuous position.

          Her proximity to Aemond had even prompted her mother to spurn her as her heir – arguing that he would undermine her as Queen. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. I am the eldest child. By all rights, the throne should pass to me.

          Shoving those thoughts away, Visenya clutches his sides, sobs wracking her body. Aemond timidly buries his mouth in her locks, breathing in her scent.

          ‘Daor,’ he repeats, definitively, cradling the back of her head. (No.)

          The remainder of her defenses crumble. Visenya loathes that she errs, that she seeks and welcomes comfort from the man who is the source of her sorrow. With the realm plunged into war after Lucerys’ death, there has been no time to mourn – not for her grandsire Viserys, nor her sister Aemma, nor her brother Luke.

          An unavoidable war. We are Valyrian, and prone to violence. A testament to power corruption. Prior to the blood magic, the dragons, and the conquests, Valyrians had been a peaceful community of shepherds. They had become increasingly tyrannical and ambitious as their power had soared. The peak of our Freehold… and its ruin. Forewarned about the Doom by Daenys Targaryen’s prophetic dream, her forebears had fled to Dragonstone – a venture that the other, unsuspecting dragonlords had considered cowardice and had ridiculed. We had the last laugh.

          Targaryens have always been stubborn, passionate, fierce. Visenya is no exception. Despite their families’ hopes and despite his crimes, her love for Aemond hasn’t dwindled. Their bond is too strong, their souls and fates entwined. I am the blood of the dragon. Nobody dictates whom I love.

          And love is seldom simple.

          Aemond brushes his lips over her temple, causing her skin to tingle. Visenya lifts her eyes to meet his, and recognises the same ache and longing that lay dormant inside her. Affection blooms in her chest. She could stop this from flourishing, spare them both the misery. As children, they had found solace in each other’s company whenever their families had been the reason for their anguish, so they had promised to never hurt one another.

          A part of Visenya still yearns to love Aemond freely. Must her logic always be at odds with her emotions? The only man that I have ever desired, and I have been deprived of him my entire life. I have never been in control. The forbidden aspect merely furthers the appeal of the dalliance. She wants to surrender to the temptation, repercussions be damned.

          Visenya traces his mouth with her fingertips, reverently, and strokes his face – recommitting it to memory. Aemond leans into her touch, reveling in the gesture, his respiration shallow. The tips of their noses graze against each other. He wipes her tears before his digits fall on the sides of her neck, feeling her quickening pulse under the pads of his fingers. Aemond’s eye gleams with lust, igniting the same blaze within her. She peers at him from underneath her lashes, drowning in the depths of his blue eye. A shiver runs down her spine. Her lips tremble in suspense, the proximity making her dizzy.

          Aemond dips his head to capture her mouth in a tentative kiss. Visenya surges upwards to reciprocate, inhaling sharply through her nose, eyes slipping shut. Their lips mold together, their flame rekindled. His large, calloused hands grip her jaw, to guide her. She splays her hands over his chest, fisting the lapels of his coat, desperate to draw him closer. Visenya parts her lips, granting him entrance, tasting the lingering flavor of the wine that they had shared earlier. A familiar ardor seeps into her belly, immersing her body. Her fire has burned quietly for too long. Now, it has stirred again, emboldened to emerge.

          Aemond sinks his teeth into her bottom lip, splitting it and sucking the blood, famished. Visenya groans, her breath blowing the loose strands of hair that cover his forehead. Her knees weaken, and she grasps his shoulders for support, grateful that he wraps his arm around her middle. Her pelts land on the floor. Aemond steps forward, backing her into the table, and hoists her on it impetuously.

          Aemond kindly adjusts his belt, to remove the dagger betwixt them. The irony isn’t lost on Visenya. She spreads her legs, inviting, allowing him to settle between them. He sprawls over her, caging her in, his heavy weight almost crushing her against the table’s rigid, uncomfortable surface. His silky hair cascades around her head, framing his face, conferring a strange sense of privacy. Visenya peppers delicate pecks over his chin, continuing along his jaw, her digits prodding at his smooth neck.

          She fervidly awaits a kiss that never comes. Aemond hums affably, his arrogant smile shooting to her core. Their breaths mingle, his hands traveling up and down her sides with modest curiosity. Visenya huffs in exasperation, and shifts, ticklish, the heels of her feet digging into his ass. Her thumb catches his lower lip, pressing into it. Aemond holds her gaze, parting his lips enough to engulf her thumb. He swirls his tongue over it afore sucking on it gently. She watches him, captivated, her mouth slightly agape.

          The knot in her belly snaps, her patience having thinned, ousted by resolve. She pushes him off, so she can sit up, impelling him to stand. Aemond obliges without objection. Visenya hooks her fingers in his belt, to bring him nearer, and deftly unbuttons his tunic, revealing his bare chest – inch by inch. She drinks in the sight, caressing his glistening skin. The intolerable heat induces sweat to drip betwixt her breasts and to trickle down her spine.

          She leans in, only for Aemond to jerk his head away and deny her another kiss – the tip of her nose bumping against his cheek. He smirks, conceited, despite his ruddy complexion. Visenya gnashes her teeth, intent on retribution. Straightening her body, and looping her uninjured arm around Aemond, she licks his earlobe and bites it softly, eliciting a growl from him. He squeezes her hips in silent warning, and sneaks a hand under her shirt, to fondle her breast and pinch her nipple until it stiffens. Visenya moans, hushed, her head lolling back into her shoulders.

          Aemond rests his free hand on the base of her throat, his digits winding around it, lips latching onto her exposed neck. Visenya suppresses her whine, the air deserting her lungs. He incessantly strokes her bosom, his teeth abusing the sensitive skin of her neck. She drops her arms – mindful of her wounds – one hand surrounding his wrist, her other fumbling, blindly cupping his hardened member through his breeches. A salacious grunt rolls out of Aemond’s mouth, filling the tent.

          His fingers release her throat to tangle in her tresses, and yank, his hips grinding against hers, creating friction. He withdraws his lips from her, and tugs her hand away, his other hand raking down her abdomen. Her chuckle turns into a gasp as Aemond languidly rubs the wet area between her legs, his breath fanning her face. Visenya relishes in the waves of pleasure enveloping her body, her spine arching, though her soaking cunt clenches around nothing. She heaves her thighs higher, hugging his waist – lest he dare pull away from her.

          A metal item pokes at her thigh.

          My brooch.

          Visenya peels her eyes away from him, scrambling to salvage her composure. Aemond ceases his ministrations. He raises her chin with his thumb and forefinger, coaxing her to look at him. Her heart stutters, her vision bleary beneath his suffocating leer. The clouds in his eye have cleared… or he conceals them well. Their lips crash in a frantic kiss – her veins aflame, scalding. He swallows her wanton moan, kneading the flesh of her ass. Aemond cannot fool me. A constant tempest festers within him, ravenous for blood and revenge. Visenya would never be able to tame it. Nothing would.

          Numbing remorse smothers her fire. She had forgotten herself and her loyalties. She breaks the kiss, tasting ashes on her tongue. His mouth chases hers, his hand curling around the nape of her neck, to reunite their lips. Aemond bends her back, cradling her against him – the pressure on her shoulder tearing a whimper from her. He lays a tender, apologetic kiss there. Her digits slide into his locks, thwarting him. Visenya stares at the shadows dancing across the ceiling of the pavilion – Aemond’s head pillowed on her breasts.

          What am I doing? Where am I going? With him? Distant limbs envelop her, lips ghosting over her skin. He licks a stripe up the column of her throat and nips at it, nuzzling his nose against her neck. I would never betray my family. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. The dream is over. Bury it, and crawl out of this bottomless pit of vipers.

          He has been stretching seconds into minutes, delaying the inevitable, but he cannot stop it. The die has been cast.

          ‘Aemond, wait,’ pants Visenya, her own voice foreign to her, her nails clawing at his back, ‘We cannot. I am–’

          ‘Betrothed?’, deadpans Aemond, cocking his head to peek at her, crimson lips swollen, hair and clothes disheveled, ‘I’m aware. Your half-brother told me, at Storm’s End.’

          Her heart leaps into her throat, yet Visenya falters, preferring to disregard his comment and its implications. If Aemond and Lucerys had exchanged insults – and her brother had mentioned her betrothment – it might have incited the former to attack the latter. A door best left shut.

          ‘Lord Stark is a good man–’

          ‘Have you sunk so low?’, criticises Aemond, reproach etched on his features, ‘You are a Targaryen princess, the blood of Old Valyria. Dragons do not mate with other beasts, and we do not consort with lesser men.’

          Visenya blinks in incredulity, scanning his face for any indication of pretense. He has been collecting dangerous beliefs. Undoubtedly the result of Ser Crispin’s and Alicent Hightower’s influence. King Viserys had been too neglectful to bear any blame in that respect. He’s overly culpable in innumerable other matters.

          ‘If I have sunk low, I do not wish to imagine what hell you wander in,’ she retorts, dour, shoving him away, her lower back pressing against the edge of the table, ‘I do not require lessons on our heritage. Valyria is gone. I do not adhere to the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, nor do I delude myself about our superiority. According to this logic, your Westerosi mother is lesser. Everybody has their history and their pride. The Starks are the blood of the First Men, descendants of Bran the Builder. Cregan is my equal, and I will not bring him dishonor. You once said something similar to me, when we were younger.’

          Visenya purposely omitted that Cregan would have taken additional offence if Aemond – a usurper and a kinslayer – had been her choice of paramour. Following the annulment of her betrothment to Aemond, she had snuck into his bedchamber, and had urged him to claim her maidenhood. It would have compelled our parents to marry us to each other. He had adamantly refused, reiterating that he would dishonor her by doing so. Visenya wonders whether his consent would have changed the tide, whether he rues his decision now… were he capable of it.

          ‘I remember,’ mutters Aemond, cupping her cheeks, brushing his nose against hers, ‘Yn īlon issi daor riñar dombo.’ (But we are not children anymore.)

          ‘No, we are not,’ she assents, doleful, undeterred by his lingering lips on her forehead, ‘I am a woman grown, my mother’s daughter, and I vowed to marry Cregan. My word is not fickle. A foreign concept to you and your family.’

          She had suggested the match herself, on Dragonstone, prior to hers and her brothers’ departure. Supposing that the Queen’s appeal failed to persuade Lord Stark to pledge the North to their cause, Visenya would offer her hand in marriage.

          The memory of beholding Cregan for the first time still exhilarates her. She had been climbing down from Blackwing while Jace had approached Lord Stark, to greet him. Cloaked in furs, he had been an imperious presence – tall, brawny, handsome, graced with grey eyes, dark, wavy locks that cascaded to his shoulders, and a dense beard. His gaze had frequently drifted towards her. Jace had suavely introduced her, and Cregan had curtsied, addressing her as “princess.” Visenya had answered with “my lord” – her smile timid, her eyes wicked.

          The harsh weather hadn’t spoiled the northern capital’s beauty, magnificent structures, and rich culture. The twins had received a warm welcome at Winterfell, amidst the winter preparations, and Lord Stark had been a most hospitable host, entertaining his guests with drinking, sparring, and hunting trips in the wolfswood. Visenya had mingled with the commonfolk, conversing with them, helping them with their errands, and teaching their children how to read and write. Cregan had often watched her, fondly, from afar. Some servants had been intimidated by her appearance and her station, stammering through their responses. She had instructed them to simply call her “Visenya.”

          Whenever his duties had permitted, Cregan had accompanied her on walks around the castle, to the library, the ancient godswood and its hot springs, and the disturbing crypt that had contained the tombs of the deceased members of House Stark. His direwolf Splinter had ambled after them everywhere. They had discussed history, politics, trade, and their families, and had comforted one another in their grief, as Cregan’s wife had recently perished in childbirth. He had even confessed that Jace had reminded him of the brother that he had lost more than a decade ago. She had met his sweet babe Rickon, whom she had doted on. Cregan had bestowed upon Blackwing the highest distinction, deeming her a “formidable beast” – with his habitual morose disposition. Visenya had become besotted with him, regarding him as virtuous, conscientious, tenacious, and reputable.

          By the end of the twins’ stay in Winterfell, the Pact of Ice and Fire had been formed, whereby Visenya would wed Lord Stark, and the North would side with Queen Rhaenyra. He had forged a direwolf brooch for her, and she had gifted him one of her rings, to wear it as a necklace. Cregan and Jace had sworn an oath of brotherhood, sealed in blood.

          ‘You sold yourself to a wolf pup so that you may rally his army to your mother’s cause, and you boast about honor,’ accuses Aemond, scornful, satisfied that he discerns her imagined act, ‘Twas a different kind of sword that you required.’

          Sold myself? Visenya’s mouth twists downwards, her latent, crude contempt quivering. Blackwing rattles her shackles, screeching viscerally. He views me as property. I paid my price in kindness and youthful promises, so I am constrained into being his property. I have no freedom, no intuition, no capacity for judgment. I am a frail puppet dancing on my family’s strings, dependent on Aemond to rescue me. He would rather I were a fly in his web. What sort of person expects me to fulfil the vows that I uttered as a child?

          ‘Cregan would have honored his late father’s word,’ she contends, smoothing her garments, heedless of Aemond’s eye roaming over her body, ‘Lord Rickon Stark swore an oath in the throne hall, and acknowledged my mother as King Viserys’ heir. All of the Westerosi lords did, great and small.’

          Upon his lord father’s death, Cregan had inherited Winterfell at the age of thirteen, so his uncle Bennard had ruled as regent until his nephew had reached manhood. Bennard’s reluctance to relinquish power had spurred Cregan to imprison him and his three sons. Akin to Queen Rhaenyra’s plight, his kinsman had attempted to supplant him. Lady Jeyne Arryn – Queen Aemma’s cousin – had thrice endured uprisings that had contested her inheritance of the Eyrie.

          A hereditary curse. A woman’s curse. In this world of men, we women must band together.

          ‘Over twenty years have passed since then,’ specifies Aemond, shrugging blithely, ‘Most of those lords are dead, including the wolf pup’s father. Bones are all that is left of them and their vows.’

          Pup. A peculiar term to use for Cregan – a man older than they are. Aemond’s vanity confirms that, to the Greens, King Viserys’ succession amounts to nothing. Their cause is false – founded on quicksand, conspiracy, and murder – and they bury themselves deeper and deeper into an abyss of lies and treachery.

          ‘They represented their Houses and spoke on their behalf,’ corrects Visenya, her shoulders slumping from the sheer absurdity of having to explain this, ‘Enlighten me, nuncle. How does your situation differ from mine? Are you not betrothed to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters for her father’s troops? Or is it all four daughters? I have heard varied accounts.’

          The illiterate Lord of Storm’s End – another traitor responsible for Luke’s demise. Her brother Joffrey had sworn a terrible oath of vengeance against him and the Kinslayer. The Velaryons had prevented Joff from instantly mounting his dragon Tyraxes to exact revenge. Would I have done the same? He is merely a boy, too young to know such hatred and grief. He and Rhaena are in the Vale, out of harm’s way. Willful Baela remains on Dragonstone, to fight by Jace’s side. Aegon and Viserys, the youngest, are with them. We must ensure their safety, else the war will strip them of their innocence… and their lives.

          Dragonstone, Harrenhal, Winterfell, the Vale, King’s Landing, Stoney Sept… My family is divided. If only I could protect them all…

          ‘I did what was asked of me,’ defends Aemond, forlorn, resting their foreheads together, ‘I never intended to wed her.’ He adds, his words scattered among hasty, consecutive kisses, ‘We have always agreed that we would marry one another. I have neither forgotten, nor forsaken that. I want you.’

          ‘I thought that we were not children anymore,’ she echoes, shrewd, bending to retrieve her discarded pelts, ‘Our parents annulled our betrothment years ago. You would have us marry without your mother’s blessing? I value my well-being, even if you do not.’

          ‘You are mistaken,’ coos Aemond, holding her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles, her palm, her inner wrist, ‘It’s not too late. There’s still a chance for us.’

          Visenya had once shared that sentiment. He lives in the past, clinging to it, misconstruing it. Matters betwixt them would never be the same – a truth that he hasn’t accepted. I would have waited for him... Aemond had usurped the throne and had slain her brother. Now, he hopes to abuse her clemency. What stops him from mistreating her, from hurting her? Why must I always be patient and compassionate? Why must I always forgive and forget? What will I gain from it? Aemond? It’s not enough. His redemption is a prolonged, tedious endeavor that she will not partake in.

          I’m severing my noose.

          ‘A chance?’, snarls Visenya, in conjunction with Blackwing’s shrieks, ‘Is that what you offered my brother when you unleashed Vhagar on him?’ She folds her arms over her chest, her furs caught between them. ‘You have already spilled my blood. I will not present you with a chance to do it again. Aye, I once wanted to marry you. A summer dream of summer children. Winter is coming.’

          Ripping the cord that binds her to Aemond will be excruciating, like slashing a part of herself. He is the thorn lodged in her side, her twin flame, his scent and touch imprinted on her, haunting her asleep and haunting her awake. The only power I wield over him is denying him myself.

          ‘You have returned to threats,’ chides Aemond, buttoning his tunic, visibly irritated by her usage of the House Stark words, ‘Parroting words that are not your own, chirruping tales that others have stuffed your head with, like a little bird.’

          ‘‘Tis not a threat, beloved,’ purrs Visenya, woven with venom, savoring his indignation, ‘It is a fact. The maesters of the Citadel will release the white ravens soon, to announce its arrival.’

          She had witnessed the foreboding signs with her own eyes, at Winterfell – the resplendent snow, the howling winds, the bitter cold. Winter is upon us… and we are vying for the throne.

          ‘‘Tis also a fact that your wolf pup has a wolf pup of his own,’ jeers Aemond, donning his eyepatch, ‘A son whom he fathered on another wench. A son who will inherit Winterfell and all of its attendant lands, titles, and incomes. A vile indignity, a humiliation, to you and your brood. You would submit to a puny northern savage, as his second wife?’

          Puny northern savage? Innovative.

          “Our children will sit the Iron Throne,” Visenya had told Cregan in the godswood, with the snow floating around them, piling in thick layers on the ground, the trees, and the castle walls. I kissed the snowflakes on his lashes, and they melted on my lips. Her heart flutters at the memory. My sullen wolf. She longs for him more than she can express.

          Would that appease Aemond? Nothing would. He has become spiteful. “Wench.” Lady Arra of House Norrey had been Cregan’s late wife and cherished childhood companion. She had dismally died birthing Rickon. I will not debate Cregan’s family with Aemond, a jealous craven threatened by suckling babes.

          ‘Rickon is an innocent babe,’ reasons Visenya, hugging herself, suddenly feeling naked without her armor, ‘Aye, he is the heir to Winterfell, and no threat to me. I will not set my children against their brother, nor will I encourage them to steal his birthright. I am not your mother.’

          And, oh, how you despise that…

          ‘I suppose that you will be no threat to him, either, should you die in childbirth,’ ventures Aemond, elated at the notion, his eye shimmering in the light of the flames, ‘And your wolf pup would be twice widowed.’

          Visenya lashes out, striking him so viciously across the face that his head whips to the side. Blackwing’s mighty roars rumble outside. Aemond doesn’t even blench.

          She had never hit him before. If he is startled or enraged by the assault, he masks it – devoid of any emotion. Visenya quashes the temptation to shout at him, to call him a dog, a pig, a rat. He is beneath these creatures. He has no conscience, and his cruelty is boundless. Her grandmother Queen Aemma and her aunt Laena had both expired in childbed. Her sister had been stillborn. What does Aemond know about the perils and throes of women? Nothing.

          I could flee, go anywhere but here... Her flesh crawls. I’m his captive in so many ways. Briny tears well in her eyes.

          Tears cannot quench dragonfire.

          ‘Do you love the wolf pup?’, challenges Aemond, his demeanor impassable, though she distinguishes a crack in his frigid tone.

          And if I do? You would flay him alive, and force me to watch. The question of Visenya’s suitors continues to be intricate and contentious. The Disputed Lands of Westeros. She had been engaged to Aegon, to Aemond, and to Daeron, and had been courted by Westerosi Houses, Essosi princes, triarchs, archons, nobles, magisters, merchants, and generals. The Red Kraken would have made me his salt wife. Visenya had rejected all of them. Adulterers and drunkards old enough to be my grandsires and fat enough to crush me beneath them.

          Rhaenyra had been sympathetic to her daughter’s predicament; she herself had initially opposed marriage. My mother had been younger than I am when she had birthed me and Jace. Visenya shudders at the thought. Her father hadn’t been concerned, confiding that she could wed out of duty and fuck whomever she pleased. Men always do so. Why shouldn’t I? Her twin had convinced her that she would find a suitable pair, to her liking. Jace had the right of it. I chose Cregan, and he chose me. She touches her brooch through her trousers. I’m assuming control of my life and my future.

          ‘I will,’ declares Visenya, seething, jutting her chin, ‘He is neither a usurper, nor a kinslayer. Cregan is worth a thousand of you, and more.’

          ‘Yet you delay marrying him, and the wolf pup delays assembling his banners and marching,’ admonishes Aemond, his reddened cheek beginning to swell, ‘Perhaps you are not as devoted to each other as you think you are.’

          A surrounded animal, slinging its final, pitiful blows. Her wolf’s motives for not marching had been warranted. He awaits the collection of the harvest, so that he can feed his subjects throughout the winter. The Southrons seal themselves in their castles with their bountiful harvests, whereas the Northerners bear the brunt of the burden – snow, frost, famine, death. Cregan’s obligations lie with his people and his lands.

          As for herself, Visenya prefers to marry him during peace and stability. He could mourn his wife properly, and he would not be widowed again, if I were to… to…

          ‘His Winter Wolves are at the Twins,’ she states, noting Aemond’s mouth twitching, ‘They have joined their forces with the Freys’, and will resume their advance south. They are merely a fraction of the North’s strength. I assure you. Cregan will honor his vow.’

          She had wept upon reading Lord Roderick Dustin’s words to Lady Sabitha Frey. We have come to die for the dragon queen. Cregan had taught Visenya about the Winter Wolves – elderly men who leave their homes in order to conserve supplies for their kin. Grisly custom. Those warriors hope to die for glory and plunder. They will never reunite with their families. Wretched conditions, wretched measures.

          Aemond must have observed a spark in her eyes, heard something amiss in her voice that aroused his suspicion.

          ‘What have you done, Visenya?’, he demands, narrowing his eye, fixing her with a hawkish glare.

          I fucked the wolf pup. And Alyn Velaryon… Not both at the same time. She had befriended Alyn and his older brother Addam shortly after hers and Jace’s return from Winterfell. Her twin had summoned Targaryen bastards – “dragonseeds” – for the riderless dragons, promising wealth, lands, and knighthood for those triumphant. Addam’s feat of claiming Seasmoke had emboldened the Sea Snake to petition Queen Rhaenyra to legitimise the Hull boys. Conveniently, their mother Marilda had revealed that they had been sired by Ser Laenor Velaryon. And Mushroom is seven feet tall. My stepfather had no interest in women. Lord Corlys had proceeded to name Addam his heir.

          Alyn, however, had been less fortunate. Sheepstealer had bathed his cloak in flames. His brother had doused the fire, saving his life. At least Grey Ghost had vanished. Those had been wild dragons. Alyn is lucky to be alive. Grand Maester Gerardys had tended his burns, and Visenya had changed his bandages thrice a day – delighting in his insolence. The habit had blossomed into clumsy intimacy. She had seldom stayed the night – a decision that hadn’t troubled Alyn. He never judged me. Visenya misses him; his jests, his smile, his company.

          A furious Jace had reprimanded his twin for her recklessness and temerity, arguing that Cregan was a good man, a second chance – everything that she had ever dreamed of. Her involvement with Alyn could compromise their indispensable alliance with the North. Visenya had listened to his warning, remorse slithering around her throat.

          I have been remiss… but Alyn is only a matter of brevity. I have to tread prudently.

          ‘I do as I please,’ she asserts, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips, ‘Do not fret, cousin. Cregan treated me well and was most gentle with me… the first time.’

          Her admission slices him to the bone. Aemond’s expression sinks, desolation flooding his eye. A child looks at her, into her, agony engraved on his features. Have I been too austere? Spoken too harshly? He had betrayed her trust, had usurped the throne, and had murdered her brother. My sins pale in comparison.

          Aemond recoils, turning away from her, his head lowered. His fists clench at his sides. The table behind her shakes at Vhagar’s menacing growl. Visenya maintains her composure, sheathing herself in steel. I will not cow. I am the blood of the dragon.

          And I will not regret Cregan.

          While she hadn’t lacked for suitors, those men had sought to marry her out of pride and ambition. My Targaryen heritage brings their House closer to the Iron Throne, and my dragon is power.

          She had proposed to Cregan that she would willingly surrender her maidenhood to him, as a token of her intention to wed him. Fighting a war a maiden seems particularly dreadful. Should anything befall her, Cregan wouldn’t feel cheated or insulted – he would have claimed her gift of innocence.

          I lost my innocence long ago.

          Visenya hadn’t abused her station to compel him to lie with her. She wouldn’t have been offended if he hadn’t desired her.

          “I would be,” her wolf had responded, earning a chuckle from her.

          Two nights – and numerous fiery kisses – later, he had accepted her offer. A timorous ardor had washed over Visenya, her heart hammering against her rib cage. Cregan had led her out of the godswood, past the hot springs, the main iron gate with its walls, across the inner yards, into the castle, and up the winding stairs – retreating to his solar, where they had shared half a flagon of wine. He had kindly asked her if she had been nervous.

          No. I am a Targaryen princess, a dragonrider… and the wine soothed my nerves.

          Their intimate moments had been sweet, passionate, exhilarating. Visenya remembers them so vividly. His large hands cupping her face, disrobing her with deft precision, caressing and fondling every inch of her. His darkened eyes reveling in her figure. Cregan lifting her into his arms as though she weighed nothing, laying her down on the bed. His tongue licking her stiffened nipples, his mouth sucking on her plump breasts. Her fist stroking his leaking cock, guiding him into her heat slowly. Cregan swallowing her soft whine when entering her, the stretch burning deliciously. The overwhelming need to hold him nearer. Wrapping her limbs around him as he vigorously thrust into her, the featherbed engulfing her. The chambers brimming with their moans, gasps, and the lascivious sounds of sweaty skin slapping against sweaty skin. Cregan intertwining their fingers, Cregan driving her to the heights of pleasure, Cregan spilling his seed inside her, blending with her maiden’s blood.

          Slick pools between her legs, and Visenya squeezes her thighs shut, salivating at the memory.

          He had collapsed on top of her, and – at her insistence – had lied there, panting, his face buried in her neck, his beard tickling her. An equally breathless Visenya had threaded her digits through his damp hair, pecking his cheek and his temple. Cregan had rolled off of her, grunting at the effort, and had pulled her into him, allowing her to rest her head on his chest, and to hook her leg over his. Her wolf had attentively inquired whether he had hurt her.

          “Not at all,” she had murmured, demure, draping her arm over him, their combined fluids trickling on her groin, “You have been so good to me.”

          Visenya had drifted off to sleep in his safe embrace, lulled by his heartbeat and his snores. His body had been a hearth underneath the pelts. I am the blood of the dragon, allured by warmth and fire.

          She and Cregan had spent most evenings together – to the dismay of his bed. Days had been dedicated to duties, negotiations, and furtive glances, nights for themselves and for each other; for raw lust, hushed laughter, and the solace that they had been starved of; for their satiation and contentment. Her loins had often ached by the next morning. A good ache.

          Cregan had even taken her in the godswood, under a starry sky, before the heart tree, following their sword sparring. Afterwards, he had suggested that they retire to his solar.

          ‘To sleep?’, questioned Visenya, coyly, tangling their feet together.

          ‘If that is what the princess wants,’ granted her wolf, amiably.

          ‘The princess wants you,’ she mumbled, nestling against him, their clothes and furs providing scant shelter from the cold.

          ‘She has me,’ vouched Cregan, carding his fingers through her locks, ‘All of me.’

          Oh, yes. He has had me in the sight of the old gods, and I have bled for him. Targaryens have always had a grievously deep connection to blood. It’s one of our House’s words. Our forebears used blood magic to bind the winged beasts to them. We cut ourselves and drink each other’s blood in the marriage ceremony. We practice incest to ensure the purity of our bloodline. The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Blood unites, and blood divides.

          Their stealthy meetings might not have been shrouded in such secrecy. Jace had dared to tease Visenya about the marks that he had glimpsed on her throat. She had thrown a snowball at him, hitting him in the nose.

          ‘Locking myself in a castle is more appealing than waging war against my own kin,’ admitted Visenya, in an instance of fragility, atop one of Winterfell’s towers.

          ‘You’re not destined to hide in a castle,’ proponed Cregan, petting Splinter, basking in the sun – reminiscent of their early mornings abed. I would trace the lines of his back, the scars on his chest, admire his naked form as he opened the shutters… ‘Your hair is akin to the snow around us, your eyes the color of the sunset sky. Why would nature make you so lovely, if not to behold you and to reflect on you? The sun must see you to shine, the moon to glow.’

          Visenya tore her gaze away from him, misty-eyed.

          Her Valyrian appearance had protected her from japes about being a Strong bastard. Is that term so preposterous? My parents hadn’t been married at my birth. I had borne the name Velaryon for a decade. People had viewed her as a Myrish carpet – to be gaped at – and had treated her like a stud-mare, to be bought, owned, and mounted to produce sons – her beauty a mere instrument to that end. Devious motives behind hollow adulation.

          ‘You are gracious, my lord,’ rasped Visenya, flustered, the gossip of the commonfolk below muffling her answer slightly, ‘I am flattered.’

          ‘I have spoken the truth,’ affirmed Cregan, tipping her chin up, coaxing her to peer at him, ‘You are meant to be kissed.’

          ‘By you,’ she assented, his gloved digits wiping her tears, delicately.

          On the day of the dragon twins’ departure from Winterfell, Vermax and Blackwing had been impatient to leave the North and its freezing temperatures. Visenya hadn’t shared their zeal. I’m not a little girl anymore. The winds of winter are rising. There is a war to be fought and won.

          “Come back to me,” her wolf whispered to her, their joined hands concealed in their cloaks and pelts.

          I will.

          Aemond’s subtle movements wrest her to the present.

          We’re at war with the Greens. I’m a prisoner at Stoney Sept, in the Pretender’s camp. My Cregan is leagues away.

          I must not forget my mission.

          Aemond’s insidious posture betrays him, his shoulders on the brink of crumbling under the burden of his pride and envy.

          ‘A dragon rendered a broodmare by a wolf pup,’ he chastises, repulsed, his features drawn into solemn lines, ‘Have you spread your legs for his army, too? I wouldn’t be surprised, given your taste for depravity.’

          Visenya refrains from guffawing, albeit with great difficulty. Oh, may the Crone’s lantern light my path to wisdom, and may the Father judge me justly, and may the Mother show me mercy, for I am a filthy wanton, and Lord Stark does possess a generous… host.

          ‘I would rather be his broodmare than be your wife,’ she spits, defiant, baring her teeth, ‘The wolf pup is Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.’ And you are insufferably obtuse. ‘He and his bannermen will liberate me, should the Winter Wolves and the river lords fail to do so, and should you yourself refuse to release me. Are you so mad that you would oppose the might and wrath of the entire North?

          ‘I have heard enough about your wolf pup,’ announces Aemond, his nostrils flaring, ‘He has dishonored you. Perhaps I ought to march on his bleak castle, after I seize Harrenhal.’

          You ought to dress up in motley. Visenya shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her brow creased. The Hightowers must have abandoned their wits putting him in charge. Aemond is utterly inept. Their Lannister friends will find trouble at the Red Fork, and he will never take Harrenhal from my father.

          ‘Your men are unlikely to survive the muds of the riverlands, whose lords have unanimously declared for my mother,’ argues Visenya, twirling a lock of her hair around her forefinger, ‘I doubt that they will endure the dire conditions of the North… also pledged to Queen Rhaenyra.’

          ‘I have Vhagar,’ reminds Aemond, his arrogance oozing like pus.

          ‘And what of it?’, she hisses, squinting her eyes, ‘You would torch the North, from the Neck to the Wall, on hoary, old Vhagar? Tens of thousands would perish.’

          Despite rivaling the combined size of the other kingdoms, the North is scarcely populated. Their lives, lands, history, and culture matter all the same.

          ‘Your wolf pup amongst them, if the gods are good,’ drones Aemond, looping his digits through his belt.

          ‘Cregan will die of old age, in my arms,’ corrects Visenya, keeping her furled fists at her sides, lest she strike him again, ‘You cannot vanquish the North. It is too vast and too wild. The Neck is impenetrable, filled with swamps and bogs. Moat Cailin is a choke point, and it has shielded the North from southron invasions for millennia. This is folly, Aemond. It will be your doom.’

          Then why am I trying to dissuade him?

          ‘Or on the contrary, the glory will be mine,’ boasts Aemond, his permanent smirk bolstering his confidence, ‘Those savages might dare to resist me, but in the end, they will pose a minor obstacle. Aegon the Conqueror brought the North to its knees.’

          ‘Because King Torrhen Stark bent the knee after the Field of Fire, to avoid bloodshed,’ objects Visenya, scowling, ‘Do not attempt to revise history. Ours will not redeem you. The kinslayer is accursed in the eyes of gods and men. The lickspittles that buzz around you will never be sincere, so I will bestow the truth upon you. You are cruel, despicable, and you nurse a grievance like a suckling babe. You are not Aegon the Conqueror. You are a prideful fool playing at war.’ You’re not good at it, either. ‘And winter is coming. That is the truth.’

          ‘The truth?’, repeats Aemond, creeping up on her, his eye boring into hers – a predator scenting its prey, ‘What do you know of the truth, Visenya? You lie and deceive and plot with every breath that you draw. You are a traitor to the realm, daughter of traitors, sister of traitors. You chose the Iron Throne over me.’

          You chose for me.

          ‘My mother is the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,’ she pronounces, her smile ominous, ‘The only traitor here is you, nuncle. You cower from the truth, and you retain it from everyone.’ Visenya tiptoes, and their lips almost touch. ‘You are looking with the wrong eye. Perhaps you will have to close the other to finally see.’

          Aemond cups her face roughly, pressing her against the table.

          ‘Your mother will never sit the Iron Throne,’ he sneers, ‘And neither will you. She still spurns you as her heir, but I vow to pay you the homage that you so desperately crave, and to lavish you with precious gifts – the heads of your family, your betrothed, and your stepson. They shall decorate the spikes of the Red Keep–’

          Visenya swiftly yanks his dagger from his belt. Aemond seizes her wrist too late. The tip of the blade digs at the underside of his chin.

          ‘Enough, Aemond!’, bellows Visenya, and for a moment, she is her ferocious Blackwing incarnate, ‘Are you deaf, as well as blind? You have usurped the throne, murdered my brother, and butchered hundreds of innocents. Your actions have consequences. Heed my words, for the love that you claim to bear me.’ She drags the point of the dirk down to the base of his throat, nicking him. ‘You will not make me an orphan and a widow. You are surrounded by enemies in every direction, and more are gathering as we speak. We have the armies, the fleet, the dragons, and most importantly, the legitimacy. An advantage that you will never have. So, either kill me or let me go, and flee to Essos, because you cannot – you will not – survive what’s coming for you. The choice is yours.’

          Aemond’s malicious eye studies her, a forlorn wall of blue ice.

          The boy I grew up with is gone. Hasn’t Visenya sensed it all along? We are not children anymore. The time has come to accept it.

          When has it all gone so awry, become so twisted? She mourns the boy that she had once shared everything with – a childhood, hopes, dreams. Those died with Lucerys.

          Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did… and tears cannot quench dragonfire.

          It ends as it had begun, with fire and blood.

          Bloodlines will burn.

          Visenya licks the blood off of the tip of the dagger, spins the weapon, and presents it to Aemond, hilt first.

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic @aaleksmorozova @aemondsversion @aereth @agirllovespancakes @another-life-addict​ @burningshewolf @buttercup--bee​ @cecespizza01​ @cleastrnge​ @crazylokonugget​ @five-seconds-of-socialising​ @flosaureum​ @haystack-boy​ @lavendertales​ @lordsrks @maharani-radha​ @mandaloresson​ @masset-fotia​ @missusnora @moonlight-prose​ @oloreaa​ @poppyreader​ @prettyboyeddiemunson​ @revolution-starter​ @sofietargaryen​ @stargaryenx​ @strawberrypeachesss​ @sullho​ @sweethoneyblossom1​ @s-we-e-t-t-ea​ @that--thing​ @valyriians​ 

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targayren fic #aemond targaryen #cregan stark #alyn velaryon #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen/oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen/reader #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark fic #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark/oc #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark/reader #alyn velaryon fic #alyn velaryon x oc #alyn velaryon/oc #alyn velaryon x reader #alyn velaryon/reader #daemon targaryen #criston cole #rhaenyra targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #tori's flames of deceit

[scorpionrising]

there's an ache in you, put there by the ache in me (pt. 1: the road not taken looks real good now)

pairing: aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc word count: 8971 content warnings: explicit sexual content, major character death, cheating/infidelity (not really, but also kind of – it'll make sense when you read it), will add to this list as needed read part 2 here

notes: this is also cross-posted to ao3, as that is my primary place for posting, if you would prefer to read there. this author is fully team black, so proceed with caution. background relationships include cregan/jace/baela and luke/rhaena. feel free to read heavily into daena and rhaenyra's interactions too if you so choose

before reading, please be aware that this is an AU of a completed fanfiction i have written called fireplace ashes. you really don't need to have read it though to read this, as it's pretty self contained. all you need to know at the start:

daena velaryon is the youngest daughter of rhaenys targaryen and corlys velaryon; the same age as aegon. she claimed vermithor when she was eight and laenor was her favorite person in the world growing up, so she loves her nephews very much. she is betrothed to jace and neither of them are happy about it. when rhaenyra sent luke to storm's end, daena went with him. when he chased after luke, she stopped him, and this is where we leave off...

edit, 12/18/2023: because i forgot to mention this before posting — re: any references made to sarya. sarya is an oc from the fic i wrote that this is based on. she is daena’s handmaiden with whom daena has had a clandestine relationship that is so doomed by the narrative that they are both entirely aware of it

Daena and Aemond spoke more and more with each passing day. Mariyah was still sick, confined to her bed and face growing paler as the storms raged outside. Aemond had grown surprisingly competent in dealing with the barn animals, so she spent a majority of her days attending to Mariyah.

“Perhaps it was a miracle,” Mariyah said in a croaking voice as Daena wrung out a cloth to lay atop her forehead.

“What was?” Daena asked. 

“Stumbling upon you,” Mariyah said, closing her eyes as Daena laid the cloth down. “The gods knew.”

“What did they know?” 

“That I would die, and they ensured I would not die alone.” 

There was a faint smile on her deeply lined face, as though she were at peace. 

“Oh, don’t say that,” Daena said, taking care to smooth down Mariyah’s gray hair. 

“Ever since my Royce passed three years ago, I’ve been waiting for the gods to take me. We never had children, you know.” Mariyah’s muddy green eyes sprung open and she reached out a wrinkled hand to touch Daena’s face. Tears began brimming as she spoke once more. “I’ve been alone for so long. It’s been wonderful, having you and your husband here.” 

Daena partly hated herself for lying to Mariyah, but if it gave the old woman comfort in her last days to think she was providing aid to a happy couple in love, she would continue the charade until the moment the storms broke. 

“I’d like you and Jack to keep the house,” Mariyah whispered. “Let it be your shelter. Go to Essos if you wish, but let the house remain standing, I beg. Let it still be filled with love even once I’m gone.” 

Feeling tears in her own eyes begin to well, Daena nodded. If this was a way to settle her debt with Mariyah, she would declare this house as royal property. It would be a hunting getaway for her ancestors for years to come. It would never crumble as a way to pay thanks to the woman who saved her. 

“Of course,” Daena said finally. “We’ll take care of your home.”

“Make it your home,” Mariyah begged. “Make it yours.” 

“We will,” Daena promised. “We will.” 

Mariyah nodded, contended by Daena’s words, and her eyes fluttered close once more. Her chest stuttered, but then began to rise and fall in time. Pursing her lips, Daena pulled the covers up the Mariyah’s chin and removed the damp cloth from her forehead. She let the water pitcher rest on the bedside table and filled a glass with water in case Mariyah woke up thirsty. 

When she went down the stairs, Aemond was sitting by the fire in the main room of the house reading. The candles were dim, burnt down to the wicks around him. They would have to replace them on the morrow with the new ones. 

“What are you reading?” she asked him.

He glanced up from his book and pressed his lips together. “A book of Lysene poetry. The old woman is more learned than I thought.” 

“Her name is Mariyah,” Daena said, scowling and taking a seat in the chair across from him. She pointed her feet out and let the flames warm her bare ankles. “You ought to have some respect, you know.” 

He scoffed at her but did not look back down at his book. Instead, he met her eyes brazenly. Despite herself, she delighted in the way the flames licked at the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. The question was on the tip of her tongue, begging to be asked, but she could not find the words in actuality. 

“Our families think us dead,” Daena whispered instead, staring into the flames. 

“And whose fault is that?” he retorted. 

She flexed her fingers and clenched her jaw, wondering what it might be like to fling her fist into his jaw. 

“What if we stay dead?” she asked him.

“If you’d like me to kill you, just give the word,” he said through his teeth. 

“Not like that,” she snapped. “I just— Mariyah told me when she dies she wants us— or Alyse and Jack, rather— to keep the house… and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to stay here and live a simple life.” 

“You wouldn’t like that,” Aemond said. He closed his book and set it aside on the floor by his feet. “It would bore you senseless.”

“You said the same thing about my marriage to Jace,” Daena pointed out. She flexed her feet and tilted her head back to stare at the dark ceiling. “It would seem I am destined for a life of dreadful boredom.” 

She sighed loudly and pushed her braids off her shoulder to fall over the back of the chair. Aemond’s eye was trained directly on her face, seeming to see through her to her very soul. 

“Would it not be better to be bored on my own terms, living my own life rather than forced into a loveless marriage?” 

“That would mean abandoning your family,” he pointed out, “which you would never do.”

She huffed and dropped her hands onto her lap. “You’re right. But it’s nice to pretend, I suppose.”

“What’s the point in pretending?” he asked her. “We are not children.” 

“You’re infuriating,” she snapped. “We’ve been stuck here for days on end with nothing to do, knowing our families are preparing for war! What’s the point of any of it? Why shouldn’t I imagine an easier life?” 

“Because it makes you a coward,” he told her as though it were the simplest thing in the world, voice too placid for her liking. “You cannot run from your destiny, Daena, no matter how hard you might try.”

“I’ve never run from my destiny,” she said defensively, remembering the way Helaena looked at her and whispered ‘Dragonslayer’ all those years ago.  

He hummed and turned to the flames, barring the sapphire in his eye from view. All she could see was the unmarred half of his face, and she could see the strange little boy in his bones. She had quite liked that boy, but she thought he might be long dead by now. 

“I hope they betrothed Jace to Baela in my absence,” she confessed in a small voice. “She could love him in a manner I could never bear to, I think.” 

He slid his feet forward. The house shoes Mariyah had provided for him were neatly placed at one of the chair legs, but he wore thick woolen socks all the same. The heal of one of the socks was fraying and the other was drooping so low that she could see his bony ankle poking out from beneath the pants that were too short for him. It made him look disgustingly human. 

“Which Baratheon girl were you going to marry?” 

“I do not know,” he said. “Whichever one I found the most tolerable, I suppose.”

“How romantic.” She smirked a bit to herself and adjusted her weight in the seat for a more comfortable position. “I envy the smallfolk in this. They are allowed to fall in love before they marry. We must make an attempt at love only after the wedding, if at all.”

“I’d take a castle and not having to cook my own meals and slaughter my own animals over love any day,” Aemond said. 

She frowned, pitying him not for the first time and likely not for the last. 

“That’s terribly sad, Aemond.”

When he did not respond, she sighed and stood up. 

“I will be going to bed now, I think…” She made her way across the room and faltered, turning back to look at him. He was staring into the empty seat. “Goodnight, Aemond.” 

He turned. “Goodnight, Daena.”

With a strange, heavy feeling in her chest, she settled into the bed she made for herself on the floor and laid her head down. Tonight, sleep would not come, no matter how strongly she yearned for it. She tossed and turned, trying to find an acceptable position. Sometime later, Aemond entered and blew out the candles. She listened to him shuffle around and settle down. Once he laid down, he was still. She heard his breaths turn deep as sleep took him over. Irritated by that, she groaned into her pillow and flipped to attempt to sleep on her back. 

“Just come up here.”

Her eyes sprung open despite the total darkness. She had thought him fast asleep by now. 

“What?” she asked. “Don’t be absurd, Aemond. That would be—”

“I do believe we are far past what is and is not proper at this point,” he told her. “The bed is plenty large enough for two.”

She thought of what her mother and father might say, of what Sarya would believe, of what Jace and Luke might think of her. To share a bed with the enemy was bordering on treason, but was Aemond truly an enemy? Not to her, she thought a bit shamefully. 

“You are just saying that to lure me in with false pretenses so that you might sully my name and reputation later on,” she accused, though she knew it was rather halfhearted. 

“Gods be good,” he grunted. “Daena, just come up here and sleep.”

“Fine,” she muttered, hating herself for being so weak. 

It was merely because her back was beginning to ache all through the day from sleeping on the floor for the last two weeks. That was all. Nothing more. 

Pillows in hand, she climbed up and made herself comfortable on the bed. She was deeply conscious of Aemond laying stock still beside her, pale skin exposed. Heat from his body radiated towards her and she was mindful not to curl into it, instead turning her back to him and squeezing her eyes shut. She prayed for the storms to end early and for Vermithor to finish healing soon to take her away from this place.

Forgetting she had not gone to sleep on the floor, she was confused when she woke up to warmth and soft cushions and a weight thrown across her middle. She opened her eyes to find Aemond’s head tucked into her shoulder, hand splayed over her stomach. Instantly, she stiffened. This was an intimacy she had only known with Sarya. A traitorous part of herself was glad for it, having missed the feeling of falling asleep wrapped up in another. She quickly murdered that thought and turned onto her side to attempt to slip out of Aemond’s grip. Thankfully, he was a deep sleeper and did not awaken from her efforts. If it were up to her, he would never learn of this.  

Mariyah passed four days later in her sleep, and Daena found that her heart was broken. Mariyah, who had been so deeply kind and had taken in two strangers without a thought, was dead and the world was worse off for it. 

“We have to bury her,” she insisted. 

“Look outside,” Aemond said, gesturing to the raging rain and wind. “You want to dig a grave?” 

“It’s either that or we let her rot in here,” Daena argued. “Don’t be so cold hearted, Aemond.”

“Fine,” Aemond hissed. “You can dig the grave yourself. I want no part in it.” 

And so she did. Wrapped in the cloak Mariyah wore the night she took them in, Daena marched outside with a shovel and began digging. The grave was shallow, but it would have to do. With all the rain, wind, and mud splattering up onto her face, it was nearly impossible to see what she was doing. Lightning cracked through the sky and a branch snapped off the tree just to her left. 

When she turned to go back to the house, Aemond was already walking out with Mariyah’s body wrapped neatly in one of the blankets from her bed. Clearly, he had changed his mind. She was sure she was crying, but she was thankful to the rain for obscuring it from Aemond. Her throat closed as he gently laid Mariyah into the grave she dug. She had never seen him capable of such gentleness before.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

If he heard her, he offered no response. Instead, he took the shovel from her hands and began to cover Mariyah’s body. He moved quickly and methodically and did not even spare her a glance. With every day they spent together, she realized that she understood very little about the prince. He kept his motivations so close to his chest that she was constantly, utterly befuddled by him. Once he was done covering the grave, he stood at Daena’s side—as though waiting for her to move. 

“I wrote to you,” she heard herself say, voice hushed in confession. “After that day on the rocky island, I wrote to you.”

“Yes,” he said.

Something within her shattered. She had hoped ceaselessly that the raven had been lost, or that someone else had gotten the letter and kept it from him. That day on the rocky island with him had been one of the best she ever had since Laena’s death, and now they would never ride dragons together again. Her eyes burned. 

“Why did you never write back?”

“It seemed pointless,” he said, very pointedly not looking at her. 

“I must confess,” she said, “I do not understand your reasoning.” 

He flexed his hand, splaying his fingers out. He rounded on her, shoulders set back. The cloak’s hood was low on his forehead, but she could see the deep indigo of his eye clear as day. There was confliction written in his iris, and then determination as a muscle in his jaw ticked. 

“Three years ago,” he said, voice hard and cold as sharp steel, “I had intended to ask for your hand.” 

It should not have surprised her, with everyone around her back then telling her that he was attempting to court her, and yet it did. The dragon brooch he had gifted her was proof enough of that, but she still had been so blind to it. She had thought it a friendship, and him no more than a boy with a crush. She had no idea that his feelings had ran so deep. 

“After that day on the island, I went to my mother and told her my plans. She forbade it and told me I was not to see you again, on account of your allegiances.” 

“Oh,” she whispered. “Aemond, I—”

“It matters not,” he said. 

“Of course it matters,” she said.

A great gust of wind hit her directly in the face and blew the hood of her cloak off, but she made no move to fix it or run for shelter. This seemed too important. 

“No,” he snapped, “it does not. Why bother fixating on the past and things that will never be?” 

“Tell me something, then,” she said, pushing her shoulders back. “That stone in your eye. Is it not the sapphire I gave you?” 

“It serves as a reminder.” 

“What could it possibly remind you of?”

He stepped closer to her. “The things I will never have.” 

“Why would you want constant reminders of that?” she asked him. 

“Because so long as I am reminded of what I cannot have, I will not be so foolish as to think of what could have been.” 

Again, she found him terribly sad. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched his arm. 

“You must allow yourself to want things,” she insisted. “Constant restraint is no way to live. Take what you want, Aemond, and let yourself feel.”

Unable to bear it any longer, she backed away from him and reentered the house. She ripped the cloak off and left it to rot on the floor. She was covered in mud and soaked to the bone. It was terrible, disgusting, infuriating. She was not entirely sure what it was, but it was just as likely to be the muddy clothes as it was Aemond’s attitude. She could not fathom how he could possibly be so cold about matters that deserved only warmth. He was sharp, cutting and slicing with his words, as he spoke about wanting to marry her. In this moment, she would have liked nothing more than to skewer him. 

Pulling at the strings on her dress, she began the process of disrobing for a bath. She wanted to be rid of him. She wanted to be clean. 

She relaxed in the tub until her fingers shriveled and the water turned cold. She dunked her head one last time and stood to leave, but then realized the flaw in her plan. In her haste to take a bath, she had neglected to collect a towel to dry off with or fresh clothes. 

“Shit,” she muttered, knowing she would have no choice but to call for Aemond’s aid. 

Surely, he would never let her forget this. Especially not after what he just admitted to her. Would he think she was trying to seduce him? Grimacing to herself, she drew her knees to her chest and called his name until she heard his footsteps approach the door. 

“What is it?” he asked, sounding just as irritated as she had expected. 

“I—” It was already humiliating. “Could you please bring me a towel and chemise? I forgot.” 

He made a noise that could have been mistaken for a snort behind the door. Without voicing his assent or denial, he walked away. Gnawing on the inside of her cheek and absentmindedly scratching at her clavicle, Daena debated her options. She glanced a bit disparagingly at her discarded gown from before. She could put that back on, but the thought of it was entirely unappealing. 

Then, without warning, the door flew open. Jolting in surprise, Daena quickly drew her knees even closer to her chest to attempt to save her from even more indignity. 

“Here.” He held out a bundle of fabrics. “Where do you want them?” 

“Um, just… The floor is fine. Thank you.”

He nodded and she watched as his eye flickered from her face to the harsh scar on her shoulder, visible no doubt from the manner in which she was hunched over to prevent him from seeing her more intimate areas. Having let him see the scar, now, she perhaps would have rathered him see the other parts of her. Somehow, the scar felt leagues more intimate than her breasts. 

“It happened in the Stepstones,” she said, unsure why she kept him in here. 

She really ought to have sent him away, and perhaps in every other life she did. But, in this one, she did not. 

Aemond’s cheeks darkened in a flush. 

“How?” he asked. 

His eye was trained so singularly on her face that she knew he was making a concerted effort not to look elsewhere. 

“I was fighting on the ground,” Daena explained. “Turned my back on an opponent I thought was dead.” 

Could he hear the undercutting questions in her words? Can I turn my back to you, Aemond? Can I trust you? Once, she might have said yes easily.  

“I hope you gave the craven the death he deserved,” Aemond said, nodding sharply. “There is no honor in that.”

She looked at him, and he her. Slowly, she felt the barest of smiles tug at her lips. Each and every day, he surprised her. Whether it was good or bad, she did not know, and she suspected she would not know until it was far too late. 

Without another word, he left the room. Left alone, she dressed herself slowly. 

Three years ago, I intended to ask for your hand. If he had done it, she would not have wanted it—and yet, she could not help but think about how different things would be if he had. Would things be better? Perhaps so; she could have bridged the gap between Luke and Aemond. That alone would have certainly changed a great many things.  

Perhaps the time on the island had driven her mad, but she felt her bare feet pad along the floor until she found Aemond in the bedroom. Again, he looked achingly human. His bony ankles were visible beneath of cuff of his breeches, and his soft tunic was bunched up at the elbows. She stood in the doorway, merely watching. If he was aware of her presence, he gave no indication, and even if he was; he was surely unaware of how entranced she was by the way his hair fell in silken sheets around his shoulders. He was as severe as he was beautiful.

“Answer me this,” she said, breaking the silence.

His shoulders drew taut as he slowly turned to face her. 

“What makes you believe you could never have me?” 

He scoffed. “Our families are at war. Even before, it would have never been possible.” 

She would have agreed to it, had the matter been raised. Seeing him in such mundanity, tending to animals and reading under the low light of the candles, made it impossible to hate him. He was no enemy. He was merely a man led astray, but his heart was good and his soul nowhere near as black as he would like her to believe. 

“Do not think of our families,” Daena said. “Think only of yourself and how you feel. That is how you take care of yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go to bed.” 

Fingers curling into the material of the chemise at her thighs, Daena pushed past him and began to pull at the bed covers. Whatever she had been thinking before, it was a spark of delusion and madness. Clearly he could not see past his inflated sense of self, and he never would. And she was merely entertaining it because she was bored. Grimacing, she fluffed violently at her pillow. 

His long and slender fingers wrapped around the crook of her elbow, and he pulled her towards him without any sense of warning. She was not proud of the gasp she let out in response; sharp and high-pitched. The sapphire embedded in his eye socket—the sapphire she had given him—glinted in the candlelight. He was so close. 

“Could I have had you?” he asked, voice low and rushed. 

“I would not have minded if you asked,” she answered. 

Aemond’s grip on her tightened, and if he clenched any harder she was sure bruises would begin to take form. She considered, briefly, smacking him away, but she did not mind the weight of his grip in all truth. She and Sarya often gripped one another in far greater passions. Besides, she liked seeing Aemond unfurled. 

“I have always known what you are, Aemond,” Daena whispered. 

“And what am I, my lady?” 

“A strange boy with a crush,” she said, tilting her head back. “But I have always been more than fond of strange things.” 

She really ought to have expected it after goading him, but his kiss shocked her all the same. His lips landed on the corner of her mouth, sideways down her chin, as though he were unused to the act. Adjusting, she tilted her head to the side to turn the kiss into a proper one. His hands, clutching her hips in a vice, burned at her skin through her chemise. Enthralled by the feeling, she curled her fingers around the sides of his neck, bringing one hand up into the roots of his hair. 

However inexperienced he was, he made up for it in enthusiasm. Aemond grasped at her, trailing all across her body as though he were attempting to create a map of her bones. She pushed up onto her toes, tightening her grip on his hair, and gnashed her teeth into his mouth. She took his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down just beyond gently. When his mouth fell open, she slipped her tongue against the roof of his mouth. His hips jolted against hers as a sharp gasp tumbled from his lips. 

“Are you going to take me or not?” she mumbled against his neck.

“Please,” he gasped out as she scraped her teeth against his skin. 

“Do you want me, Aemond?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me,” she whispered, tugging on his hair. “How do you want me?” 

He groaned, low and guttural; rigid against her. His grip only tightened. 

“I want—” His head fell forward, atop hers. “I want to taste you.”

Daena pulled away from Aemond, a wicked grin spreading across her full and swollen lips. Holding eye contact, she stepped backwards until she was sat upon the edge of the bed. Then, with Aemond’s attention captured entirely, she spread her legs and pulled the hem of her chemise up slowly, tantalizingly. 

“Get on your knees, then,” she said.

Aemond fell without a blink. His fingertips traced along her ankles and then slowly crept up her leg, flexing his entire palm against her skin once he reached her thighs. She could feel his breath against her, his mouth open but still so terribly far from latching onto her as she wanted him to. 

“My prince,” she groaned, reaching for the top of his head. “Please.” 

He complied, pressing his tongue flat to her. There was no hesitation in his actions; he licked with confidence and precision, shocking her because she struggled to imagine him experienced. He groaned against her, hooking his arms beneath her thighs and pulling her as close to his face as possible. She was unable to keep the shrill moan from escaping her throat. 

“Aemond,” she gasped. It was a breathy sort of thing, pulled in a wisp from her lungs. “Use… fingers!” 

Ever the apt listener, he dipped a single finger into her. The moan she let out then was a pitched and trilling squeal. His single finger was the size of two of Sarya’s and reached to far deeper places than Sarya’s petite hands had been able to reach. He pumped the finger in and out, slowly and surely, and grinned against her. Two more fingers then, shoved inside her at once. She collapsed backwards onto the bed with a loud moan. He was relentless in his ministrations, going at a rapid pace until she was writhing and squirming and gasping for air. Swiping her arm over her forehead, she pushed herself up to look down at him. 

His face was covered in her, glistening in the flickering, dying light. She swiped her tongue across her bottom lip. She grabbed a fistful of his tunic and yanked at it to get it off him. Catching on, he moved to help her. There was a heavy silence between them, but he moved onto the bed—hovering over her—without her even needing to tell him what she wanted. 

She stared up at him, lips parted ever so slightly. His hair hung down in a silky curtain, framing his face. Palms shaking, she reached up and pressed her hand to his face. She arched her neck up and brushed her lips softly, gently, tenderly over his scarred forehead. The sapphire buried within his eye socket seemed to glow, keeping her attention rapt. Her thumb trailed along the underside of his eye, brushing against his long lower lashes. He was silent in her arms, stoic above her. 

Afraid to speak, lest she say something too intimate, too weak, too revealing, she pulled his face down and licked herself from his lips. His teeth gnashed against her lip as though he wanted to swallow her whole. Briefly, as she fumbled with the buttons on his breeches, she thought she might let him. They did not speak, not even as she pushed him up against the headboard and sat herself on his lap. He was hard against her inner thigh, but she ignored it for the time being. Instead, she tugged his mouth down to her neck. He licked, bit, and sucked at the flesh, drawing heavy gasps for air from her lungs. 

Chemise sticking to her with sweat, Daena pushed him back to begin ripping at the strings to get it off her. Aemond picked up on it and yanked the shift roughly over her head. His eye flickered down to her heaving breasts and a spike of confidence shot through her when she noticed how his cheeks flushed a darker shade at the sight. 

“Daena,” he gasped out, voice heady and broken. “I… want—” 

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” she promised, moving her hands to cradle his face. 

Pulling him in for another angry kiss, she shifted her hips so that she could sink herself down onto him. It was a sensation she had never felt before, reaching places she had never known existed. Tears she did not quite understand burned in her eyes, but she continued to sink down until there was nowhere else for her to go. A groan that sounded more animal than human burst from her as she collapsed against his chest. His hands were hot as coals against her thighs, fingers sure to leave burnt impressions. 

Delirious, she dropped her forehead against his and began to move her hips in slow, rocking circles. He swore quietly, tightening his grip on her legs. 

“Seven… hells,” he grunted.  

She continued until she found a pace that cut her breath off at the base of her throat, where the tip of him hit a place deep within her that caused her vision to go black and her jaw to go slack. 

“Aemond.” She exhaled his name, unable to think of anything else but the man beneath her. She wanted to burrow herself within him and find a home within his bones, tucked into his ribs. Every bit of him had invaded her, and she was loath to let it end. This bubble they had created; she wanted it to exist for as long as she could sustain it. Here, they were leagues away from the people they had been and the circumstances that brought them to this island. Here, they were just Alyse and Jack. Here, they were free. 

She let him spill within her after she reached her peak, and then collapsed once more against him. It was easy to fall asleep, exhausted and spent, within his arms. 

Daena awoke with the first light of morning, as she always did. Naked and sticky with the dried sweat of the night before, she and Aemond were still tangled together; his face pressed into the crook of her neck. She was flooded with a wretched sort of feeling, unable to bear being within his grasp. As gently as she could, she removed herself from his arms and reached down to the floor for her chemise. She dressed quickly and sprinted away from the room. 

Unsure if it was more shame or guilt that was flooding through her, she tucked herself into one of the armchairs by the unlit fire and stared into the blackened hearth. If she ever got away from here—if they ever got away from here—how could she possibly hope to look her family in the eye? How could she face Luke, knowing she had sworn to give the uncle who tormented him anything he wanted whilst in the thralls of passion. 

A mistake, she decided. That is all it was. A mistake driven from flaring tempers and boredom. That was all it could be; nothing more. 

Even so, she could not help but wish in the deepest and darkest depths of her soul for the opportunity to make the mistake again. 

A noise from the bedroom informed her that Aemond had woken up. When he came into the main room of the house, their eyes met. After perhaps a moment too long, he tore his gaze away from hers and grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table and stalked back into the bedroom with that infuriating slow strut of his. 

They did not speak that day, nor the next. Daena resigned herself to sleeping curled up in the armchair, drawing idly on loose slips of parchment she found around the house until she fell asleep. She mourned the tenuous friendship they had begun to restore in the days past as she did her best to ignore the growing knot in her neck from sleeping in the chair. It truly felt as though they were destined to be on opposing sides, never to truly know each other. She wished he never told her he wanted to marry her. Now, her mind was consumed by thoughts of what could have been and what could still be. It was also how she knew him a liar; if he did not dwell on the past, then he would have forgotten the matter entirely. But he had not, and so she knew he did care. 

She would have agreed, she thought to herself as she drew Vermithor’s scales. If he had asked her, she would have married him. It was a terrifying, fleeting thought— and perhaps it was a betrayal of Luke, of Sarya, and, now, of Jace. Still, she could not deny that she liked Aemond well enough. She had been fond of him even when they were children and he smashed her head with a rock. She enjoyed his presence, despite his generally unpleasant demeanor. He was a friend, and she would have liked to marry a friend. She could have been happy in a marriage of friendship. If he had been allowed, she would have accepted. 

But perhaps he was correct, and there was no use on dwelling on these things. What did it lead to but unhappiness?

She was curled up in a chair by the fire while Aemond tended to the barn animals, proving once more that he cared far more deeply for things than he liked to pretend. She flipped the page of the parchment back to the portrait she had drawn of Aemond while he slept. In the sketched plains of his face, she could see the strange and innocent boy beneath the cruel man. Pursing her lips, she tore the page and crumpled it. Just as he said, no use in dwelling on things she could not change. 

He entered in with a wet gust of wind behind him. He made a grumbling noise as he kicked off his boots and undid the cloak, which really only served to make her laugh. He glared in her direction and stalked off, likely to wash up from being in the barn. Heaving a great sigh, Daena got out of the chair to scrounge together a meal for them. They ate like the smallfolk in Flea Bottom, and Daena was miserable for it. Their lack of communication made the bland food all the worse. 

She brought the pot of stew to the hearth and let it come to a boil. Mariyah, in all her elderly wisdom, had planned on a long hurricane season and had gathered enough produce to last them the entirety of it. Aemond emerged from the washroom just as she was removing the pot from the fire. She offered him a tight smile and averted her eyes to began spooning stew into bowls for them to eat. 

They sat silently on opposite sides of the table, pointedly not looking at each other. It made her want to scream and cry and rip her hair from its roots and throw the bowl at him. It was suffocating, and she just wanted to be done with it.

It was he, who broke their days-long silence, pushing his bowl away from him and leaning back against the chair. “I apologize,” he said stiffly, “for taking advantage the other night. It was… unworthy of me.”

Daena stared at him blankly, astounded. Then, a laugh that could be classified as nothing other than a cackle burst from her lips. His lips pursed at the sound, clearly displeased by her reaction. 

“That is what you apologize for?” she asked, gasping for breath between words. “Oh, Aemond… I am hardly a blushing maiden.”

At that, a flush crept up his cheeks. 

“The other night might have been a moment of weakness that can and will never happen again, but you did not take advantage.” 

“Well, I apologize nonetheless.” His cheeks were flushed with blood. “And, yes. Never again.” 

She bit the inside of her cheeks as her mind cycled through all the motions of their mistake. As far as mistakes go, it had been her most enjoyable one. 

“You ought to sleep in the bed again,” Aemond said after another long silence as they cleaned up the kitchen. “I can tell your neck is bothering you.” 

Her hand flew to the crook of her neck on instinct. She ripped it away just as quickly. 

“I’m quite fine.”

“Then allow me to take the chair or floor.”

“No, that is not necessary,” she insisted, turning away from him to stare out the window. The rain beat mercilessly on the glass. Like it was trying to bring not just the home, but the entire island down. “You sustained more injuries than I did in the fall, and the fault for that lies in my hands.” 

She chose to leave out the fact that it was his actions that forced her hand, because at this point that was neither here nor there. 

“Then perhaps I sleep in the other room—”

“Mariyah just died on that bed!” Daena exclaimed, half scandalized. She was tired of this conversation. “We will continue as we have.” 

“Daena, you cannot—”

“And yet, I will!” she shrieked. Instantly embarrassed, she sucked in a long, slow breath and turned back around to face him. “It is different for me.” 

He said nothing, merely staring at her. Gods, how he infuriated her, how he wiggled beneath her skin and stuck there, how he could see right through her. 

“If anyone were to discover we were here alone, you would be perfectly fine. I would be…” She thought back to what he hissed at her when he woke. “Ruined.” 

He opened his mouth to speak, but she pushed on. 

“Our mistake, for you, is a story to tell someday. For me, it is nothing less than betrayal.” 

“Betrayal.” He scoffed, a sudden glint of venom in his iris. “And what do you call my part, then? Do I not betray my family every moment you remain breathing?” 

“Kill me, then, and be done with it!” Daena threw her hands up. “Please, I beg you. Do it, because I will never be able to kill you as I know I ought to.” 

He blinked at her, stunned into silence by her manic plea. Frustrated tears brimming in her eyes, Daena stomped away from him and into the washroom. She sank to her knees and remained there until she heard no sounds of movement. Praying that it meant Aemond was asleep, Daena crept out and back into the main room. 

She was stopped in her tracks, however, by the sight of Aemond fast asleep on the very armchair she had made her bed the last few nights. One leg was propped up on the cushioned footrest while the other was sprawled onto the floor. Even in her hatred of him— if she could call it that— she was touched by the display. There was hope for him yet, goodness that bubbled beneath the surface. In an effort to repay the kindness, she grabbed a quilt from the chest by the fireplace and laid it over his lap. 

They had perhaps left things worse than they ever were before between them, but Daena would deal with those consequences once morning came. Now, she was bone weary and just wanted to sleep. She slept like the dead once her head hit the pillows, though in her dreams Aemond’s face taunted her. In the morning, she woke with a deep, aching need between her legs. Disgusted with herself, Daena kept herself confined within the walls of the bedchamber until she thought she might collapse from hunger. When she pulled the door open, however, she found herself face-to-face with Aemond—a plate of food and mug of mead in hand. His mouth fell open just a bit as she tripped herself to avoid walking right into him. 

“You have not eaten,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It is getting late… I thought you might like some food.”

“Thank you,” she said, unable to do much anything else than focus on his lavender iris boring into her. “How very thoughtful, my prince.” 

“Aemond,” he said suddenly. “Just— Call me Aemond.”

Oh. 

“Very well,” she said. “Aemond.” 

“I wanted to thank you… for the blanket last night.” He shuffled closer infinitesimally. The mug was shaking ever so slightly in his clenched fist. “And, I was thinking… here, we can just be…” 

She pulled the plate and mug from his hands and dropped them onto the small table in the room, discarded to be forgotten. Sighing, she pushed her braids over her shoulder and turned back to him. Did she haunt his dreams as he did hers? 

“We can just be… what, Aemond?” 

“I—” He opened his mouth and closed it thrice. “You said to take what I want.” 

A whirling thrill spiked in her blood, the ache inside of her leading her straight to him.  

“A mistake it might be, but what does it matter?” he asked. “We are alone.”

“I suppose it doesn’t,” she admitted. 

Taking him to her bed once, twice, or however many times mattered not so long as it ceased once they returned to where they belonged. She just liked to see him finally breaking free of that hardened shell he encased himself in. He kissed her, then, and she forgot all about her hunger for food. All she hungered for was him. His fingers yanked at the curls at the base of her skull, forcing her head back so that he could kiss down her jaw and neck. 

There were no words shared between them. Perhaps that would be too personal, too indicative of their wrongdoing. Neither took the time to undress, merely hiking up her chemise and shoving down his breeches.  They fell backwards onto the bed just as he pushed himself inside her. She gasped into his mouth, digging her nails into his cheekbones and looping her legs around his waist to pull him close. 

They continued at that pace until they were fully spent; collapsed upon one another. Daena yawned loudly, reaching her hand out to grab hold of the apple Aemond put on the plate for her. The generosity of it did not escape her; those apples seemed to be the only thing that made him even a shade of content. She took several bites of it before offering it out to Aemond. As though it were a natural sort of thing to do. And he took a bite from her hand, half convincing her this were a dream. When the apple was nothing but a discarded core and the bread nothing but crumbs, it was Daena who pounced on Aemond. Now that she had been given a taste, she was insatiable. And it seemed, so was he. 

But, it was more languid this time. He did not hurry himself as he mouthed at her neck and began to pull at the strings on her chemise. She wanted to touch him, but quickly lost all means to do so when he pulled her chemise off and began to kiss down her torso. Her breath hitched at the base of her throat and delirium flooded her veins as she became enthralled in the pleasure she wrought from him. 

“Seven Hells,” she groaned out, tossing her head back against the pillows. 

She could feel Aemond’s lips curl upwards into a smile as he traced his tongue along her hip bone in response. 

Much later, when they had tired themselves out entirely, he laid himself down beside her, resting his head on her bare chest. It was strange, how easy it was to simply be with him— and it terrified her as much as it befuddled her. But, then, it had always been easy with Aemond. They fell asleep like that, tangled together, pressed closer than close. Daena had never slept better in her life. 

“I would never ruin you,” he spoke quietly against her collarbone one night some weeks later. She had long since stopped keeping track of the days as they passed, dreary and thunderous as they were. 

Daena stilled beneath him. “What?” 

“Your reputation,” he said, “I would never allow it to fall to ruin.” 

For some reason, she believed him and kissed him hard on the mouth for the first time outside the thralls of passion. He returned the kiss with vigor and they fell asleep in the middle of it, which she had also never done before. 

When morning came, she awoke to a thunderous roar outside her window. Gasping, she shot up and looked around, scrambling to pull her chemise over her head. She knew that roar. Barefoot and without any protection from the weather, she sprinted outside, past Aemond who was slowly blinking his eyes and sitting up from the commotion she caused. Toes digging into the mud, Daena ran from the house to Vermithor. 

His bronze scales were like the rays of the sun amidst all the rain. Grinning, she flung herself forward. 

“My brave boy,” she wept, pressing her forehead to his snout. 

He snuffed and knocked his snout against her head. Laughing, she kissed one of his horns and stepped back to examine him. 

“How is your wing, hm?” she asked, walking around to take in his form.

He flared his wings out as though to prove he was in perfect condition. She reached her hand out to stroke the wing that had been injured when they took down Vhagar. She could see the scar tissue, but the tendons were healed and strong. She could go home. As though sensing her realization, he tilted his head back, opened his jaws wide, and screeched so loud that the trees shook. His hind legs stomped the ground, as though he were preparing for takeoff. It was everything she wanted to hear. 

“What are you doing?” Aemond shouted, standing in the threshold of the doorway.

Vermithor’s neck snaked around and he positioned himself firmly between Daena and Aemond. He remembered Aemond from the attack, and he did not trust the prince. Laughing at her dragon’s protection, she stepped forward and placed her hand on the underside of Vermithor’s jaw. He grumbled quietly and settled. 

“Umbagon,” she ordered before walking back to the house.

Aemond was staring at her like he found her mad. At least that had not changed. She pushed her wet braids from her face. 

“Vermithor is healed,” she said. 

“I can see that,” he said. He held out a large blanket for her. “Come inside.” 

Feeling the chill suddenly, she stepped in and allowed him to pull the blanket over her shoulders. His hands stayed on her shoulders, rubbing over her upper arms to help warm her. She furrowed her eyebrows and stared up at him. His face was pulled taut and there was concern evident, his lips pursed as he took care to help her dry off.  

“What?” he asked, seeing that she was staring.

She cleared her throat and averted her gaze. “It’s nothing.” She smiled to herself and tilted her head to the side. “Well, it is nice to see you care.” 

He frowned. “When have I ever given you the impression I do not care for you?” 

That response took her by surprise. It was shockingly earnest, coming from him— but that had been a running theme with him in the last few days. 

“Aemond,” she whispered, lifting a hand to his scarred cheek. 

It was absurd and utterly mad of her, but a sudden shot struck her like lightning. It would be so very easy to love him. Her love for Sarya had not lessened in her time on the island, but there was merely more space in her heart than she once thought. She would never be able to pursue it, of course. She was betrothed and he… Aemond was a traitor and an attempted kinslayer. And all that to say, she still wanted him. Something sinister had overtaken her in the last three moons, sunken its claws into her skin and dripped its poison onto her tongue. 

She was fond of him, desired him, enjoyed him, but she had a duty now that Vermithor was in flying condition. Aemond was a traitor and an attempted kinslayer, and she needed to bring him to justice. 

“I will come quietly,” he said softly, reaching out and gingerly curling the loose end of one of her braids around his finger. She had a keen memory of her own fingers wrapped in his hair. “I will surrender and bend the knee if that is what you wish.” 

“What I wish?” she echoed. “And what of your wishes?” 

It was as though the island emboldened him, pulled apart his strong defenses and left him bare but more confident than she had ever seen him. 

“I wish for whatever will keep me in your life, my lady.” 

“You can’t mean that,” she whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

She was not immune to the effects of dashing confessions made, easily swept up in the romance of it all. It was her most foolish trait, but being aware of it did not subdue it. It only made her aware of the breadth of stupidity she was capable of. 

“You took my eye. You took my dragon. Take my heart as well; it is yours.” 

Her cheeks burned under the weight of his gaze and words. Mouth dry, she crafted the most intelligent response she could muster. 

“I did not take your eye.”

He shrugged, as though his reasoning were the only sort that made sense. Perhaps he would have preferred it to have been her. Their injuries were settled like scores, canceling the other out— even if he had gotten off far worse than she had. In his mind, it should have been her, and so it was it seemed. Or that he held her in just as much blame as he did Luke. 

“And as for Vhagar—” Her own voice betrayed her, choking off in an unbecoming squeal. “I wish I could have stopped you without killing her.” 

Aemond looked away from her then, finally pulling his face from her palm. She tucked her hand back under the blanket he provided her as quickly as she could so as though it were never there in the first place. Then, he surprised her yet again. 

“I know.” It was a simple thing. “I forgave you a long time ago.” 

She furrowed her brow, a million and one questions racing about her mind, but she kept them to herself. 

“You will come without fight or argument?” she asked slowly.

“I will,” he confirmed. 

Bewildered and pleased alike, Daena observed him for a moment before ultimately deciding he seemed honest.

“Then we must dress. It is at least a half day’s flight from here to Dragonstone.” 

They did not speak again as they readied themselves for departure. What was there to say, really? They had, for better or worse, betrayed their families and themselves by falling into bed with one another, and now fate had come knocking. They both knew that on Dragonstone he would likely face imprisonment at best. There was always the threat of execution, but Daena was not sure Rhaenyra, even at her most bloodthirsty and vicious, had it in her to be a kinslayer. No, Rhaenyra would not take her brother’s head, but she might strip him of all titles and inheritance and send him to the Wall where he could never be a threat to her again. And rather stupidly, Daena did not wish for that. Perhaps this was what Aemond wanted all along; for her to trust him, to vouch for him, to be more than fond of him. 

That decided it for her. Upon arriving to Dragonstone, what happened here on the island would fade into the past. She would dedicate herself to whatever war effort there was and accept her fate as Queen after Rhaenyra. “Whatever claim to the throne I have left, you are it’s heir now. Both of you.” Daena would never be able to forget the sheen of sweat covering the older woman’s body, the way her face was scrunched up in pain and her voice quivered as she laid out commands for her oldest son and Daena. 

There was a truth about Daena Velaryon that Sarya had always seen: For her family, Daena would sacrifice anyone and anything, including herself, and let the entire world burn to ashes. And as Aemond perched himself behind her on Vermithor’s saddle without complaint, she wondered if he saw it too. An unstoppable force meets and immovable object, and whatever happens in the aftermath is only nature. And yet, Daena did not think she would go so quietly if the roles were reversed. 

“Sōves, Vermithor!” Daena yelled as loud as she could over the violent winds and rain, already soaked through to the bone. 

Without complaint or hesitance, Vermithor roared and took to the skies. 

Aemond and her did not speak for entire flight, and Daena was glad for the silence as the black sand beaches of Dragonstone grew ever nearer. It had been a year’s quarter since she left Dragonstone for Storm’s End, and war had been brewing when she did. There was no telling what they would find when they landed.

#aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond targaryen x reader #team black #hotd au #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #cregan stark #jace x cregan #jacegan #jacaela #fic: fireplace ashes

[asoiafsworld]

STAND BY ME.

pairing; aemond targaryen x original female character (alysanne velaryon)

summary; alysanne velaryon, jacaerys velaryon's twin sister and daughter to queen rhaenyra targaryen, has been betrothed to aemond targaryen since she was a little girl and has loved him since then too. king viserys dies however and war breaks out between their families. when alysanne learns of her brother's death caused by the man she loves, she does the only right thing.

warnings; hotd 1x10 spoilers, mentions of stillbirth, mentions and descriptions of self harm, major character death, very sad and painful, alysanne has bad anger issues, and she has psychopathic tendencies, my oc is really a emotional rollercoaster, blood, violence, revenge, sad ending

author's note; this fic is very painful to read at times so i just want to warn once more and its not all about her relationship with aemond, theres a lot of stuff about alysanne with her family too. i was going to make this a reader imagine but i felt that an oc would suit this more since its so angsty and gets pretty violent, i hope u guys still enjoy <3 jacaerys and alysanne are aged up here and are both only two years younger than aemond (jace and alysanne are 18, aemond is 20) and alysanne referrs to daemon as her father but hes not. also i imagine a young jodie comer as alysanne but u can imagine whoever u want! and everything that is written in cursive is a flashback an anything that is only in bold is alysanne's thoughts!! pls tell me what u guys think

masterlist

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"Shh! We need to be quiet!"

Aemond tried to look at her as sternly as possible but couldn't hold on to his giggle as she looked at him as apologetically and sweetly as she could. Before he could think any longer about how beautiful she looked as only the fire in the dungeons illuminated her face, he grabbed her hand and went further down the stairs to the underground room where the skull of Balerion the Black Dread was kept.

Alysanne gasped at the sight and was sure she had never seen a head this big from the dragons that lived still. She was small, a growing girl of four and ten and was definitely dwarfed even more as she stood in front of the skull of a creature that lived not too long ago.

"What a huge skull... He must have crushed people just by laying his head on them! Do you think Vhagar will be so big too one day?"

Aemond smiled at her and cupped her cheek with one hand, softly brushing his thumb over her temple.

"I know she will. And when she is that big, you will be in the skies with her, with me. Right by my side where you belong."

Alysanne smiled shyly, her cheeks red from how sweetly he was holding her and looking at her. She had liked Aemond for so long even though their families were so opposed to each other. To their luck, her grandfather, King Viserys announced on Aemond's eight nameday that they would be betrothed and no one else was delighted except the two of them. She remembered her mother pleading with her father to still wait and to not rush into betrothals and Queen Alicent had said the same but the King would hear none of it. He saw how the two of them spent most of their time with each other after all.

Aemond was closer to her now, his breath on her lips, his hand going from her cheek to holding the back of her head in place. His forehead found its place on hers and even though he had only one eye, it stared at her in intensity and adoration.

"You look beautiful like this... Just the fire that gives me a sight of your incredible, gorgeous face. How do I deserve a betrothed like you? Tell me, what Gods did I please for you to be mine?"

She blushed even more at his words, so sweet and unrelenting in making her see that she was the most beautiful woman that ever lived, in his eyes. She brought up her hand to his cheek, the one that bared his scar. She softly admired how brave it made him look, how it proved that he was the bravest warrior of them all with the scar to prove it.

"You deserve it by simply being you, Aemond. I am yours and you are mine and in due time, we will marry and it will be official. I will be yours as you are mine, now and always."

His heart clenched at her words and he pressed the softest of kisses on her lips, his touch as gentle as if he was holding a flower... His little flower, forever his.

Alysanne's heart feels as it's ripped apart in two. She is confused, she is angry, she is sad but does not know at what or whom. The gods are playing tricks on us, she thinks as she helps her mother in wrapping up her dead little sister. Cruel and selfish tricks.

It does not make sense to her, none of it. Her grandsire dies, the Greens crown a usurper and tell everyone a lie, that the King had wished for Aegon to be King in his last breath and Alysanne and her family sit at Dragonstone, unbeknownst of the horrors that were going on in the capital. She does not understand it, none of it. Does not understand why Aemond is letting them do this, letting them crown anyone else other than her mother... He could never marry Alysanne like this.

Her hands are covered in blood, in her dead sister's and mother's from the wrapping. She does not wish to wash it off, wants to keep it on her hands, fly to King's Landing at this moment and present her bloodied hands to the Queen Dowager and her father. Look at what you have done, she wants to scream. She wants to take the bundled up baby on the table and present it to them, make the bitch of a Queen look at it. Look at how you've killed my sister. My little Visenya.

"Alysanne." She hears her mother's voice clear up the fog of anger in her mind and wonders how many times she had called her already. The princess of eight and ten looks up at her mother and sees the grief and sorrow in her eyes but mostly concern. "My darling, do not let your anger take you over again, it is unneeded at this moment. Come, wash the blood of. We need to... do the burning."

"I do not wish to wash my blood off, mother. I want to smear it in her face and tell her that she deserves death for what she has done. Letting grandsire rot in his place for days before telling anyone he was even dead, killing my sister in cold blood and putting Aegon on the throne. She will pay for this... she will."

Rhaenyra knows she can say nothing to sway her mind at the moment, her only daughter's bloodlust and want for revenge mirroring something that Daemon would probably be proud of. She wonders when this happened, wonders when her own daughter became such a hardened woman, when the love she had for her family turned into protectiveness and when that turned into anger. No one except for Rhaenyra knows that everything Alysanne does is out of love for her family, not even Jacaerys who is the girl's own twin realizes this. She wonders if that anger will be reflected at Aemond too, the only person she holds any love for outside of her family. Alysanne has not uttered a single word of him ever since Rhaenys told them of what had happened.

Alysanne listens to her all the same because she could not be mad at her mother, the woman who loves her so much and lost everything. She may be a bloodthirsty, angry woman but she is still her mother's child, nothing changes that, ever. So she washes the blood off of herself, gets dressed in an all black dress and attends her sister's funeral. She stands next to her brothers and her face remains stone cold but a few tears slip past her cheeks as her sister's tiny, small body burns. She has to breathe in and out through her nose to control her emotions from overboiling and does not know what would happen if she could not control herself.

They stole my mother's crown and her throne. They stole her and my brother's birthright. They stole me of my sweet sister... And for that, the Hightowers will burn, she thinks. Otto, Alicent, Aegon. Otto, Alicent, Aegon. Otto, Alicent, Aegon.

She repeats their names in her head. She would not kill Helaena, the sister wife of the usurper had done no harm to her or her family, just like Aegon's children.

She does not think of Aemond, of what will happen to him, of what she will do about him... or what her father will do to him. She wonders if he's trying to find an excuse in his head for betraying her like this, if he tells himself that him and his brother will make sure her family will be gone before long and force her to marry him... But that is not Aemond's way.

She can not think of Aemond. She does not want to think of Aemond. She still loves Aemond.

They stood on opposing sides of the throne room, so close yet so far away. Aemond studied her closely, how much taller she had grown, how her beauty could not match that of a single lady in the Seven Kingdoms. The sun was she to him, feeling as if he could stand and live with her in his presence. The air was she to him, needing her to breathe and to calm himself down when his mind was plagued by his demons once more. Life was she to him, something worth fighting for and the sole reason he put up with her rather annoying family.

Alysanne could tell that her betrothed had eyes for no one but her, he was not listening to the Hand when he sat the throne, nor did he look away from her when the King marched up to his throne and settled matters. She only stole a few glances at him but had to hide her smile at the way he did not stop staring at her all the same. To him, none of what was happening mattered... He only cared about meeting his lovely betrothed again.

To her however, it was not so unimportant. Her brother's legitimacy was being questioned and ever since the accident at Driftmark where her brother had taken her betrothed's eye, tensions were as high as ever between the two families. She remembered that night, when she was called upon from her bed and had to look at her brothers' bloodied faces and wondered how foolish they could have been to do something like that. If she thought back on it, it was probably the moment that made her into the cold, hardened woman that she became over the years, realizing that no one but her family would be there for her, care for her and protect her... and she strived to do the same for them.

Aemond only ripped his eyes away from her when Daemon sliced Dark Sister through Vaemond, a move that shocked most people in the throne room. She was glad to see him gone and dead for calling her brothers bastards and her mother a whore... he deserved it.

Everyone in the throne room left as the matter was settled. Lucerys would inherit Driftmark as was his birthright and the young princess was glad of it because she would not have the Hightower snakes get their way, no matter what it was.

She had been told that the King had requested a dinner with the entire family and she wondered how well that would pass but Alysanne got ready for it nonetheless. She wore a beautiful black and red gown, accentuated with the dragon sigil of her mother's house that she had always been proud of. After the handmaidens had left, there was a knock on the door and when she turned around, it was Aemond entering through the door.

She looked at him with wide eyes and walked up to him, pulling him into the room by his arm and closing the doors before anyone else could see him. Her mind was reeling from where she had touched Aemond's skin and she hoped that the effect he had on her was not so apparent to him as she turned around. But Aemond clearly did not care for not showing his feelings as he caged her against the door, so close to her again like the first and last time they kissed. His hand came up to hold her chin and made her look up at him and oh, how the touch burned under his gentle fingers.

"Tell me, my little flower, has anything changed between us?" Alysanne knew that he did not wish to show his insecurity to her but it was reflected in his voice all the same, sounding scared of her feelings not being the same as they were before. She knew that he still very clearly felt just like four years ago when they had last seen each other, his love just as she always knew it... Resistant, powerful and undying.

"Well, I have changed in the years since we last met. I am a woman grown now, did you know? My nameday was a few moons ago. I have grown colder, harder and stronger in every way. It may be that even my heart has turned to ice for I do not wish for anyone in my company except the people I love." Alysanne leaned closer to him, their lips almost touching, the distance between them able to be closed in less than a second.

"But whatever part of my heart holds it's love for you has clearly not turned into ice... because I look at you and see you standing in front of me so closely, see you looking at me like you'll never love someone like you'll love me. And I realize that yes, I do love you still, have loved you for so many years and might never love anyone else except for you. I do not believe I could ever be with another man."

Aemond did not show it but she saw the relief take over his body, his shoulders releasing it's tension and he sighed deeply, closed his eye and leaned his forehead against hers. She placed a small, featherlight kiss on his lips and furrowed her eyebrows at how little it did to satisfy her. She tried to press her lips to his again but he held her back with a thumb on her lips and his eye opened again, looking at her with hunger and resistance.

"I wish to kiss you until you are breathless and beg me for more but we can not, my love. If we do, I could not stop and control myself from doing something so sinful that would have our mothers marry us swiftly in the sept tomorrow. Which of course, I would not oppose to but I shall not risk things with you. I want to do it properly, have a feast for us and have everyone in Westeros celebrate our union. With you, I will do things right. You deserve no less, my dragon."

Alysanne hated how her heart swelled at his words, hated how he spoke so gently and softly with her like he had when they were children. When she was a different woman, a girl still, she would have embraced and loved the way he made her feel and how he confessed his love for her and his wish to marry. But as it was, Alysanne was a changed woman and hated that she had so long ago fallen for a man that she was supposed to hate... One day, war would break out and they would be on opposite sides.

She did not have to think about it much longer as Aemond had to leave to get ready for the dinner himself. He pressed a small kiss to her lips that stirred things in her heart that she could not explain, a turmoil of emotions in her heart and mind after every word and every kiss of his lips. She composed herself and decided to visit her sickly grandsire since he had asked her to come see him before they would have dinner when she was there with her mother, father and siblings this morning.

Alysanne always had a special bond with King Viserys. It was widely known that Rhaenyra was his favorite child and that he loved her very dearly and therefore loved her grandchildren as well. When he held Jacaerys and Alysanne for the first time in his arms, he cried and blessed them both, her mother had told her. When she was a child and still lived in the Red Keep, she had often played with him, let him help her learn to read and write. It pained her to see him so weak and in pain but she would still go to see him, simply because she loved him so dearly.

She entered his chambers just as he had seemingly gotten ready dressing with the help of maids and servants. He seemed clearer in his state of mind than he was before, a crooked smile on his lips as he saw her entering. The maids and servants left them and Alysanne sat down next to her grandsire in front of the fire place. He looked at her lovingly and gently grabbed her hand, his grip weak but still full of adoration for his oldest granddaughter.

"My dearest Alysanne, my pride and joy. I know they say that we should not pick favorites, in children or grandchildren... but I think you know that I have loved you so much since you were placed in my arms, as if it was Rhaenyra put in my arms all over again. Because I love you so dearly, I need to ask you this and want to give you a choice, something that I sadly could not do for Rhaenyra."

The King spoke slowly but he still commanded presence even in his weakly state. Alysanne wanted to cry at how he looked, so breakable and ill, as if he could die at this very moment but she continued to listen to him attentively. He looked up with the one eye that was visible and she saw all the love he held for her, just like when she was a little girl.

"Alysanne, please be truthful when you answer me this. Do you love Aemond?"

Alysanne's breath hitched at the question and she felt a lump so heavy in her throat that the words would not come out at first. She knew that the only reason for his question was to possibly confirm a future marriage and maybe even set a loose date for a wedding and knew that if she said no, her grandfather would not hesitate in calling the marriage off. It was his hope for Alysanne to marry Aemond so that an inevitable conflict in the future could be avoided... besides that, Aemond had demanded since Alysanne's most recent nameday to plan the wedding. She knew that if she said no, her parents and brothers would be more than pleased and happy about it. She knew that if she said no, she could avoid having to live with the awful, other side of her family. She knew that if she said no, she would avoid the inner turmoil inside her that told her that she could not love, that she was too cold and unloving for marriage.

"Yes."

Alysanne knew of the dangers that would come if she said yes. She did it anyway.

Alysanne had claimed the Cannibal at the mere age of four and ten to everyone's great surprise. When her, Jace and her younger siblings were born, they had all received dragon eggs from Syrax as their mother wanted her children to have a lifelong bond with their dragons as well. Jace, Luke and Joffrey's eggs all hatched and all three of them, respectively, had Vermax, Arrax and Tyraxes as their bonded dragons. Alysanne's egg however had turned into stone when she was still a babe and in that entire time, Syrax did not hatch more eggs for the young princess to claim.

To be truthful, Alysanne did not care much for having a dragon. The bond and the care for a dragon was not something she deemed herself to have and having three brothers who rode dragons was surely enough in the family. However, after the incident at Driftmark, Alysanne changed her mind about it. She loved Aemond back then, knew he would not hurt her but him having Vhagar would make things difficult for her in the future, she knew that.

She had thought about claiming Sea Smoke whilst she was still at Driftmark then but knew that she needed a dragon that would match Vhagar not just in fiercness but in size. So when she was back at Dragonstone, she tried her luck first with Silverwing, the dragon that ironically belonged to her namesake once before and followed the advice of the Dragonkeepers at Dragonstone. Alysanne had tried to claim her in a duration of many moons but the Dragonkeepers deemed it a hopeless cause. She tried Vermithor next, the largest unclaimed dragon that had been ridden before by the Old King, Jaehaerys I. She tried to claim him for almost a year, sang to him in Valyrian as he liked it, didn't show her fear in front of him. The Dragonkeepers decided to observe her the last time that she went to tell her what she was doing wrong.

"You are too fierce for them, my princess. Dragons can feel our emotions, our feelings and our true ambitions and they bond with whoever they match best with. And I'm sorry to say it, my princess but you are simply too angry for them, even for Vermithor."

She was frustrated at that and wondered how she was ever supposed to have a dragon when she remembered the three wild dragons that still resided on Dragonstone that were never claimed by anyone. Surely, I must be angry enough for them, she thinks. One of them has to be as hateful and angry as me.

The first two wild dragons that she came across in the more abandoned areas of Dragonstone, Grey Ghost and Sheepstealer fled her as soon as she came closer, there was no real chance at getting close to them which disappointed her greatly. She was in all seriousness not considering to approach the Cannibal so she just wanted to leave the dragon be that was feasting on a poor animal just in her line of sight. The beast however had other plans for her, letting off of the dead animal and focusing on her and coming closer at a speed that she did not expect. He stopped right in front of her and his eyes studied her closely, circling her from left to right as if asessing if she was worth to be eaten. She was not scared however and only looked him in his eyes bravely. After a few more minutes, he stopped and gave her a nudge with its big head. From that day on, she understood what was meant with that bond, knew that he had assessed her and let her claim him because she matched his anger

The Cannibal was overall the second largest dragon that still lived but the size difference between this dragon and Vhagar was so small that most people assumed that they were the same size. Besides, the Cannibal was suprisingly quick, in the sky and on the ground which was an advantage against Vhagar who, due to her oldness, had become rather slow.

Neverthless, it was a miracle that the beast had accepted Alysanne as it's first ever rider, Alysanne, who was only four and ten and still a tiny girl, rode the second largest dragon in the world and a wild dragon at that, the first one to tame it. She was of course scolded greatly for it by her mother but Daemon could only look at her proudly.

It was ironic, really. Alysanne was scolded all night by her mother who kept asking her why she did it, why she was so obsessed with having a dragon, one that was impossible to claim and terrifying as well. To prepare for war, she thought. To prepare for a war to defend you and my family. A war I have been preparing for since I was a child.

Holding council is truly a dreadful thing. Counting out who would support their side, who would hold honor their oaths given to her mother many years ago and which dragons could fight for their side.

"My prince, we may be in the lead with dragons but Prince Aemond still possesses the largest dragon alive. It will be a hard task to defeat Vhagar." The other lords around the table seem to agree and she cuts Daemon off before he can reply.

"Leave Vhagar to me, my lord. I'm sure that me and Cannibal can handle her." The table falls into silence at that and she sees from the corners of her eye that her mother and father are not agreed on that statement. The silence is interrupted by Ser Erryk who informs the council that a ship from the Greens had been seen on the shores and the council room is quickly cleared, leaving only Alysanne, Jace and Luke in the room.

She continues to assess the table and what allies they have when Luke places his hand on hers on the table. She looks over at him and sees that he looks concerned for her, his hand soft and warm on hers and so small. She pulls her hand out and places it on top of his, softly brushing her thumb over his. Sadly, her change in personality had also affected her relationships with her brothers. She spent so much time training Cannibal for possible fights with other dragons and herself spent more time into training with a sword as well. Still, she never acts cold towards them, never lashes her anger out at them because she lives for them and for the affection and love she receives from them. Luke still looks concerned but doesn't voice his worries. Instead, Jace does.

"Alysanne... If you mean to 'take care' of Vhagar, you mean to kill her... But for that, you will need to kill Aemond too."

She knew that it was exactly what all the lords around the table had questioned because Aemond's affections and love for his long time betrothed were so well known by everyone in the realm. She sighs deeply and knows deep down in her heart that it rebels at the thought of having to kill her one true love, the one man she loves. She hides her turmoil and problems under a practiced mask and puts on a smile that fools Luke and almost would have fooled Jacaerys. She softly grabs his hand and holds it tightly, needing to feel her twins' presence next to her.

"Don't worry about me, brothers. We aren't officially at war yet but when it comes to it, I will do what I must to defend us and to fight for our mother's and your birthright."

"I may not live for much longer... but I wish for one last thing before I might leave this earth forever." The King looks at Aemond and then at Alysanne at the dinner table with something that she assumed was a smile on his face. She realized then that this was it, that she had sealed her fate forever with the words she had uttered just hours ago in his chambers... She just didn't know that it would happen so soon.

"To mend the estrangement between our families, I have decided that Prince Aemond and Princess Alysanne shall be married to each other swiftly and soon, possibly after Rhaenyra gives birth. Then, we will celebrate the biggest wedding the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen. Then the gods can happily take me away."

The news of the wedding was a shock for everyone at the table and Alysanne swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat for she could feel the stares from both sides. Pretty much everyone either forgot the betrothal or opted to ignore it, knowing it still existed but not truly thinking of what would further happen with it. So to hear the King's words made both of her parents look at her in confusion and shock and Jace was almost uncontrollable with anger, wanting to punch the one eyed Prince right in his face. Before anything further could escalate, Aemond stood up with his cup in his hand, looking right at Alysanne who only had her cold gaze on the table.

"I wish to toast to my betrothed and soon enough, my wife. It has been twelve years since we were engaged and throughout our shared youth, you didn't fail to make me fall in love with you. Every time that I have seen you since only further proves that my love for you never dwindled or disappeared but simply resurfaced when I saw your evergrowing beauty through the years. I have loved you for years and will continue to love you until my dying breath. To You, my love."

Even though Alysanne felt sick at the looks that her family was giving her, she still had a tiny smile on her face and looked at Aemond lovingly, unable to hold her stoic, cold expression any longer. He smiled at her, genuinely and she wished he didn't.

Nothing in this world was more difficult for Alysanne than loving Aemond Targaryen.

Her father is furious as he comes back from their meeting with Otto Hightower, her mother as unreadable as ever. Alysanne thinks it was a good idea that she did not come for she would have ripped him apart, whether her mother commanded otherwise or not. The Council is only reconvened for a few moments before everyone is told to leave the room except for Alysanne, Jacaerys and Lucerys. The oldest daughter watches Daemon walk up and down the fireplace as he thinks hard about something she does not know. Her mother is across from her on the other side of the table, her brothers are next to her.

"Otto Hightower also mentioned your promised betrothal to Aemond. He said that we should go through with it and that it would mend the drift between our families and prevent war."

Alysanne's mind reels as she thinks about those words and wonders if a simple marriage between a second son and an eldest daughter would really mend anything... her mind immediately answers her, clear and aggressive. She does not believe she can marry Aemond with how he had betrayed her. Suddenly, Daemon turns around and looks at Alysanne, almost menacingly.

"If you had never said a single word to my brother no one would care for this stupid betrothal anymore. But you had to go through with it, didn't you? Why, because you love Aemond so much? Because you wanted to be with him? I am happy to know that you never will. You were stupid to think that you could ever marry him when you know the positions our families stand at. I don't know if you even care about your family when you were willing to marry your own enemy."

His fury is one that she had not ever seen directed at her and his words sting, just like he wants them to. Daemon has been a father to Alysanne ever since he had married her mother and he had never said anything so vile and hurtful to her. Her mother looks at him in a certain way that is silently trying to tell him to stop, to tone it down but he does not listen and keeps staring at her with anger that makes her furious in return.

"Yes, I know it was stupid, of course I knew! I knew what could happen, what the dangers were to wanting to marry him but believe it or not, at some point, I did love him. It was stupid and I let him love me and that was even stupider. But don't ever tell me that I do not care for this family, Daemon. Do not act as if that is true when you know it isn't."

"How would I know? You can not even outright say that you will kill him when you eventually face him and Vhagar with Cannibal! No, I do not believe you care for your family, Alysanne, not with the way you behave."

She sees her mother's mouth form words, something that looks like she's saying stop but it is too late for Alysanne is as angry and mad as anyone could ever be. She's hurt, she's sad, she's furious. In this moment, she feels like driving a sword through Daemon's chest.

"You liar! I have always cared for my family! Every single moment of my life, I have wanted to protect my family! Ever since Aemond lost his eye at Driftmark I have known and understood the consequences of the separation between our families. Why do you think I wanted a dragon the moment we got back? Why do you think I spent two years trying to claim and bond to dragons? Why do you think that, out of all the wild dragons, I claimed Cannibal? Because I knew none of the other ones stood a chance against Vhagar! Why do you think I have been obsessed with learning how to fight with a sword? Why do you think I always worry about where my brothers and sisters are? Because I have been preparing for this war since I was a child! I have been scared of it, of what would happen to my family and about what would happen to Aemond, yes, I worried over him because I love him. But don't ever tell me that I do not care for my family when I know deep down in my heart that I would kill Aemond the moment I get my hands on him. Don't ever make assumptions and accusations like that ever again, Daemon."

Alysanne is screaming at him in fury and her hands are shaking from how angry she feels. She starts crying at some point too but she does not care and later on realizes that confessing all her insecurities and worries to her family is an awful thing. Her grip on the table makes her feel like it will break apart soon and she feels like she will break apart in a similar way. She knows her brothers are staring at her in shock next to her, her mother looks at her with concern and her father remains unreadable. Before anything else can be said, she storms away from the painted table and out of the room, furiously wiping her tears away as if they were poison to her.

She hears her mother calling after her but no one follows her which she deems as good. It's good, she should be alone. She loves to be alone. She needs to be alone. She does not want to be alone.

Anger and sadness rage inside her in a tandem and she keeps having to stop herself from throwing a punch at the wall just so she would be rid of this agonizing feeling. She hears a distant roar that echoes out, Cannibal feeling her emotions through the bond and most likely trying to pick a fight with one of the other dragons now. With this fury inside her and Cannibal, she thinks she could burn King's Landing down at this very moment.

She walks back to her chambers quickly to prevent herself from actually going to Cannibal's nest and take off with him. Once she is inside her room, she practices the calming breathing techniques that the Maestar had taught her. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Breathe in, hold, breathe out.

She feels like it works although she is never so sure because her rage never truly leaves her, only retreats and waits to come back in the worst possible times. She walks around in her room, closing her eyes and wills herself to be normal, be normal, be fucking normal.

She hears the door open behind her and it's Jace. She does not say anything as he comes closer to her and stops right in front of her, his face etched in concern and love. She wonders what he possibly could love about her. He closes the distance between them and takes her in his arms, holding her close and hugging her tightly like he used to when they were small. She hugs him back and wonders how long it has been since she hugged her own twin because her heart aches at how much she missed this. Her face is buried in his neck and she smells his scent on him, undeniably her twin. She wishes she would cry in his arms and tell him that she's sorry but she doesn't.

He breaks away from their hug and stares into her eyes. She wonders if he can see how broken she truly is, how incredibly awful and terrible she is at her core but she does not think of it, not now. Maybe in the dead of the night under the covers when she can cry herself to sleep. She takes Jacaerys's face into her hands and hopes to make him understand how she feels.

"Everything I have done... Claiming Cannibal, learning how to fight, closing myself off to anyone who is not my family... I have done this for mother and for her birthright because I knew that someday, we would go to war and have to fight for it and we have arrived at that day. But I want you to know that by extension, I do not only do this for mother but for you too. I believe in you, Jacaerys. Your reign over the Kingdom will be peaceful and good because you are a kind man and have learned all your life how to rule, unlike Aegon. I will breathe, live and die to put mother and you on the Iron Throne. I swear by this, nothing will ever change that, not even Aemond."

Alysanne sees his eyes gather with tears and she wonders if her brother knows that she would really do anything for him to have his birthright, which was promised to him all his life. His hands hold her wrists and his tears fall as if a waterfall had opened and she tries to control her emotions so she won't cry. He is taller than her but she goes up on her toes and plants a soft kiss on his forehead and wipes the tears from his face. She holds onto him so dearly, so tightly because she's scared of losing him, scared of what will happen during the war. People die so quickly and easily and her heart aches at the thought of having to lose a single person in her family... Mother, Father, Jace, Luke, Joffrey, Baela, Rhaena, Aegon, Viserys. Nothing can happen to them. Nothing, not ever.

"I will make sure you will sit on the throne after our mother, trust this, Jace. I will forever be by your side."

"I know you are worried about our families but please, set it aside for now. I just want to be with you and not worry about their stupid problems for once."

Alysanne continued to stare into the fireplace, hoping for an answer to her worries and fears. She basked in the closeness she was enjoying with Aemond, his arm around her and her head on his shoulder, leaning onto him. She played with the string of his shirt as she contemplated on anything and everything, whatever that was.

"The reason I worry is because they hate each other. I don't know how this will work out... But at least it is set in stone now. Only a few moons until we are to be married... It doesn't feel real."

His hand was so gentle as it went through her hair, so loving and caring, attributes that no one would ever think of Aemond. No one but Alysanne. She wondered if she was cursed for it in the end, if her love for Aemond would be ill-placed and she wanted to forget about it just now. She was in the arms of the man she loved, a man she maybe should not be marrying but she could worry about that later. She broke herself away from her cozy place only to sit on his lap, her legs on either side of his body and she looked at him with nothing but love. He looked down at where Alysanne was sitting on his thigh and looked back up again, the smallest smile on his lips.

Alysanne reached up and took the eyepatch off to reveal the beautiful blue sapphire that was in the place of his eye. She brushed over his scarred cheek and studied his hidden eye closely, Aemond was not phased by this in any way. He liked that Alysanne did not feel uncomfortable about seeing him without the eyepatch and his heart clenched once more at how carefully she was touching him. She was everything to him, his beautiful Alysanne, his perfect girl, the sun to his moon. He wished to have her in his arms forever like this. She studied the years old scar as if it would rip open and tell her all of Aemond's secrets and thoughts.

"Don't worry. I'll get back at your brother for this one day."

She glared at him but didn't say anything since he laughed right after and it made her heart skip. He brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear and held one side of her face with his hand. He knew that many thought of her as a brute, cold woman but she was never like that to him, always so soft and gentle and he wished he could keep her right here forever, in his arms, until the world crashed and burned around them.

He knew it would not bother them. They would be happy together, for the rest of their days.

Alysanne hates it, she lets everyone know by making a show of protesting it. She tells her mother that it's foolish to send Jacaerys and Lucerys away to be messengers, that the ravens would be enough, that she could go to the Vale, Winterfell and Storm's End to deliver the messages on Cannibal. Her mother immediately renounces that idea, telling her that sending Cannibal and her would send the wrong message to these lords. She would remain at Dragonstone with her and father to continue plans and be present at the council.

The nervousness strikes her, her worry for her brothers immense and unrelenting. She stands by their dragons as they swear to not act as warriors on their journeys but as messengers. Alysanne knows they will be fine because they have to be. They have no other choice but to come back to her safe and sound.

They leave mother with one last hug and approach her now as they are about to fly off. She is clearly worried and nervous as they come closer and Jace is the first to hug her, holding her close just like last time. She closes her eyes at how familiar it feels to be held by him and presses him close. She leaves a small kiss on his cheek before they part and she holds onto his shoulders, wondering if she can keep him here if she holds on strongly enough. He sees the worry in his twin's eyes and squeezes her shoulder.

"I will come back, sister, do not worry."

Alysanne thinks he's foolish for telling her not to worry but lets him leap onto Vermax either way. She is then faced with Luke who looks up at her with wide, scared eyes from the nest of brown locks on his head. Alysanne's heart hurts at how small he looks and she wants to pick him up like she used to when they were younger and hide him in the castle, wrap him in a blanket and never let him see the horrors of the world. He is almost as tall as her and it frightens her that her younger brother is growing up so quickly. She never gave him permission for that. She cups his small face in her hands and wants to cry at how much more it dwarfs him, so small and yet so brave to fly to Storm's End all on his own.

"My little brother, I'll miss you but you'll be back in no time anyway. Either way, be careful. I wish I could go instead but maybe I can secretly follow after you on Cannibal."

Luke lets out a small laugh at that and smiles at her, his nervousness not so bad now. "I think mother would kill you if you did."

Alysanne smiles at that too and agrees. She ruffles his pretty locks and leans down to be closer to him and kisses his forehead as gently as ever. He had always loved when his elder sister was sweet to him, always felt safe and secure with her. Luke then turns to approach his dragon but comes running back just a few seconds later and hugs Alysanne tightly.

"Don't blame yourself for Aemond. It's alright for you to love him, you can't choose over it but please don't blame yourself, sister. I know what you have done for us and I'm happy that you're my sister and protect me from everything. I love you, Alysanne."

The princess is startled by his words but she smiles at them nonetheless, her heart bursting at how sweet her brother is. Her smart boy, her little Luke.

"I love you too, sweet boy. Don't worry about me, you make sure that you come back safely to me."

My dearest Alysanne,

it has been only a day since you left but I miss you so terribly already. I hope you arrive safely at Dragonstone and think of me as much as I think of you. Soon we will be wed and everyone will see that we are bound and meant to be together, in the eyes of god and men.

It almost pains me physically to not have you by my side now, to hold you close to me and to let you see me as I am. There is no one in the Seven Kingdoms that I have ever met that has made me feel like you do. There is no one in the Known World, living or dead, that will ever enthrall me like you. I could not explain it, can not tell you why I love you so much, just that I do. I am yours and you are mine until the end of our days. I wish to get on Vhagar and fly after you and Cannibal to Dragonstone just so I can be with you, hold your hands, your face, tell you that my heart desires no one but you and that you will forever have me trapped, that I chase you like the moon chases the sun, forever.

I hope to meet up at our spot soon. The little island will always be there and I will be there too, waiting for you.

I love you. Now and always.

Forever yours, Aemond

She hates him. Now and always.

She doesn't believe it when she's told, only shakes her head when her mother comes into her room, tears all over her face. She tells him that Lucerys had died, attacked by another dragon. Her mother is silent when Alysanne asks which dragon and who it was. Did it matter? She does not believe her anyway because it's not true. Lucerys is still alive, just on his way back from Storm's End.

She's completely still as her mother tells her that it was Vhagar who had attacked and killed him. She doesn't move, doesn't breathe, doesn't see anything but red. She did not believe it because who would hurt her Luke like this? Who? Her sweet little brother who was only a child, a little boy still so young and unaware of the horrors of war. But now she believes it because she sees the way her mother continues to sob and cry.

Alysanne believes it now.

I'll get back at your brother for this one day.

A loud dragon roar is heard outside, Cannibal is so loud that it almost deafens her. It must have been heard to King's Landing.

Good, she thinks. Let them hear the roar of a dragon.

She wants to throw the chair she leans on at the wall, wants to take her sword and break her bed with it, wants to scream and pull her hair and bash her head on the ground and punch herself and punch her fist at the wall until it breaks-

She feels arms envelop her and it's her mother that had been crying so bitterly at the loss of her son, holding her close, so close because she's scared of losing her. Alysanne's mind swallows her anger automatically with her mother so close in her vicinity. She can not be violent towards her mother, she would rather die. Maybe her mother senses that she's feeling awful and that she wants to hurt herself to make the pain go away and hugs her so she won't. Alysanne doesn't know. She holds onto her mother either way, like a child she wails in her arms and screams for him. She screams for Lucerys to come back, she doesn't understand why he's not coming and running to her at her distress, doesn't understand that the little brother she held in her arms and kissed on his forehead just hours ago was dead.

The Gods play tricks on her indeed.

Her mother leaves her alone a little while later at her request and Alysanne goes to Lucerys' room because maybe he'll be hiding somewhere, waiting for Alysanne to find him. She looks around the room and wonders how it can suddenly feel so empty, so void as if no one lived here anymore. She takes a few more steps into the room, looks at the strewn and messy books on his study table and remembers that she told him once to keep his mess organized. He never listened to her.

He'll never listen to her ever again.

Her eyes go over his bed and she spots a small plush toy that she knows all too well. She approaches the bed and takes it in her hands, almost feeling like it will dissolve when she picks it up. She had made it for him, years ago when she still had lessons with a septa, she learned how to make these small plush toys. When she was young, she had made one for each of her brothers and made them look like their dragons. She sits there with a toy version of Arrax and her heart hurts, screams, burns like a wildfire. Their bodies are gone, she realizes. Lucerys and Arrax are both lost somewhere in the sea. They can not even be burned.

Another loud, angry roar is heard from Cannibal. She's never heard him sound this angry.

She's never been this angry.

She puts the plush toy back and swiftly walks out of the room, her face stone cold as she marches to her room. All she takes is her sword and small dagger, nothing to protect her from the cold.

Good, she thinks. I shall feel what Lucerys felt when he died. Cold, scared and frightened.

She passes guards as she makes her way outside but they pay her no mind and pass by her quickly because they are scared of Cannibal's roars and know that he is only so loud because of her anger. Her dragon is already perched right outside of the gates. He looks as black and dreadful and menacing as ever, his roars still sounding all over Dragonstone. The guards that stand outside are terrified, not willing to get any closer to him but Alysanne does not care. She approaches him and climbs onto his back, the huge dragon is not at all phased by this.

As soon as she is in her saddle the dragon shouts out another menacing roar and takes off, not having to listen to his rider's orders. Alysanne believes he can read her mind and knows where to go without her having to say anything. She loves him for it.

It's a short flight to the island that they called theirs, somewhere in the middle in between King's Landing and Dragonstone. It was just large enough for Vhagar and Cannibal to reside on and for Aemond and Alysanne to have time for themselves when they could.

Yes, she thinks. We'll be by ourselves with no one to hear his or Vhagar's screams and roars.

She does not know for sure if he is there but behold the gods, he is. She spots the large dragon figure on the island and a figure of white long hair in black clothes sitting on the beach. His head is downcast when she comes closer but he does not raise his head even though Cannibal is more than loud. He lands her a safe distance away from Vhagar, the older dragon staying at her spot with her snout next to Aemond. Alysanne gets off of Cannibal and approaches Aemond who is crying into his hands. She doesn't concern herself with it, only pulls her sword out towards him and the sound of the metal finally makes him turn his head. He looks horrified at who's standing in front of him but Alysanne remains cold, stoic, hard. His tear streaked face and his tired, sorrowful expression do not hurt her.

He is frantic to come closer and she lets him but only until the tip of her sword touches his chest. He looks at her beggingly but she only shakes her head. He feels cold and awful at the empty eyes she's looking at him with and it seems to terrify him that she held no love for him in her eyes. Before he can say anything, she cuts him off.

"I thought about killing Aegon first, you know? An eye for an eye, a brother for a brother. That's what all this was about after all. But then I realized that you do not love Aegon nearly as much as I love Lucerys. In fact, if I killed him, you would be better off since the crown would fall to you, his children are still so little after all. Then I thought and thought about whose death would pain you as much as Luke's pains me... That's why I thought of killing myself in front of you."

Aemond looks horrified at her words and does not believe that this is really his Alysanne. He had never, ever felt any of the anger or animosity she held inside of her directed to him so this hurts him deeply, cuts his heart in half so painfully. He shakes his head at her word and falls on his knees, powerless and defeated by the murder he had done and by the hatred of the woman he loves.

"Please, Alysanne, I beg you, do not hurt yourself. Please, I'm sorry, I swear it was an accident. I lost control of Vhagar, I didn't mean to do it! I never wanted to kill him, I just wanted his eye! Please, you have to believe me, please, I will do anything for you, please don't hate me."

Aemond sobs and cries like she did earlier and it satisfies her to know that he is in pain. She does not think that he deserves to cry like this just because she wants to hurt him. She lost a brother, he only lost his love. Unfortunately however, she still loves him and a small part of her is in pain at seeing him so distraught and hysterical. She wants to hold him, comfort him, hug him...

And then she remembers that Luke is dead. And all those feelings are gone immediately.

"Don't worry, I won't kill myself. I still have a war to win, a mother to put on a throne, a birthright to restore for my brother. My family needs me and Cannibal so no, I can not give myself the pleasure of killing myself for your misery." Alysanne then smiles, a tiny smile but it is so scaring and horrifying that Aemond shivers from where he's looking up to her.

"But I'm happy that you mention Vhagar. I was going to kill her anyway for killing Luke and Arrax but now, I want you to watch her die. I want you to watch me take away the one only thing that has ever given you power in your life and want you to feel what it's like to lose everything."

Aemond only looks at her in disbelief and horror and watches as if he is trapped in his body as Alysanne commands for Cannibal to attack and kill. Vhagar is still lazily lying there, clearly exhausted from the turmoil of emotions her rider is feeling. Because of this, she is weak and her already old state makes her slow to move. It's almost funny that Cannibal is almost as old as her but so much quicker and more brutal. Even Aemond had once admitted that Cannibal was a better war dragon than Vhagar, simply because he was large but because of his long body, still quick to move. Besides, wild dragons are truly ruthless creatures, taking whatever they want and being used to much more brutally by themselves and without a rider.

Alysanne smiles as Cannibal bites the old dragon's tail and simply rips it off, tossing it on the beach next to him, never one to waste his food. Vhagar roars out but it's weak, lame and it takes a long time for her to move, so long that Cannibal is already bursting his massive fire at the old creature. The pain from the fire only makes it worse for the she-dragon and just as Vhagar is about to attack and spew fire of her own, Cannibal grips his teeth around her neck. They struggle back and forth for a few seconds and Alysanne sees the blood drip from Vhagar's neck. Eventually, Cannibal bites all around her neck completely and the dragon's head slices slowly to the ground, making a wet, disgusting sound as it lands on the sand. The huge body of the dragon sacks down in itself and Cannibal begins to feast on her carcass. He will have plenty of food for at least a week.

Alysanne turns back to Aemond who had just watched in horror this whole time, did not say a single word or command Vhagar to attack back. His mouth is open in shock and tears fall down his face as he watches Cannibal feast on his dragon. This is what it feels like, Alysanne thinks. You should feel even more.

Aemond turns back to her and his expression is unchanged, only shock and disbelief in his eyes. She only holds her sword up and points it at his chest once again. She doesn't know how stupid he is but clearly, he is very stupid because he makes no move to get away or attack her. She hardens the grip on her handle and holds the sword right where his heart is. She looks down on his chest and then back up again into his eye. She reaches forward and rips his eyepatch off in anger. Her expression is just as cold as before but her heart beats in fear now and she does not know if she can bring herself to slice it into his chest.

For him, she thinks. For Luke. Your little Luke who only ever wanted to be held by you and talk to you about his worries over ruling one day. Luke who only ever wanted to know that he was loved. Luke who did not wish to go, did not wish to fly into a trap to his own death.

Her inner demons make the decision for her and she pushes the sword in with all her strength and feels it go through his skin, his blood spilling out like a fountain. She doesn't stop pushing in until she feels the sword come out at the other end and only then does she rip it out. The blood flows out even more and Aemond doesn't scream at the pain, only holds his chest in shock and falls backwards on the sand onto his back. Alysanne throws her sword to the side and pulls out the dagger as she falls to her knees next to his body. He looks at her, has been looking at her this whole time and still does not say anything, does not attack her or tell her to stop. He has accepted his demise, so it seems.

His blood covered hand from his chest reaches up with all the strength he has left and he touches her cheek, so softly and gently. Alysanne is crying now and can not hold her emotions at bay anymore as she feels his warm, almost hot blood cover her cheek. He wipes away her tears and she drops the dagger that she had planned to take his eye out with as he cries too but strangely, there's a smile on his face. She leans down now and lies next to him, half her body on his as she continues to cry over her lost love. She puts one hand on his where it's holding his wound and smiles back at him. She feels happiness but sadness, sorrow and relief, darkness and light all at the same time. She sees how much harder it gets for him to breathe and the blood continues to come out of his chest, staining her dress but she doesn't care.

"Will you... come back here? Sometimes, just to remember me? When you have found... someone else you will love and be with and marry, will you still.. remember me?"

He talks slowly and his voice is almost at a whisper, taking breaths in between his words and Alysanne cries and cries and cries. She sobs for him and at what she had to do and asks why in hell he had to kill her brother but she nods all the same, can not let go of her first and only real love she ever had. Her heart feels just like Aemond's wound, bleeding and pierced with a sword and she leans her head on his, her tears falling on his face and mixing with his tears.

"No, I won't ever take anyone else. I can never love anyone like I love you, Aemond. I do not understand it... I despise you and I adore you. I hate you and I love you. I kill you and cry over you dying. What have you done with me, Aemond? What is this spell that you have put on me? I can never love someone again, never in my life. And I will think of you in every breath I take, with every turn of the sun, with every time I wake and go to sleep. You will never leave me, Aemond Targaryen. In death and in life. I love you, now and always."

Alysanne sobs and cries so bitterly, so painfully that she feels like she can not breathe from her sobs. She looks at Aemond and can see the life slowly leaving his eyes and she only holds on tighter to his hand on his chest, sobs and cries as if she had not done this to him. She reaches down and kisses him, one last time and wishes she had kissed him more in the past so she could remember what it really felt like. He looks at her with still so much love and smiles at her.

"I love you, Alysanne. Now and always."

She feels his hand on her cheek slowly slip away, the strength leaving his body and it pains and fills her with joy in a way that she does not understand. She only cries more as his hand falls down, his other hand turning motionless too. She sees the moment life leaves his eyes, that his soul departs from his body. Alysanne screams now and sobs and cries and can not stop her emotions from overflowing. She leans closer to him, her head on his chest right next to where his wound is and holds onto his hand with both of her hands as she lies there next to him. Her love was gone, forever perished by her hand and would never wake up again, tell her that he loved her, hold her so gently and speak of their wedding and how happy he would finally be to not be apart, to have her at his side at all times. He would never feel that happiness again, he would never feel his love for her again, he would never feel anything ever again. She sobs and cries next to his body for some time more, knowing that what she had done would haunt her for the rest of her life. It was terrible. Terrible but necessary.

Aemond Targaryen is dead.

Lucerys Velaryon is avenged.

When she comes flying back on Cannibal hours later her family is standing at the gates, seemingly worried for her. She sees her parents waiting for her and wonders if they will judge her for what she has done today.

Cannibal lands and Alysanne quickly gets off of the dragon. Her mother and father rush to her but stop when she sees that the blood she is covered in is not hers. She must look as insane as she feels, her white dress covered in blood at almost every part, her face and hands covered in it even more. She doesn't look at either of them as she gets off, too ashamed for how they would see her now. She gives Cannibal two pats and Aemond's body rolls out of his jaw with a horrifying splat and her dragon flies off to his nest, resting from the emotional and physically turmoil he had felt today. Rhaenyra and Daemon both look at him in shock and then at Alysanne. She only looks at Aemond, his eyes now closed but his body grotesquely bloodied all the same. Her mother steps closer and holds her by her shoulder, begging her to look up but she does not. She needs to remember Aemond's face, one last time before he's truly gone.

"What happened to Vhagar?" Her father questions, his shock now over but he still seems hesitant about how he feels. She looks up now and looks Daemon in the eyes, nothing but coldness in her eyes.

"Dead, lying on an island not far from here where I found her with him. Cannibal gave her a quick death and ate half her carcass already. He'll go back for more in the next few days until there's nothing left."

She now finally looks at her mother, who looks horrified at what she has done. She wonders if her own mother might not see her in the same light anymore but she brings the hand from her shoulder to her cheek and softly holds it there, uncaring about the blood.

"You did not have to do this, my little one." Her mother has tears in her eyes and she doesn't stop them from flowing out, in sadness over how her little girl had to go through so much pain just because of the man she loved. She looks at her mother and tries to soften her gaze. She does not know if it works or if she will ever be able to feel something again after what she has done.

"But I did. I loved him but I had to kill him at the same time. I could not let him live knowing what he had done to Luke. I just couldn't."

She looks away and back down at Aemond, his face so at peace now with his eye closed and almost a ghost of a smile on his lips. She stares at him for a few seconds, tries to memorize every detail about his beautiful face and feels herself crying again without sobbing this time. The tears just fall down her face without her wanting them to, just like everything else feels out of her control. She then bends down to him and leans his head in her direction, his body already growing cold and it pains her, burns her to feel that there was no more dragon blood in his body. She reaches her hand up to his face and softly cradles his cheeks and then takes the sapphire out of his eye socket. She does not look at him after that anymore, knowing he would not have wanted her to see him without it. She stands upright again and looks at the small blue sapphire in her hands, her last memory of him. She balls her hand into a fist around the sapphire and wishes she could just be at peace in her life, for once. She does not get peace, will never get it.

She walks past her parents and into the castle, the guards she passes looking at her in horror and shock. Now they see me as I am, she thinks. A monster.

She wants to start crying again when she remembers that Aemond had once said the same thing to her about himself. She wishes to hold him again, one last time just like on the beach, hold hands with him and tell him that she loved him and could never forget him. She wishes to hold him, to be with him but she does not wish for him to be alive again because it would then rip her apart to know that the man who had murdered her brother still lived. But she wished to turn back time for the rest of her life, lay in his arms again on the beach, kiss him and tell him that she will never forget about him. But she can not.

Aemond Targaryen is dead. Lucerys Velaryon is avenged.

Alysanne Velaryon brought justice for her brother and for her family. It was justice for the world and a small consolation prize for her pain of losing Luke.

An eye for an eye, she thinks. A life for a life.

Alysanne wishes justice for herself too. She wishes death for herself too.

#house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x original character #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fic #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon spoilers

[stardusksx]

BORN OF THE SAME SIN, Jacaery’s Velaryon x original!fem!character . ( chapter one )

summary: Ivorlyn Targaryen is the bastard daughter of Daemon Targaryen, and despite the dysfunctional nature of living with the man, his new wife and their many children— she finds her life on dragon stone somewhat peaceful. That is, until, they’re called back to Kings Landing and her relationship with a certain future king is put under a new light.

This story is in tandem with a future aemond fic, so there is another OC ( Valaena ) who will feature through out! <3 not my gif !!

Just a preface of the ages seen so HOTD is a little vague— Jace, Valaena and Ivy are 18, Aemond is 19, Helaena is 21 & Aegon is 22.

warnings: canon typical violence & themes, angst, targ!cest, sexual assault, abuse, illusions to childhood abuse/trauma, eventual smut.

word count: 4.0k

Valaena's skirt was hitched up to her knees— more for the added agility it would grant her than to keep it dry as the scarlet fabric had become sodden long ago. Water lapped against her skin, and she treaded through it seamlessly, almost as if it caused her no resistance at all. "Luke!" She chided, her voice lilted with laughter as the boy sloshed towards her, hands full of seaweed. Ivorlyn watched with an amused sort of melancholy— her step siblings had always been so free in character, so careless in joy, and some ugly part of her envied it. Her admiration for them was plentiful, but she wished for their candour in her state of guarded introversion. Rhaenyra's gleeful laugh spilled out like honey, one hand resting on her swollen stomach as she watched her children.

Jace raised Joff onto his shoulder, water soaking the breast of his tunic from the younger boys legs. He was one or two years too old to be carried now, but Jacaerys didn't seem to care. "I fear they will never grow up." Her stepmother mused, tone indicating she had no such fears.

Ivorlyn smiled gently, "Perhaps not."

Aegon tugged at her skirt, his silky hair golden with the setting sun. He was her fathers heir— a boy of legitimate birth and clear, undeniable, Targaryen features. She had those feature too, granted, but her blood was not pure like his. His little hands made a grabbing motion at her, so she hoisted him onto her hip and allowed his head to nuzzle into her neck. "Where is father?" Ivorlyn found the question slipping out— truthfully, the man had always made her rather anxious, and she tried to steer clear of the topic of him.

Rhaenyra gave her a tired smile, "Research."

Oh. She could barley mask her grimace. Ivorlyn was dragonless— she was not born with an egg to warm her cradle, nor had she attempted to claim one in the years since, a fact which her father detested. She wasn't the only child of his to not have a dragon, Rhaena, too, was yet to claim, but for some reason that didn't bother him as much. She didn't let the thought of it being because she was his only bastard child to burden her for too long. No. She always dismissed the thought, but it lingered, he's trying to give you value. Make you worthy. No.

Her fingers ran soothingly through Aegon's hair. "Have you told them of the news?" She nodded towards the sea, her half siblings looked younger playing amongst the waves, like children— a sight she knew would become scares in the coming months. Jace, Laena and herself where nearing eighteen, Luke only a few ages behind, and the past few years had been peaceful enough to facilitate a happy childhood.

"I am to tell them tonight," Rhaenyra responded, a troubled look on her face, "I do worry, though, of Luke. He has felt the weight of... the rumours... more so than his brothers."

Ivorlyn gave a sympathetic hum. It was true that Luke was insecure of the whispers that echoed the realm, she'd seen first hand how it manifested into self doubt— his older brother was more defensive over such matters, quicker to anger rather than yield meekly to thoughts that made him feel unworthy. She felt for Luke in that regard, but the whispers of her illegitimacy where more like screams. Joff was still slightly young to fully comprehend, or care, about the topic.

"It will unnerve him, I think, but he is more resilient than we credit him for. It's his title, and deep down— he knows he has every right to it."

Her stepmother sighed, "You are right, it just bothers me. I do not like to see him distressed."

She smiled reassuringly at her, "You love them, such a dislike is only natural."

She smiled back, rubbing a hand once again over her stomach. The women watched her children for a moment longer before she spoke again, "Ivy?"

"Yes?"

"Your addition to this... to our family... we are grateful for it. All of us."

She felt the weight of Aegon in her arms, the sound of laughter that echoed back to them from the sea, the look of warmth in Rhaenyra's eyes and nodded. While her father was a difficult man to understand— to feel connected to, she was glad for the family he came with. The people who had accepted her and given her a home.

"I do," She said appreciatively, "I share the same affection for all of you."

Viserys, from where he'd been seated by his mothers feet, toddled up to her and began to tug at her skirt. She laughed slightly, struggling to crouch down and hoist him onto her hip with only one available arm. Sand stained the fabric, and she slipped onto her knees for a moment with a startled noise. The grin on her face, however, never faded as Aegon let out an excited squeal. Viserys arms wound around her neck, and with each child resting on a hip, she attempted to stand once again. It failed however, and she fell onto her backside still gripping onto them. They giggled relentlessly as she huffed.

Hands plucked Aegon from her grasp, and she looked up to see Jace smirking down at her, the sliver hair boy now resting on his oldest brother’s hip. He held out a hand to her, and she allowed him to pull her and Viserys upright.

"They have grown too big for you." He was smiling, poking Visery's cheek as he squirmed away from him in her arms.

"It's picking them up," She denied, "I think I can carry them both for a little longer."

He cocked a brow at her, then a mischievous look overtook his face before he handed the small boy back to her. Okay, Ivy struggled to hoist him comfortably onto her hip, maybe they are getting heavy. She wasn't prepared to admit that, however. It didn't matter though, Jace was grinning like he'd read her mind.

"Soon they will be just as tall as Joff."

"Don't speak such words," She feigned heartbreak, a pout befalling her lips as her head came to rest on Aegon's, "They must stay small forever so that I may always be able to set them on my lap and listen to their made-up stories."

"They will always have stories to tell you," He smiled warmly and caressed their youngest brothers cheek, jesting, "Perhaps one day, they'll even be true."

Ivorlyn snorted, "I don't know, the one about the water snake that breathed fire over their boat before falling a victim to Egg's sword sounded rather real to me."

Jace swept Visery's onto his own hip— much to her chagrin, she was clearly not going to be able to carry them both back. "Oh no, that one was most definitely true," He laughed, then sent her a wink as he turned to walk back towards the castle— glancing over his shoulder as she followed with their younger sibling, "I was there."

Ivorlyn let out a snort— which seemed to heighten his amusement— "Oh how it sets my blood alight with envy that you boys get to have such exciting adventures."

He was walking backwards now, boots kicking up sand, still grinning, "Perhaps if you're nice enough he'll let you be apart of the next adventure."

Ivorlyn mocked offence, "I'm already nice enough."

He gave her a I-don't-know-what-to-tell-you shrug, "Egg's rules, not mine."

She looked down at the boy on her hip, poking him in the cheek until he squirmed with giggles, "I'm nice enough to be in your stories, right Aegon?"

"You're a girl," he said between gasps of laughter, "You can't fight sea monsters."

"Now, Aegon," Jace protested, only a light tone of scolding in his voice— their brother was young after all, such idealisations were merely a product of what he'd been taught, "Girls can fight sea monsters— some of the best fighters in history were girls."

Ivorlyn was already confident Jacaerys was going to make a good king— he was determined to learn his duties and had a moral heart, but it was when he said things like this that she believed he would be a great one. Someone who wasn't too arrogant to deny help from anyone who could give it— be it boy or girl, rich or poor, what mattered to Jace would be what is best for the realm, not best for reputation. Aegon looked curious, tilting his head, "Really?"

Ivorlyn hummed in response, "Visenya Targaryen, your ancestor, is one of the most well known warriors to have ever lived. She was the sister-wife of your namesake."

"Oh." He said, like he'd never considered such a thing. Perhaps he hadn't— she, Valaena and Rhaena were not trained like the boys where to fight, so Aegon was not accustomed to the concept of such a thing. Ivorlyn supposed if Baela was here— who cared not for the scorn of people's opinions when it came to training with her swords, then perhaps Aegon wouldn't be so surprised. Ivy could recall a phases of interest Valaena had in learning the skill when they'd been back at the redkeep— Sir Harwin had always been kind to her, and she was determined to be involved with his training of her brothers. After his death, her interest had diminished. Ivorlyn wasn't sure wether it was the swords, or the man who was comfortingly familiar to her that had driven the desire to be taught.

She did not ponder the question with contempt— it was a sad thing, the void it created within one's heart to feel something to be inherently true within the depths of your very soul, to know a little secret that was valuable and shaping to who you are, and not be able to acknowledge it within reality. It was a feeling she knew well, so the whispered judgement surrounding the the dark hair was not a stigma she shared her scorn with.

“It’s getting late,” It was Rhaenyra who spoke next, offering a small smile to Valaena when she took the women’s arm to alleviate the strain pregnancy had put onto her body, “Time we get the little ones ready for bed.”

Luke carried Joffrey on his back, racing slightly ahead of Jace as they laughed towards the castle. Fondly; she smiled down at the boy in her arms as he gradually began to show his tiredness through the way his eyelids grew heavier. Tomorrow, things would be different, but for now she would enjoy the peace for as long as she could.

•*⁀➷

She did remember her mother. Ivorlyn was only young when her uncle had taken her in— five, in-fact, but there had been a time when it had just been her and the older women with the hair of honey and a musical voice that she could still hear in the wind sometimes. Her name had been Alessia, and she was a beauty favoured by men of depravity— one of those being her father, Daemon Targaryen. She had been kind. Ivorlyn remember that, even when her face began to fade to her memory and that part of her childhood felt so very distant. Kind and gentle. Yet, a whore house was no place for a child, and there was vivid parts of those days that where scarred into her mind permanently. Scenes too obscene for such a young age, men's eyes that burned with things that made her skin crawl— things that shouldn't be aimed at girl of not even six.

She didn't speak of those days to anyone. It took up a quite, yet screaming, part of her mind. And when she slept, and the nightmares crept in, it was those men that haunted them.

"Ivy?" She startled, her book slipping out of her grasp and colliding with the carpet. An apology slipped from her lips instantly as she reached to pick it up, the figure filling her with a momentary sense of guilt. Yet, it was only Jacaerys, and she wasn't in some place she wasn't suppose to be— this was the family library. Her guilt was unfounded, and she tried to suppress it as she looked at him.

"Jace," She fidgeted with the spine of the book, yet the apology she fought against still came, "Sorry, I did not think anyone—"

"No need," Jace smiled tiredly, his hair unkempt as he stood in just his night shirt and slacks. It was clear he'd been trying to sleep not long ago. "Tis' late, you couldn't sleep?"

"No," She murmured, "I... no." There was no explanation she could give him, it was all too long of a story to tell and she was certain he only asked out of pleasantry. He'd always been kind to her— kind like a future king should be, all chivalry and self-assuredness. He racked a hand through his hair and closed the door behind him, placing the candle he was carrying on the table.

She watched him as he walked towards her, allowed him to take the book from her hands, and noted the small smile that curled his lips. "You where always fond of this story in our history lessons."

Surprise washed over her. They'd shared lessons with her cousins and his sister in the year before they left kings landing— but education had been separated after that, she didn't think such a minute detail would have stayed with him. "You remembered these things quicker than I, the stories where always harder for me to learn and commit to memory."

"I didn't know you struggled with such things," Ivorlyn said truthfully, because he'd never seemed to miss a question, "You always knew what you where talking about."

"Only the big parts," He grinned, "The little details that weaved the story together always skipped my mind. You could retell a whole history word for word."

"They where a comfort to me," She admitted, "I think it was something to do with knowing how it ended. There is no surprises in history."

"You are not fond of surprises?"

"Not necessarily surprises," She shook her head, "The unknown."

He nodded like he understood something, and asked gently, "The whole future is unknown, do you fear it?"

"Yes," She answered honestly, but it felt more complicated than that, "It makes me silly, I suppose, to be afraid of the inevitable."

"It makes you brave," He responded half in jest, half sincerely, "To face fear everyday."

Ivorlyn blew out a breath of a laugh, "I don't think I've ever been considered brave before."

"You have," Jacaerys smiled at her, "T'was unspoken, but I have always considered you as such."

Her eyebrows pinched— Jace had never spoken to her like this. They where always friendly but never discussed much beyond small talk. He was familiar and a stranger all at once. "Why?" She found herself asking, too curious to bypass it.

"It's no small thing, to come into a family like ours when you weren't raised into it from a babe. You never cowered, even in those early days in Kings Landing when we where all strangers to you."

Ivy had always thought of herself as timid, quite, so hearing someone speak of her like she was anything but was rather jarring. Not in a bad way, but it was always strange to know someone's perception of you was far from the one you had of yourself. "I was terrified," She admitted, "It was a lot different from where I'd come from."

Jace looked curious, "You never talk about before."

"Some things are better forgotten." And it was true, there where parts of those few years she'd spent with her mother that shouldn't be spoken of— what would they think? What would the realm think? To know that the Targaryen's not only harboured a bastard, but a one who had been tarnished? No, she thought, it will remain in history, and be forgotten to it. Though she knew— she'd always remember. Yet there was good parts, parts where her mother had been kind and loving and a lost women who was trying her best. Ivorlyn wondered what had become of her.

Jacaerys was gentle as he smiled, and it was one of sympathy and sadness, "Nothing is better forgotten, not when it paves way for who you are now."

"They are not good memories, Jace."

"Where you come from is not your flaw, Ivy. It's a display of your resilience."

"Maybe," She gave him a small smile, "But the realm won't see it that way— I'm already disgraced through my illegitimate conception, but if people where to know the circumstances behind it... I fear they won't take well to a ruler that supports such a thing, and your mothers claim to the throne is already questioned enough on a mere basis of her gender. She doesn't need her name tangled in my mess."

"There isn't anything that she wouldn't bare for you," He told her, "That we wouldn't bare for you. All of us. You don't have to be alone with your torments, it's harder to be isolated in these things."

"You are to be king one day, too." She murmured, looking away from him and to the book in her hands, "'Tis best you don't know of such things, either, it'll make it easier should you ever need to exile me if your ignorance is authentic."

"I would never." Jace was frowning as he took a determined step towards her, hand curling around her wrist, "I would never exile you, Ivorlyn. There are things I'd bare scrutiny for, and you are one of them."

Ivorlyn blinked, unable to hide her surprise. She was the bastard daughter of a man who had showed up out of the shadows and wed his mother only a breath after the death of his father. Yes, he was kind and cordial, but that had always been Jace— a boy who knew of the weight he'd one day bare, and had been preparing for it ever since his birth. He couldn't afford to be cruel, couldn't afford his reputation to be that of man who displayed his contempt so brazenly for those who he didn't hold in high favour. He had conflict with his uncles, that was known to many, but he could afford such information to be public knowledge because they where threats. She wasn't. She was a girl who he could either be civil with, or display a weakness to— show the realm that he didn't tolerate people who had differences to him. It wasn't a good message to send, especially with so many rifts between the Targaryen name and other high status families that would need fixing during his and his mother's reign.

"You doubt it?" He sounded confused, as if he couldn't comprehend where such an idea would set root in her mind, "We are family," His voice was softer than she'd ever heard it, gentle, "And you are not defined by the things that brought you into this world, Ivy. It is your character I place my judgments upon, and I happen to like it very much."

She'd never known her breath to freeze in her lungs like this before, and gods, was her eyes beginning to sting? Maybe she'd never realised how much she'd wanted to know that she finally belonged somewhere, told herself that she was okay with being the outsider as long as she had somewhere safe to be. After all, how could she ever want for anything more when what she already had is beyond what she deserves. A bastard. A child born of sin, of a whore house. Ruined long before she even knew the concept of ruin.

She swallowed, unable to meet his eyes, but he was reaching out to swipe away the single tear that had struck her cheek. Oh, she thought, I'm actually crying. She shouldn't be— it was undignified, he was the future king. But for a moment, as he watched her with empathic eyes, he just felt like a boy.

"You will always have a place here, no matter what whispers follow your name. That's a promise."

But they won't be whispers, she wanted to say, they will be screams. But he sounded so sincere, and maybe it was through the haze of her emotions that she let herself believe him. "You will be a good king, Jace," She told him, meaning it entirely, "When your time to serve the realm comes, it will be an honour to witness it."

She saw something flicker on his face— a side to him she'd never noticed before; self doubt. It hadn't occurred to her that he was anything but confident in his abilities. He'd never been arrogant, no, but the way he carried himself had always been self-assured. The momentary flash of vulnerability was surprising to her, yet it humanised him in a whole new way. It wasn't that he'd been this imperial type of being to her before— she'd known him knee deep in mud laughing with his siblings, or teasing Luke in that brotherly-well-meaning way. He was teenage boy, and he acted like it, that part wasn't foreign to her. The idea that he harboured doubts about his claims to throne, however, was. Anytime she'd known him to be challenged in such a regard he'd always met it with a firm and unwavering defence. He didn't cower to whispers, to rumours, and there was plenty of them where he and his brothers was concerned.

She admired the newfound revelation about him, truthfully. It took a different kind of courage to not allow those insecurities turn into cowardice.

He gave her an appreciative smile, "Thank you, it means a great deal to me that you believe so."

She wanted to tell him that it wasn't just a belief, that it was a simple fact that she knew. He was as stubborn as his mother though, and no brief reassurance would change his beliefs. A thought dawned on her, as to why he was awake and unable to sleep at such an hour, "Your mother has told you then? About the Vaemond?"

Jace tugged at the hair on the nape of his neck as weary sigh escaped him, "She did," he folded his arms, "It troubles Luke."

"She thought it would," A small thrown fell onto her lips, concerned for her step-brother, and there was a distantly fond look on his face at her words, "The claims will not matter though, Visery's has never tolerated the entertainment of such rumours."

An unspoken understanding passed between, one that had existed ever since they where young children. The circumstances of his birth where not openly acknowledged by anyone unless they wished to know the punishments of treason, and while they where different in that way ( the Targaryen bastard being a more common title to refer to her by than her own name ) they still felt the weight of such scrutiny equally. Because, while she'd never say it, Ivorlyn knew the truth of it all— and she also knew that he did too. Born of the same sin.

"I know," Jace smiled at her tiredly, the picture of boy who was already baring the weight of something far bigger than him, "It will be sorted swiftly, of that I am sure."

Then he tilted his head at her fondly, and she realised a yawn had risen from her and exposed just how tired she was begging to feel. "Let me walk you back to your chambers," He reached to pick up his candle from the table, "It would cause quite the surprise if one of the guards found you sleeping in the hallway."

Ivorlyn scoffed in amusement, "I'm not going to keel over on my way back, Jace."

He gave her a boyish grin, "A king must take his precautions."

"You're not king yet, Jacaerys."

His grin only widened as he guided her towards the door, "However could I let such a thing slip my mind."

When he bid her goodnight as she slipped back into her rooms, their final exchange of looks was fond. She slept with little disruption.

#jacaerys x reader #prince jacaerys #jacaerys smut #jacaerys x oc #house of the dragon #game of thrones #house of the dragon lucerys #aemond targaryen #rhaenyra targeryan #hotd daemon #targcest #heleana targaryen

[the-fiction-witch]

In The Eyrie P2

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Jacaerys Velaryon Couple - Jacaerys X Reader Reader - Sharra Arynn (OC - Dark Hair / Plus Sized / Pale Skin) Rating - Sweet Word Count - 1261

Plus size OC described as 'Chubby' not meant in a derogatory way

Part One

As the guard led him out of the throne room and through the halls, Jace felt himself with mixed emotions at what was to come. When they reached the door to his betrothed, he was given a look by the guard. A silent warning to be on his best behaviour. The door was opened and Jacaerys moved inside the door slamming shut behind him, he found the chamber to be very beautiful, the grey Vale stone with curtains of blue and white, many windows and sweet stains and silks, furniture of dark wood and blue fabric, two balconies one to the courtyard and he thought of the woman who he had seen looking down at him, to think that may have been her and another balcony to the outside of the castle. He looked around and saw no one but he heard singing like a sweet songbird from the open balcony door. Jacaery’s eyes were drawn to the balcony he stepped out curious about the sight he might see.

The sight in front of him was not a surprise but the voice and melody were one he could not resist, he was stunned. He saw the grey stone balcony that overlooked the Vales rolling hills, birds came to a birdhouse built into the balcony walls, birds settling in before the storm took hold, and on the balcony stood a woman. She looked his age, with long dark brown hair, pale skin, and a beautiful gown of blue velvet and silver embroidery, She had a voice like an angel, but immediately he noticed she was chubby, she had wide hips, broad shoulders but she had freckles she wasn't a Westeros standard of beautiful by any means.

Jacaerys knew in the moment that this was his betrothed. After a long stare, he felt a knot fill his stomach at her curves. She was chubby, he didn’t know how to feel about this, it wasn’t like terrible but mildly disappointing to him, but he felt bad immediately for thinking that, she was still a beauty in that as well. She possessed a charm and a comfort that he had never seen before. As he stared at her, his eyes wandered over her form, from head to toe. She was not what he pictured as his wife but she was a welcome change of pace from the typical beauty of the realm. He took a deep breath and tried to settle the nerves in his stomach as he finally spoke. He didn't want to appear rude or disrespectful to his betrothed, there could be a chance that their romance could bloom. He took a step forward to the woman.

"My Lady." Jace bowed his head formally, He tried his best to ignore it and appear respectful.

She gasped as he spoke as she hadn't heard him arrive, "My prince," she bowed her head as she kissed the head of a baby bird before helping it into the birdhouse and closing the small doors, she turned to him her hands Infront of her stomach picking at her nails as she can barely met eyes with him,

Jace would chuckle gently to himself at the sight before him. The way she took care of the birds and how she fiddled with her fingers. It reminded him of his mother in a way, she had a delicate manner about her. He had not expected this girl to be his wife, but she had captured his attention. The way she looked at him was what caught him most. "You care deeply for those birds don't you?"

"I do, I have watched over them in my room now for six generations. I make sure to take them in before each storm," she answered "I'm - forgive me but... Please do not feel you need to make small talk with me,” she said which stopped him a moment, “I understand that the meer sight of me is likely enough for you to make your decision please do not feel you need to be polite to me. You may just go,"

Jacaery’s heart skipped a beat at the words. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was she really allowing him to back out if this arrangement made him uncomfortable? That moment was all it took for him to understand what kind of person she was. A kind, sweet, generous woman who was undeserving of anything but the best. At that moment, Jace knew he had to try and make this one work. "I won't be leaving, my Lady."

"why ever not?"

Jace's smile grew upon his face as he looked her in the eyes. "Because just from what you have shown me, I can already see that you are more than what I ever could have hoped for in a wife. I have never had the opportunity to choose my bride, and you were not in my mind as what I sought after, but you seem to be exactly what I need."

"Please... Do not toy and tease me Prince Jacaerys"

Jacaerys paused at her words. She seemed very guarded and he thought he could fix that. He took a few steps toward her, she had a beauty about her that was much more than looks. "I do not toy or tease, my lady. You have captured my eye, my heart, and my interest. I have no desire to joke in this matter."

she stepped back widening the space between them "I offer this to you now. You may go. Now. And I will think no ill of you, you have my permission to go, to leave, and I will not argue with you. Please go. I could not bear another jest..."

The Prince's smile faded as he saw the terror in her eyes. She truly believed that she was unlovable, he could see it in her eyes like she was damaged from previous rejections. He could see a part of himself in her. A part that hurt, felt unwanted, unloved by the realm and even his own blood had called him a bastard, and he felt somewhat unwanted becuase of it. "I do not joke in this, nor do I wish to mock you as some cruel jape. I came here and I saw you, the sight before me was all I needed to see. A beauty that makes everything appear dim by comparison." he explained, "I came here to wed you and I'll be damned if I leave without you by my side as my wife. Let the world mock and laugh at us, but I would rather have someone sweet, and kind, that I can love by my side instead of one who fits their mould of beauty with no way of kindness of conversation. I see a beauty and a strength in you that others may not. I would marry you tomorrow if I could. But I beg of you, give me a chance."

she nodded and after a moment offered her arm to lead them both inside

Jace was stunned when she accepted, taking her arm as he followed her inside. He could feel his heart beating out of his chest, she had offered him the chance he had been looking for his entire life. She wasn't beautiful by Westerosi's standards but that didn't matter, she was beautiful to him. He glanced at her as he walked beside her, noticing her hands once more. They were soft, feminine, and full of beauty. Once inside, he couldn't help but notice the smell of the chamber itself and how it mixed with her sweet perfume. Everything about her was perfect.

Masterlist Of Jacaerys Velaryon

Tags (Sorry didn't see them till now)

@astarborntowrite

@ximetrevino2021

#jace x reader #jace #jace velaryon #jacaerys strong #jacaerysvelaryon #jacaerystargaryen #prince jacaerys #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #hotd jacaerys #jacaerys x reader #hotd fanfiction #hotd fandom #hotd season 2 #hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd jace #hotd jace x reader #hotd jace taryargen #jacaerys x you #hotd smut #house of targaryen #house targaryen #house of velaryon #house of the dragon #house of the dragon season 2 #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon jace #house of the dragon jacaerys

[starkskeep]

When the Dragon Howls (4)

When the Dragon Howls Chapter Four

Characters - Cregan Stark x OC (Maera Velaryon), Aegon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen

Summary - Maera Velaryon feels consumed by the obsessive clutches of her uncles. A wolf from Winterfell could potentially be the one strong enough to confront the dragons.

Word Count - 1,406 words

Warnings - Typical Targaryen relationships

A/N - I am constantly surprised by everyone who continues to like and share this series. This chapter will actually have Cregan in it. I was hoping to put it in the last chapter but ran into technical difficulties due to the post character limit. It seems to be fixed now so most chapters should at least be over 1k words. Enjoy!

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As if in apology for not allowing her wish from the night before to come true, the gods sent Maera a savior in the form of Baela Targaryen.

Maera quickly rises when she sees her cousin/step-sister arrive, hoping to catch her attention. It seems that she is precisely the reason Baela came into the library because her eyes locate Maera immediately. “I have been looking for you. Some of the younger lords are training in the yard this morning, including your brothers. I believe it will be amusing to watch.” Maera smiles, always happy to see Baela, especially at this moment. She stands and takes Baela’s arm in hers immediately, steering both of them out of the library. If Maera was accompanied by someone else, she would not be bothered by either of her uncles. Aegon and Aemond only got obviously close to her when there was no other noble around to catch them. “Jace is your betrothed. Shouldn’t you be a little more supportive of him?” “He is your brother yet you still laugh at his misfortunes. I fail to see how it is any different. Life would be boring if I couldn’t find humor in the actions of my partner.” Maera smiled as Baela voiced one of the exact wishes she had for her own potential husband. None of the men she had met so far seemed to be particularly willing to share a laugh at their expense, especially not her uncles. Baela soon turned serious after they were a safe distance away from the library. “Are you alright? It was very tense when I walked into the library. I would not be surprised if either of them drew a weapon upon the other.” She looks Maera up and down, inspecting her for any potential injuries that would be a result of Aegon or Aemond’s actions. “Father sent me to search when you were unable to be found after breaking our fast. He has been on edge since you came in with Aemond at dinner.” Maera scoffs despite appreciating Baela rescuing her. “Daemon is on edge whenever he has to be around anyone whose blood bleeds green. He should know that I am fine, given that he gifted me a dagger and told me to use it on his nephews. If my mother listened to Daemon, I would be confined to my chambers on Dragonstone until my husband was chosen for me. I believe his current fear is that I end up dishonored and forced into a marriage with Aemond, however, that may only be the excuse he uses to hate those related to Otto Hightower.” Baela laughs. “My father does not need an excuse to hate the man and his family. It comes naturally to him. He does not want you married to your uncle.” “Well that is quite hypocritical of him, isn’t it?” Baela and Maera both giggled at this, allowing themselves to act as young girls do despite the seriousness of the topic at hand. 

The two continued to walk arm-in-arm through the Red Keep until they made it to the training grounds. Most of the noblemen there were practicing for the upcoming tournament being held as part of the festivities. This meant that the lords that vie for Maera’s attention would be too occupied with besting each other on the training field to notice her as long as she did not make her presence obvious. Maera would finally be able to breathe. Baela led her to a small archway that opened the main part of the castle to the training yard. They were able to see the whole area and all of its inhabitants for that morning. The clanging of swords and the grunts of fighting men filled the air. Not a particularly proper location for noble women to be seen but children of dragons are hardly ones to adhere to decorum. Maera’s eyes scanned the grounds. None of the lords looked adept at fighting. It is obvious that they had been taught to direct fighters rather than actually join their men on the battlefield. How unfortunate for Maera. Shouldn’t a husband at least appear to have the potential to defend her honor?

The sound of Jace’s laughter drew Maera out of her thoughts. It was easy to spot her brother but it was the man, definitely not a boy, that had her attention remaining on the duo. The unknown man knocked Jace to the ground. Maera’s hands shot out to grip Baela's arm. Anytime Jace or Luke trained at the Red Keep, Aemond and Ser Criston ensured that the fighting was as brutal as possible without the risk of being reprimanded. The girls were able to relax when they saw the man help the prince up. Jace beckoned Luke over from the sidelines to join their training. Maera’s younger brother had been standing near the archway where she and Baela stood under. In this action, the unknown man turned to face Luke as well. “A Stark?” She heard Baela whisper beside her. “How can you tell, Baela?” Maera questioned. “His tunic. It's embroidered with a direwolf.” A Stark. A Wolf of Winterfell. They are one of the few noble houses that Maera has yet to meet a member of. Northerners rarely came to the capital. The last time Maera knew of it happening was when her mother was named as the heir to the Iron Throne but that was long before Maera was born. She watched as the Stark began his duel with Luke. A true fighter. Rough, like she had heard from the gossip about the Northmen before, yet still honorable. He wasn’t using any underhanded tactics against Maera’s brother despite having many openings to do so. The Stark took time to correct Luke’s movements and stance without belittling her brother. 

While one of Maera’s brothers was being helped, Baela took the opportunity to tease the other. “Prince Jacaerys! Are you not going to introduce us to your partner? Surely you can’t expect us, as two shining examples of proper young ladies, to introduce ourselves.” Her words ended the session between Luke and the Stark and left Jace blushing and stuttering. The three boys, or rather two boys and a man, made their way to the Maera and Baela. Jace cleared his throat and made the introductions. “Sister. My lady. May I present Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. Lord Cregan. This is my sister, Princess Maera Velaryon, and my betrothed, Lady Baela Targaryen.” Maera watched as Lord Cregan bowed his head to Baela before turning to her. Her breath was caught in her throat as he turned his attention towards her. She continued to hold her breath as he gently kissed her hand. “My lady. It is a true honor to meet you. These southern lords have not exaggerated when naming you The Realm’s Beauty.” Lord Cregan spoke with a rich voice that revealed a thick Northern accent. Maera felt like she could faint. She couldn’t focus on his words when she felt him kiss her hand. It sent a jolt down her spine. And his eyes: a piercing grey that she couldn’t look away from. She was enraptured. How could anyone expect Maera to pay attention to anything when this man was speaking to her, touching her, by the gods even just being near her? A blush spread across her cheeks and Maera found herself becoming far less composed than the moment before Cregan Stark looked at her. It took Baela subtly nudging her to get Maera to return to reality. “Thank you, Lord Stark. It is an honor to meet you. I imagine you have already been properly welcomed but let me personally welcome you to King’s Landing.” Maera hoped that her voice did not sound as flustered as she felt. At that moment, the princess decided that she wanted to know more about this Stark in the hopes that he would prove to be different from the other noblemen she had the unfortunate duty of interacting with. He already made her feel different. It was obvious to her brothers who looked disgruntled that their new training partner was making their sister blush, it was obvious to Baela who had never seen her cousin/step-sister instantly taken by a man, and it was obvious to the inhabitants of the training yard who would cause rumors to quickly spread throughout the Red Keep of the northern lord who made the Velaryon princess blush. 

#cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark imagine #cregan x reader #cregan stark #aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd imagine #hotd oc #hotd fanfic #hotd

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 3

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you," the witch said….

Daenera Velaryon returns to King's Landing with the intention of bolstering her mother's position and reminding both the Greens and nobility that Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne. She has a specific goal in mind: to be a constant source of annoyance to the Greens and is willing to play the political game without hesitation.

However, what catches her off guard is the way Aemond gazes at her and seems to relish in her suffering. He openly expresses his desire to bring about her downfall, her ruination.

This situation leads to a tense game of cat and mouse, with each move escalating the already high stakes. Will their precarious situation crumble as the dragons soar above, or will fate intervene?

After all, love often demands the sacrifice of duty, just as duty can sometimes lead to the demise of love. Characters: Aemond Targaryen X OC, HOTD characters.

Chapter 3: A debt made

AO3 - Masterlist

Startled, Daenera was yanked out of her sleep as she felt a pair of hands grab her arms and shoulders, and a voice urgently whispering something in her ear. Disoriented, she struggled to make sense of her surroundings in the dimly lit room. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. 

“I’m awake, I’m awake! What’s happening?” She groaned, shaking off the hands and rubbing her eyes. 

“Someone stole Vhagar!” Baela answered in a loud whisper. Someone stole a dragon? How could someone steal a dragon? You couldn’t just pick it up and put it in your pocket. Daenera’s gaze shifted to her cousins to her brothers, finding them all wide-eyed and awake.

“Come on!” Jace urged, tearing the sheets away from her. Daenera grumbled and climbed out of bed, shrugging on a dress and her shoes before following the group into the night, her hair messy and in tangles. 

All the halls were dark as night, orange light flickering from the candles, shadows dancing on the walls. 

“Shouldn’t we get the guards?” Daenera asked, only to be shushed. She repeated herself just lower. 

“We’ll get the guards when we’ve caught the thief,” Jace said in youthful bravado. 

Daenera was less convinced that this was a good idea. They shuffled down the halls, led by Baela carrying a torch. 

“If it's a dragon thief we might need the guards,” Daenera pointed out. 

“There’s no time,” Baela urged. “Someone took Vhagar before…”

Her voice went out, silencing herself. Before Rhaena had the chance to attempt to claim the dragon. Daenera suddenly understood the urgency of it all. Why it was so important that they intercepted the thief. In all Rhaena’s grief, she had yet to claim what her mother had once done. 

In the shadows, a figure emerged, throwing off his cloak. Aemond approached, confidently walking towards them, skin dirtied, smelling of dragon. 

“It’s him,” Baela accused. 

“It’s me,” Aemond confirmed. 

“Vhagar is my mothers dragon,” Baela spat at him, voice quivering in anger and pain. 

“Your mother is dead,” Aemond curtly pointed out. “And Vhagar has a new dragonrider.”

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena hissed. Daenera shifted uncomfortably, feeling the cold of the night creep up her legs. This was going to end badly.

“Then you should have claimed her!” Aemond hissed back, his voice as loud as Rhaena’s. His hateful eyes turned to Jace and Luke, narrowing with bitterness. “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you.”

Rhaena lunged at Aemond, growling in anger, ready to throw punches. Aemond wasn’t easily unfooted, he had his height and strength on his side, and he swept Rhaena to the side, tossing her to the ground. That single decision set the hall ablaze with anger, Baela attacked to protect her sister, swinging a fist that collided with Aemond’s cheekbone in a direct punch that sent him stumbling, reaching to cup his cheek, a yelp leaving his lips. Daenera looked over her shoulders, hoping that the guards would hear the scuffle. Aemond got on his feet, swinging at Baela and striking her in the face, the girl falling back to her ass, crying. 

“Come at me again, and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond threatened.

Daenera jumped in, pushing Aemond back. “Stop this!”

“Or what! You started it.” Aemond forcefully pushed Daenera back, the girl stumbling over Baela’s legs and falling to the dust, hands scraping on the loose stone. Baela sobbed, covering her already bruised cheekbone.

“And we’ll finish it,” Jace yelled, throwing a punch to Aemonds nose, the blond rearing back. Jace punched him in the stomach, but the advantage he had gotten from the first punch disappeared and his smaller arms were unable to find its mark again, swinging from one side to the other in fervent tries. Aemond avoided her brother's punches, kicking him in the chest, sending him sprawling as well. 

Like the little hellion he could be, Luceryes screamed and tried to defend his brother, but he was hit in the nose. A sickening snap sounded, and Luke fell back, blood streaming from his nose, tears stinging in his eyes. 

Daenera was on her feet again, kicking Aemond over the shin and slapping him across the face, clawing at it. Three red lines drew down one side of his face from her nails and Aemond hissed, punching her in the teeth. She felt pain explode in her head, her lip splitting open, blood filling her mouth. She stumbled to the other side of the hall, leaning against the wall with one hand, trying to get her bearings. 

While she did that her older brother got on his feet along with Baela and Rhaena, pushing Aemond down to litter him with punches and kicks. 

In all honesty, it sounded like they were beating on a dummy, like the ones they used as sword practice. The only difference was that this one groaned when he got hit. And he had the ability to hit back. 

Daenera spat out the blood and got ready to join the frey, when Jace was kicked back and Baela was thrown into her sister, the two falling in a heap of arms and legs, groaning. Luke screamed again trying to push Aemond back, but Aemond grabbed him by the throat, getting to his feet, one hand curled around something hard and deadly. Blood smeared his face, his white strands in a tussle around his head. He held up the object. 

“You will die screaming in flames just as your father did,” he spat at Luke, who choked in his iron grip, blood in two streaks under his nose. 

“Let him go!” Daenera yelled at Aemond, anger burning in her chest, lungs heaving to provide air for the fires. How dare he say that to Luke. Luke, who was completely unaware of his true parentage. Luke, who believed Laenor to be his father. And to add insult to injury, he had the nerve to make a mockery of Ser Harwins death.

Daenera was ready to pull that precious white hair straight out of his skull. He wasn’t deserving of it. 

“Bastards,” Aemond spat again, glaring at Jace and Daenera. 

“My father’s still alive,” Luke cried, his hands around Aemonds wrists, trying to pry him off. 

A cruel smirk grew on Aemonds lips, and he lowered the rock, malice shining in his eyes. “He doesn’t know, does he, lord Strong? Lady Strong?”

Daenera didn’t know Jace had brought a knife and was just as surprised as the rest of them, when he produced it from his sleeve. He wouldn’t let this slight pass. He wouldn’t let Aemond get away with it. He dishonored him and his mother. He attacked Baela and Rhaena. Stole Vhagar. Jace shifted from one foot to another.

“Jace!” Baela and Daenera yelled in unison. 

It didn’t matter. Jace stepped forward trying to get to Aemond, but Aemond threw Luke at him, the smaller boy falling to the dust. Jace almost stumbled over him, but he managed to avoid his brother, holding out the knife, swinging it. The blade cut through the air and Daenera held her breath, anxiety coursing through her veins. 

Aemond avoided the knife, swinging the rock and hitting Jace in the head. Daenera screamed at the sight, running to her brother, knees sinking in the sand. He was bleeding from his head, eyes rolling and blinking, trying to focus through the pain wrecking through his skull. Blood ran down his skin from a gash on top of his head.  

It was then that Aemond revealed an unhinged smile, eyes wild, cruel, filled with malice and bloodthirst. Years of bullying, years of being pushed around, all rushed to the surface. 

Daenera knew it then, that he would hit Jace again, even if it took his life. If Luke had not crawled around them and grabbed the knife, Daenera would have, and she later wished she had been the one to do it. 

But it was Luke who picked up the knife, it was Luke who defended his brother and sister, and it was Luke who swung the knife with a furious scream, the blade slicing through air, through skin and tissue, through eye and brow. Blood immediately streamed out and Aemond howled, falling to his knees, holding one side of his face. Blood seeped through his fingers, ran down his face, dripped onto the sand, and he screamed again. 

The Kingsguard came too late to save the prince from maiming. Commander Westerling yelled, eyes darting around the scene, landing on Aemonds hunched over form. 

“My prince, my prince, let me see,” Westerling said, trying to calm the groaning child.

Daenera and her brother got on their feet, she looked back at Aemond, face screwed up in a grimace, caught between anger and disdain. He had brought it on himself. She turned to her brother, trying to twist his head to see the damage. It wasn’t bad, but it would undoubtedly be swollen and sore for days. 

“Take them to the great hall and get a Maester,” Westerling ordered. 

Daenera and her brothers, as well as Baela and Rhaena were guided to the great hall, the big space cast in dark shadows, only lit by the fireplace. Daenera stayed close to her brothers, hand holding Luke’s, while her heart raced with fear and anticipation. 

Aemond refused to let Westerling carry him but instead allowed the older Kingsguard to guide him to the chair in front of the fire, the boy still holding his face. By the time the Maester came, the whole castle was up and about. 

The king yelled in fury over the laps in protection that had happened. And while Commander Westerling accepted that something had gone wrong, that they were at fault, Ser Crison Cole held another opinion entirely, casting all the blame on Daenera and her brothers. It was he who had the watch, and yet they were to blame. She hated him almost as much as she hated Aemond. 

“The Kingsguard never had to defend princes from princes, your gra-,”

“That is no excuse!” Viserys roared at Ser Criston. 

“It will heal, will it not, Maester?” Alicent asked in a breathy, quivering voice, eyes big and watery, looking at her son like she had failed him, like he was fragile and in pieces… Daenera supposed he was in pieces. 

“The flesh will heal, but the eye is lost, your grace.” That sentence seemed to ripple through the room, stirring up the shadows, an indignant and hostile atmosphere thick as the fog and twice as deadly. 

Aemond hadn’t screamed not even once as the Maester had sown him up. It was disconcerting. 

Alicent took out her anger and frustration on her firstborn, slapping the boy who was swaying with exhaustion and wine. 

Daenera wondered where her mother and father were. They needed them. The tides were turning and her and her brothers could so easily be swept up, left to drown alone. Jace put his arm around his siblings, trying his best to protect and comfort them.

The heavy doors opened and Corlys immediately commanded everyone’s attention with his voice. “What is the meaning of this?!”

Baela and Rhaena ran to their grandmother's open arms, sobbing into them, their small bodies shaking with cold and fear. 

The next one in was the heir to the throne. Rhaenyra hurried inside, eyes shifting across faces, landing on her three children. Her eyes widened at the sight of the blood and the way her youngest covered his nose, not wishing to reveal the damage or let anyone touch it. “Who did this?”

“They attacked me!” Aemond yelled. 

“He attacked Baela!” Jace yelled right back. “He broke Lukes nose.”

Every child involved with the incident began yelling, throwing the blame back and forth. Their voices intermingled into a mess where there were no heads or tails. Rhaena and Baela yelled about the stolen dragon. Jace was yelling about the whole attack and how Aemond hit him with a rock. Luke yelled about his broken nose and how Aemond would have killed Jace. Daenera remained silent. 

“Enough,” Viserye’s voice sounded, trying to cut through all the yelling to no avail.

“He tried to kill Jace!” Luke repeated three times. “I did nothing wrong.”

“Enough!” Viserye’s tried again, only for his wife and queen to join in the yelling. “SILENCE!”

The hall went quiet. 

Jace leaned into his mother and whispered, bringing up the forbidden. “He called us bastards.”

Rhaenyra looked to Daenera who nodded. Then she stood, placing herself between her children and everyone else, a tight look upon her face. Jace took his mothers hand, while Luke leaned into her comforting touch on the other side, small hands gripping her skirts like he had so often done as a toddler.

“Aemond.” The king walked towards Aemond, cane tapping on the stone, the only real sound there was. “I will have the truth of what happened. Now.”

“What else is there to hear? Your son has been maimed and her son is responsible,” Alicent pointed resentfully at Rhaenyra and her children. 

“It was an regrettable accident,” Rhaenyra voiced, arms wrapping around her boys. 

“Accident? The prince Luceryes brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son,” Alicent testified, looking at the nobles. She was painting a grim picture of intent and vengefulness. 

Daenera swallowed. 

“It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves,” Rhaenyra argued, her anger flaring. “Vile insults were levied against them.”

“What insults?”

“The legitimacy of my children's birth was put loudly to question.”

“What?” Viseryes responded, a certain hardness darkening his tone.

“He called us bastards,” Daenera voiced. “We thought someone stole Vhagar but it was him and when we confronted him, he called us bastards and he would have killed Jace had Luke not defended him.”

“You hear that, your grace? My sons are in line to inherit The Iron Throne and their legitimacy is put to question. This is the highest of treasons,” Rhaenyra spoke confidently, approaching her father, hands clasped together. It seemed like all the air in the room had been sucked out and everyone was holding their breaths, waiting, watching. “Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slander.”

Aemond was the only one who moved, the chair creaking underneath the shift of weight. He looked back at Rhaenyra, at Jace and Luke, at Daenera, with a singular eye, burning with hatred, disdain and resentment. The wound had been sown crudely together, tugging at the inflamed and swollen skin. It was a grim sight that made Daenera’s heart shutter in her chest. 

“Over an insult?” Alicent's voice was steeped in disbelief. “My son has lost an eye.”

“You tell me, boy,” Viseryes leaned down to his son, no longer the kind and pliant king. “Where did you hear this lie?”

Daenera looked at Alicent and saw the panic flash in her eyes, how the corners of her lips tugged down, knowing that if she were pointed out, that it would cost her everything. It would only be right. Given that she was the one who started the rumors after all, the one who kept them well fed and free to roam. Daenera glowered at the queen, holding her breath, waiting for Aemond’s answer that she hoped would implicate his own mother. 

But as a dutiful son, he saved his mothers skin by serving up his brothers. “It was Aegon.”

His brother sounded shocked. “Me?”

Viserys approached Aegon, his oldest son taller than him and yet, Aegon felt so much smaller. His eyes remained forward, hands clasped behind his back. Viserys continued. “And you, boy? Where did you hear such calumnies? Aegon! Tell me the truth!”

Viseryes knew of course, how could he not. But he needed certainty, needed confirmation. Aegon swallowed thickly, and for just a moment Daenera felt bad for him. Viserys was never really a father to his other children, he was just their sire, and yet, as children of his blood, all they’d want is for his attention, his appreciation, his acknowledgement. But Aegon had grown to become an unlikeable boy, and Daenera reigned in her sympathy. 

“Tell me the truth of it!”

“We know, father,” Aegon answered, eyes staring into space then turned slowly to his father. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Daenera straightened her back and refused to feel any less than, just because she didn’t have the same pale hair all the other descendants of the Valyrians had. Why should her hair color matter? She was still the blood of the dragon. All eyes of the room had turned to them, scrutinizing their appearance, judging them. She felt the looks prickle over her skin like a spider, the feeling uncomfortable and disconcerting. 

“This interminable infighting must cease!” Viserys growled, stomping his cane for emphasis. “All of you! We are a family.” 

It didn’t feel like family. There was too much bad blood, too much resentment between them. Aemond and Alicent would forever blame them for the loss of his eye. A debt had been made and no kind words, no well wishes, would make up for it. It was naive and foolish of Viserys to think that his words would put it all to bed. 

“Now make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it.”

Alicent scoffed.

As Viserys began walking away, refusing to look at his wife, the deadly glare in the queen's eyes grew, a sickening blame and disgust building on her features, tugging on her pretty face. “That is insufficient.”

Viserys turned.

“Aemond have been damaged, permanently, my king,” Alicent continued. “‘Good will’ cannot make him whole.”

“I know, Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye,” Viserys faltered, tired of this whole ordeal. Couldn’t they see that there was nothing to be done? What had happened, had already transpired. Time would forever move one way, and even a king could not turn the tides of it.

“No, because it has been taken,” Alicent urged.

“What would you have me do?”

“There’s a debt to be paid.”

Daenera swallowed, stepping in front of Luke, looking over her shoulder and up at her mother. “Are they going to try and take his eye?”

“I don’t want them to take my eye, mother,” Luke muttered, clutching his mothers arm tightly, leaning into her warmth and the safety of it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Aemond glare at them, muttering so low that only because she was looking at him, she knew what he said; I didn’t wish to lose my eye either. 

Alicent confirmed their fears. “I shall have one of her son's eyes in return.”

Aemond smirked viciously. 

Low voices arose, most in disbelief, a few in agreement. An eye for an eye, blood for blood. Debts made and paid in equal measure.   Luke withdrew from his mother, looking back and forth between her and Daenera, fear shining in his eyes. He shook his head, his dark curls swaying, tears filling his eyes. 

“My dear wife,” Viserys tried. 

“He is your son, Viserys. Your blood.”

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment,” Viserys warned his wife. 

“If the king will not seek justice, then the queen will,” Alicent’s voice had turned cold and determined. With tear streaked cheeks, she looked upon her sworn sword. “Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

Luke flinched back in fear. “Mother!”

“He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son,” Alicent announced as if it was a blessing, though her tone spoke of malice and mockery. 

“You will do no such thing,” Rhaenyra opposed, a wall of iron and dragonfire, a mother protecting her sons.

“Your son would have killed Jace!” Daenera yelled, pointing at Alicent and then at Aemond. “Luke was defending his brother! He himself put him in that position, so do not blame anyone else but him.”

“Ser Criston! You are sworn to me! Bring me his eye,” Alicent yelled. 

“Stay your hand,” Viserys ordered the kingsguard, slowly approaching Alicent, his eyes firmer than his body. “Alicent… this matter is finished. Do you understand?

“And let it be known; Anyone who’s tongue dares question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s children should have it removed.”

“Thank you, father.”

The room exploded in roars as Alicent gripped the King's knife, holding it up to cut down whoever got in her way. Luke screamed in fear, clutching his mothers skirts as she put herself between them, gripping Alicent’s arms, trying to hold her off. The rage burned across the queen's features, her mind clouded in smoke and resentment. Daenera tried to push the queen away from her mother, but the queen was a rock, unmoving, unrelenting. It was the Lord Commander who swept the little princess away from the scuffle, pushing her out of harm's way, trying to hold back the crowd. 

Daenera shuffled out of Westerlings grip, taking hold of Luke and tugging him towards Rhaenys, pushing between her and Corlys. She slipped her hand into her grandmothers, and the older woman looked down, a pinched look on her face. Daenera felt her grandmother hesitate to close her hand around hers, but eventually did, thumb rubbing across her hand trying to comfort the girl as tears streamed down her face, heart hammering in her chest. 

“Is she going to kill mother?” Daenera asked, voice raw.

“No, no she won't. The king won't let it happen.” 

A debt made in blood will be paid in blood, Daenera thought. Debts made and paid in equal measure… The Stranger follows you. 

The witch's words echoed inside her head. Was this the debt she meant? And would her mothers death repay it? No… No, her mother wasn’t dying. 

The scuffle ended with her mothers blood, the Valyrian blade slicing through the air, never dulled, cutting clean and true. It bit into Rhaenyra’s forearm, slicing through flesh as if it was nothing but water. Blood welled and ran thick and warm, dripping down onto the floor. Corlys had caught Rhaenyra as the queen and princess had split apart. The world froze in shock. The queen had harmed the heir. The queen had drawn blood.

A debt made in blood will be paid in blood , and it had been paid then. Rhaenyra would leave with a scar and so would Aemond. It was over, right? The blood debt had been paid. Daenera could only hope. 

She tore her dress, quickly trying to stop the bleeding, but she was pushed out of the way by Corlys, who took the fabric and wrapped it around Rhaenyra’s arm, putting pressure on the wound. 

Silence filled the room only broken by Aemond. “Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye… but I gained a dragon.”

Aemond hugged his mother, but his one remaining eye focused on Daenera, the look piercing her dress, her flesh, her soul. There was room for nothing but hatred, resentment and disdain in that eye. Cold and hard, like a flame of ice. Daenera glared back at him. 

The day had started with a funeral and ended with blood. 

That night when all had settled down, she had fished out the coin the witch had given her, tracing the symbols and turning it over in her hands.

One funeral became two. And two became a wedding. 

It was the screams of a mother that drew Daenera down the stairs, that made her feet almost slip on the steps, the sound harrowing and haunting. The great hall smelled of burned flesh, it crept up every crevice and settled into the stone. It made her stomach turn. 

She found Rhaenys on her knees, screaming over a burned corpse and Lord Corlys yelling at the guards, beating on their breastplates. Daenera blinked, mind not caught up with the scene. Her quick feet slowed their pace, her eyes landing on the necklace around the body’s neck, one similar to a present she had given her father. 

Rhaenys rocked back and forth, hands shaking, the anguish making her bones creak. “My son! My son!”

Daenera was now standing beside her grandmother, staring down at the burned corpse, its face indistinguishable, eyes melted out of the socks, teeth charred. The smell coiled within her. Her lip quivered, heart beating rapidly, not broken, not yet. She shook her head. 

It was then Rhaenys noticed her, the older woman looking at her granddaughter, not by blood but by love. She wrapped her arms around the girl, pulling her to her knees as well, brushing her dark hair out of her face, the hair that caused so much chaos and division. “You shouldn’t look. Don’t look.”

“Who is that?” Daenera asked but already knew the answer, the tears were streaming down her face. Must she mourn another father? Must death really visit her again? 

Rhaenys wiped the girl's tears away, holding her face, not able to find a trace of her son in her. It was painful. It was pure and utter anguish. There was nothing of her son left on this earth. None of her children were left. She had outlived both of them. Rhaenys couldn’t help but resent Daenera at that crumbling moment. She released her and turned back towards her dead son.

Corlys was the one to pull Daenera away from the scene, the girl finally crying out, trying to beat his hands from her but his hold was firm and strong. Coryls knelt down to her height, his brows inched up, eyes sympathetic. “Where’s your mother?” 

“Is-is that my father?” Daenera choked out. 

“It is,” Corlys confirmed. Daenera’s nails dug into the skin of his forearms, she beat at him, crying out, refusing to believe what was true. “Hey, hey, Daenera, look at me, look at me. Where’s your mother?”

“She’s… she’s out for a walk,” Daenera answered him, voice loud and clearly in pain. “I want my mother.”

Coryls nodded, rising from his position, to look at his guards that had let his son be murdered. “Take the body to the Maester and find whoever did this to my son!”

He then picked up Daenera, the girl too big to usually be picked up, but Corlys didn’t care. He held her to him, let her sob into his shoulder while he patted her back as he walked away from the smell of burned flesh. Years of war told him that the smell would cling to fabric, that it would take weeks if not more, to get it out of the room. He had seen burned men before. He had seen men fed to craps. He had seen men flayed. But he had never seen his son dead. It would haunt him.

They met Daemon and Rhaenyra coming in from their walk, the pair’s eyes immediately going to Daenera and Corlys. Rhaenyra stormed forth, eyes wide, flickering between her daughter and her father-in-law. 

“What happened?” 

Corlys let Daenera down on her feet, the girl turning on her heels and throwing herself into her mothers arms, crying all the more. Corlys looked between Rhaenyra and Daemon, eyes lingering on the ladder. It crossed his mind then, for just a second, that Daemon could have had a hand in his son murder. 

“Your husband and my son is dead,” Corlys answered, voice hard and unrelenting as the sea. Still there was a timber of sadness, of fatherly agony. 

“Laenor’s dead?” Rhaenyra hugged her daughter to her, Daenera burying her face in the crook of her mothers neck. Her tears stained the fabric, ran down her mothers skin like rain. “But-but how? I don’t understand.”

“We don’t know how yet, but the castle is being searched as we speak and I will not rest until the culprit is found,” Corlys vowed, again looking between Rhaenyra and Daemon. “I must go to my wife. I entrust you to inform your other children.”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra agreed. 

Daenera hadn’t been meant to see it. And Rhaenyra glanced up at Daemon for a moment, her hands continuously running up and down her daughter's spine, trying to calm the girl. 

Laenor’s funeral was smaller. With the king having left the day before, taking most of the nobles with him, it was really just the family that remained. Rhaenys were inconsolable, wrapped in black and grief. And yet she stood tall, her spine of Valyrian steel. Corlys was the same. The castle had been searched from top to bottom along with the whole island. In the end, they found out that their son had been murdered by a scorned lover who fled on a ship and to the free cities. There would be no justice for their son. It was another layer to their grief. 

Jace, Daenera and Luke mourned their father, the man who helped bring them up, who played with them when they were small, who tucked them into bed, who taught them about the finer things in life. Now, they and their cousins were equal in their loss… Now, Jace and Daenera were able to mourn both their fathers. Daenera wished there was only one. Wished that it was none . 

It wasn’t long after the funeral that Rhaenyra whisked them away to Dragonstone along with Daemon and his children. It was a matter of two days. Two days and they stood among the rocks of Dragonstone, the fog rolling in thick and cool over the island. The small altar was littered with candles. 

Daemon cut his finger, smearing the blood between Rhaenyra’s brow, on her lips. And she did the same to him. Their children watched the wedding ceremony, none of them able to object. It was strange how fast it had all gone. The moment they set foot on Dragonstone they sent for a priest capable of performing a Valyrian wedding ceremony. It was only the priest, a Maester and the children that were there as witnesses. 

It felt wrong.

Daemon cut his palm, the blood welling in the gash. Rhaenyra took the dragonglass dagger and drew a similar line on her own hand. They pressed their wounded hands together, the blood mixing. It would have been romantic, the sharing of blood, binding oneself to another, like all the great love stories that had been told at bedtime. But in those stories no one married mere days after the loss of a spouse. 

The only time Daenera had seen her mother look at someone like she did Daemon was when she had looked at Ser Harwin. And yet, this was different. Deeper. A twin flame, a twin soul, and if she wasn’t so bitter over her fathers death, Daenera would have welcomed Daemon with open arms. But Laenor had just died. And they decide to get married immediately. ‘ To strengthen the family. To protect. ’

Daenera wasn’t the only one who thought it strange, but there was nothing to be done. The fires had already been lit, and she would be unable to put them out, all she could do was watch them burn. 

Three deaths, two funerals and a wedding. 

A family forever altered. 

“I, Princess Daenera Velaryon, wish to speak with you, Daemon Targaryen, in private,” the little princess said, shoulders squared, head held high, a determinant look on her face. Daemon tried to withhold the smile on his lips, but the corners tugged up and his eyes flickered to his wife, who had the same smile on her lips, hand on his shoulder. Rhaenyra lifted a brow at him and Daemon motioned to the door with his head. 

The little princess had come into their chambers with such confidence that they couldn’t help but find it adorable. 

“Very well,” Rhaenyra said, kissing Daemon’s temple before heading towards the door, passing Daenera on the way, her hand patting the child on the head. The door closed behind her, leaving Daemon and Daenera alone. 

They regarded each other. One in amusement, while the other glared, putting ice in her veins. It was cute, Daemon thought. She had her mothers fire. 

“Are you an honest man?” Daenera asked with a firm voice, her hands clasp in front of her, the very image of poise and propriety.

Daemon’s brows rose, and his fingers turned the goblet in his hand, head tilting in interest at where the princess was going with this. It was clear that she was on a mission, that this whole thing had a purpose. She acted so much older than her true age. He wondered whether she had always been like that, an old soul in a child's body, ancient and yet confined to a childish temperament. 

“I am,” Daemon answered. As honest a man could be. He didn’t hide from who or what he was. He didn’t play pretend and found it tedious. It wasn’t that he was a good man, no one other than Rhaenyra would call him that, but he wasn’t a cunt either. He played his own bloody game. It wasn’t his fault that everyone else played by the rules. 

“But you lie,” Daenera continued steadfastly. 

“What is it that you wish to know, Princess Daenera?” He regarded the girl with amusement. 

“Did you kill my father?” Daenera asked, the grip on her own hands tightening. She was afraid. Afraid of the answer and afraid of the possibility of what that answer could be. Daemon scared her. He knew that. She didn’t know him, not really.

Daemon’s brows rose, eyes lighting up with interest and intrigue. He pursed his lips in thought. Of course, he couldn’t tell her the truth. That her mother and him had planned it together. That it was all a show. That Laenor was alive and well in Essos or one of the other free cities, out of sight and out of mind. That he had left them so willingly. It would be cruel to tell her that. And while Daemon had an infinity for cruelty, he didn’t wish to turn it upon the brave little princess that had come all the way to his chambers to ask the questions all the children were wondering. 

“No,” Daemon answered her. It was the truth. He hadn’t killed him. Laenor wasn’t even dead. 

Daenera’s eyes darted over his face, trying to read his honesty. Daemon was hard to read, no, nearly impossible to read and he could see it upon her face. Her brows inched down in a frown, lips growing thinner. 

“Do you love my mother?” 

Daemon let out an amused chuckle, leaning back in the chair relaxed. “I do.”

The princess shook her head, those dark, troublesome curls of hers waving through the air. She might not look like her mother, except perhaps the shape of her eyes, but she reminded him of her. 

“You shouldn’t have married,” Daenera spoke, a childish worry filtering through the tone of her voice. 

“Oh ? ”

“My grandmother thinks you killed her son and others will think the same,” Daenera added, worry building inside her. She began nervously playing with her hands, looking down on the floor as she spoke, her resolve crumbling. “If-if you did not kill my father, why sweep us all away to Dragonstone to marry my mother? Why couldn’t you have waited a year, or-or just six months? It would have dispelled some of the rumors and maybe my grandmother wouldn’t be mad at us.”

Finally the child in Daenera showed. A girl worried about her mothers reputation, worried about her grandmother's feelings, worried about the repercussions of a decision out of her hands. Daemon found it amiable. She’d have to learn not to worry about such things, it would only weaken her. 

“The marriage was your mothers decision,” Daemon said in all honesty. 

Daenera’s big blue eyes flickered up to him, a confused scowl on her face. 

“I merely accepted.”

“You should have told her it could wait.”

Daemon leaned forward, placing his forearms on his knees, hunching down to her level, hands clasped together. He watched her swallow nervously. “We did not wish to wait. I’ve loved your mother for years. I will protect her with my life.”

Daenera nodded, still apprehensive. “But can you protect her from the rumors?”

“You mean the rumors of your birth,” Daemon stated. 

“And the rumors that you killed Laenor.”

“We married to protect Rhaenyra’s claim, to strengthen it. The game is so much bigger that you can possibly understand. You’re still a child, Daenera, be a child.”

“I am not just a child,” Daenera hissed, hands now clutching her skirts. “I am a Princess. I am my mothers daughter.”

“You are,” Daemon agreed. “But you still have so much to learn.”

“Then teach me,” Daenera said suddenly, the urgency in her voice surprising Daemon. This was a girl who’d caught a glimpse of the game, a girl that had been swept up in it, a girl who had come to understand what was at risk. She wasn’t the child that had arrived at Driftmark for her aunt's funeral. 

An amused smirk grew on Daemon’s lips. He could work with her. Teach her, guide her. “I will.”

#aemond targaryen #hotd #A Vow of Blood #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #prince aemond #aemond the kinslayer #hotd fanfic #aemond smut #my fanfiction

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Thirteen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve

AO3 Link

High Valyrian Translations (the longer sentences are within the text)

kasto bratsiot - Green Bitch valonqus - little brother hunītsos - little rabbit mo realta geal - you'll find out when Aegon does ;)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - I'll Be a Better Man

Jace witnesses a mostly normal family dinner among the Greens. Aegon and Abby choose each other.

Jace wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“Your collar is fine,” Baela said, teeth clicking in the anxious way she had but would never admit to. She was every inch Velaryon and Targaryen both, the gown she wore in the Pentoshi style. Black silk skimmed her swarthy and sun freckled skin, a deep v cut down her chest, the gown held closed with deep red, braided clasps. A matching cape fell in the same black silk from her shoulders down to her knees, the three headed dragon woven across the midnight expanse in the same shade as the decoration on her dress. A silver necklace was her only jeweled adornment: a seahorse and a dragon entwined around her throat.

She reached up, tugging on the collar of his dual colored doublet for emphasis, the Velaryon seahorses stitched in contrasting reds and blacks ringing around his neck. His wild curls were braided back to the base of his neck, tied with black cord and the rest curling against his neck. His mother had thought to cut his hair before he left, but was proud of his hair, and called her jealous when she was stuck with pin straight hair woven into braids.

It felt wrong to wear the colors of his mother’s house, when she still held the Velaryon sigil on her coat of arms, when his name was still Velaryon and he would not become Targaryen until he ascended the throne.

‘Who am I fooling?’ Jace wondered to himself. ‘None here look at me and think Targaryen or Velaryon.’

“You’re doing it again,” his sister snapped, tugging him into an alcove in the hall. Jace’s cheeks flamed at the closeness, smelling the jasmine perfume she favored.

“Doing what?” A pitiful protest that she didn’t buy and her violet eyes narrowed. It was not so long ago she might have distracted him with wandering hands and mouths, two bored teenagers on a lonely rock in the middle of the sea with not much else to do. That time had long passed and Jace was sure that were she to touch him now, he would not come away unscathed.

“Thinking about those foolish things that ended on our parents’ graves,” Baela hissed at him. In the arms of their dual tragedies, in the glow and shadow in the great hall of Driftmark, his concerns should have been put to bed. Jace had said the words he knew would ignite his mother, unclear of the true consequences.

Both corpses had succumbed to the flame. Jace wondered if that was the doom in his dragonblood, for all whom he cared for fated to die screaming.

Jace tugged at his doublet again and let out a hissed, “Ow!” when Baela smacked his hands.

“You’re serving on his council. You should have been serving for years now had your mother not run from the fight.”

Jace drew back at the accusation towards his mother, a snarl in his voice. “You don’t know what she went through living here, you wouldn’t say that if you knew-”

“Then she should have had the king put a stop to it, had that kasto bratsiot dragged and fed to Syrax for her treason, sent her and her whelps back to the Maester’s hold. It’s what I would have done.” Baela turned and spat on the floor to illustrate her disgust. Jace clapped a hand over her mouth and with two strides, pushed her against the wall.

“Daor,” he hissed, continuing in Valyrian. “Do not speak about things you weren’t there for and that you don’t understand.” Her wide eyes stared back at him in surprise at his anger and Jace drew back, disliking his reaction but the anger bubbled beneath the surface, unrepentant. Baela had not witnessed the growing anxiety his mother faced during their years here. Baela had not witnessed his mother’s furtive tears after a family dinner, or the clench of her jaw as he heard whispers of cruel words thrown her way as they walked the halls to his lessons. His mother was happier on Dragonstone than he had seen her in this place. “What is done is done, there is no going back. Choices were made, and now I make my own. You make your own.”

“They’ll put your drunken uncle on the throne without your mother here,” she whispered and Jace was relieved that the odds of anyone overhearing them and understanding were next to none. He doubted any of the servants around the keep knew enough Valyrian to follow the whispered conversation.

“They’d try it if she were too. Of course they would,” Jace said with a shake of his head. “Anyone in Alicent Hightower’s position would.” It did not excuse the way his step grandmother had treated his mother, but Jace had seen enough snipping at court on Dragonstone to realize that this wasn’t just an exception.

Baela had nothing to say to that and Jace moved away until his back hit the wall. It was quiet between them until they heard a pair of footsteps and soft voices.

“That was foolish and you know it, Aemond,” Helaena’s voice drifted down the hall. Jace’s widened eyes met Baela’s own and together, they shrunk further back into the shadows of the alcove.

“I was simply having a bit of fun, showing them what a true Targaryen dragonrider looks like.” Aemond’s reply was light and jesting, but the bitterness in his words were unmistakable. “Had they come on their dragons, perhaps we could have had more fun.”

“You never used to be this reckless.”

“Well I also used to have two eyes and we all know how that went,” he snapped back and the footsteps stopped abruptly. His voice went softer. “I apologize, heltar gevie. I do not mean to take my frustrations out on you.”

Footsteps resumed, lighter ones, before the heavier footfalls followed. “Yes, you do,” Helaena said firmly. “You never apologize, and attempting to do so changes nothing.”

“I’m not trying to change anything, Helaena.”

Helaena’s voice was anxious. “You need to be more careful, valonqus. You are running down a path we cannot follow.” There was a soft sound, like the jangle of bracelets. “Please cease your baiting, if not for my sake, then for mother’s.”

Aemond made a low sound in the back of his throat and Jace held his breath as his uncle’s shoulder appeared in view. It was by the grace of whatever gods looked over him that his blind eye was to the alcove and so he could not see. He was clad all in black, his straight, silver hair falling just past his shoulders, pulled back from his face with three braids. Around the side, Jace saw Helaena’s smaller shadow cast across the ground.

His uncle continued down the hall towards the solar, leaving Helaena standing in the patch of torchlight. Her gown was pale blue, with shimmers of silver thread woven through the fabric in the shape of dragons. A wide, silver belt cinched about the waist and the two swathes of blue fabric covered her, but left bare an expanse of pale skin from her sternum to her collarbones. The gown had another silver clasp at each shoulder to keep the fabric in place and Jace’s eyes fixated on the dusky little moles dotted across the skin she revealed. Her curls hung free around her shoulders and down to her waist, a loose net of winking diamond and pearls covering her hair like a makeshift veil.

Starlight in the night.

She blinked and turned her head slightly and Jace swore that their eyes met. Lavender against lavender. Then, Helaena spun on her heel and followed her brother down the hallway.

“I do not wish to be here among all the dramatics,” Baela muttered as the pair of them followed a distance behind Helaena’s drifting blue form. Jace rolled his eyes.

“As if home is any better?” he said rhetorically. In some ways yes, in other ways, there was little escaping his mother and Daemon’s more passionate arguments that would carry across the castle. It got a chuckle from Baela, so Jace considered it a win.

The family dining hall was a small affair, dominated by a long, ornately carved trestle table that could comfortably seat twenty, but that night only needed space for eleven. He was relieved that they would not be sat all on top of one another. The king was getting settled in his chair at the left end of the table, Lord Otto Hightower at his left hand.

Across at the other end stood the queen, resplendent in a gown so dark a green it was nearly black, save for the shimmer of it in the candlelight, the bodice clinging to her from neck to wrist. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a low bun and upon her head sat a silver dragon diadem, its wings spread out on either side and a pear shaped ruby made up the body of it.

Her brother, Ser Gwayne, was a head taller than his sister, with sharp cheekbones like Aemond’s, and large, dark brown eyes with a smirk that reminded him of Daemon. He was surprised to see the shock of blonde hair upon the man’s head. It was darker than the Targaryen silver, a slightly lighter shade than his father.

Jace felt the gaze of all three Hightowers flick in his direction and he kept his shoulders straight, his head held high, and a genial smile on his face. “I do hope we aren’t late,” he said with a laugh, leading the way into the dragon’s den.

If he was a dragon, so were his uncles and aunt. They were all blood of the dragon, regardless of those who tried to mold them differently, or tried to claim him and his siblings as lesser.

“Only late if I declare it so, and you are the guest of honor, my boy,” the king laughed, raising his goblet to be filled. “Come, sit, let us drink and be merry this evening.”

Jace took his place at his grandfather’s right hand, doing his best to ignore the dual stares of Otto Hightower across from him and Aemond’s wrathful, violet gaze from his seat beside his grandsire. Baela took her place beside him, and next to her, Helaena slid into her seat, speaking to Aegon on her right about her mantis. Daeron was at the end, chirping excitedly to his mother. To the Queen’s right sat Ser Gwayne, and in the chair between him and Aemond, sat Abrogail. Stiff and silent, Jace hadn’t even noticed her when he came in. Her blue eyes were large in her round face, her gown cut across the shoulders, deep blue fabric with a shimmering, dark green pattern that made it look like her dress was made of river water. The slashes in her tight sleeves revealed the deep red gown beneath, and her hair was held back in a braided crown woven with pearls, the rest falling down her back like a river of red.

Her gaze rose, large and blue rimmed with kohl, and she nodded to him in greeting. Jace returned it, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. He had always gotten along with Abrogail, even when he was often pitted against Aegon in terms of “rescuing” her in their childhood games. There was always a degree of separation between them that he hadn’t really thought of, but when he watched the way she cocked her head as Luke did, and the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled at something Daeron had said, he felt the understanding of why that he hadn’t as a boy. He had never registered the physical similarities, so focused on dark hair and pug noses as everyone had been in his eyes.

Jace let out a long breath and pulled Baela’s chair out for her, which she took with sweeping grace. Despite the earlier tension, she nodded to Helaena. “You look lovely tonight. The shade of blue suits you well, cousin.” It seemed that Helaena’s threats had earned Baela’s hard won respect, for her tone lacked the feral edge of taunt, of laying a trap, that it held with those that she did not care for.

“Thank you, Princess,” Helaena returned and then, far more softly, Jace barely heard her say, “You breasts look fantastic.”

Baela’s face twisted in a bark of laughter, choking into the goblet of wine she had just lifted to her mouth, and Jace caught Helaena’s innocent grin on her pleasant features, her own shoulders twisting and Jace quickly glanced away, grateful to see Lord Otto softly conversing with the king.

“My good-brother, Lord Rodrik, and Lord Jason Lannister will be attending council on the morrow to discuss issues with the Ironborn. It appears their summer raids have continued longer than anticipated. If it weren’t for the celebrations, Lord Jason would have stayed to defend the coast.”

The king hummed.

“A prayer before we begin?” Alicent’s usually sharp voice was soft yet guiding, echoing from the other end of the table and the conversations quieted. Hands were joined around the table and Jace did his best to suppress the shiver when he took his grandfather’s fragile hand.

Baela’s brow furrowed at Jace, sending him a silent, confused look as they joined hands and he gave a slight shrug. His step-grandmother had always been a woman of faith, that he knew, and so prayer at mealtimes was not unheard of, but not a practice on Dragonstone, or it seemed, on Driftmark. Most certainly not under Daemon’s eye.

“Mother, we thank you for the health and well being of our family as we come together for the first time in many years to break bread.” Jace chanced a glance sidelong at his grandsire, whose eyes were closed in prayer, and a flick across the table to Lord Otto, whose head was bowed as the penitent words flowed. Even Aemond sat there, head bowed. “May the Smith help us mend and forge new bonds that have been fractured. May the Warrior give strength to our king. May the Father smile down upon our coming celebrations.”

“Thank you, your grace, for those words,” Jace forced out with a smile and an incline of his head. He would not give Alicent Hightower a reason to throw cruel words at him, or find something wanting in his presentation. He was his mother’s heir, third in line, and no words of spoiled blood or pug noses would take hold on him like a barnacle to a hull.

Alicent watched him for a long moment, mouth pressed into an uncertain expression before easing slightly. “Thank you, Jacaerys.”

The doors to the back of the room opened, tucked in an alcove with a tapestry pulled aside and the servants entered, clad in simple white and red garb. The minstrels took their place near the door to the room and struck up a gentle tune. The first course brought out was a salad of sweet and bitter greens with candied almonds and a steaming broth full of root vegetables, with warm loaves of fresh bread stuffed full of saffron and currants. The table was awkwardly quiet at first, the dominant conversation being Daeron’s excited chatter as he spoke about the trip from Oldtown.

“They cheered for us!” Daeron exclaimed. “Tessarion flew across Highgarden and everyone cheered to see us. And I got to see Garmund - he’s a page for Lord Tyrell now, and they left a few days after us. We took the Mander up and I saw Lord Fossoway at Cider Hall, and then Bitterbridge and we got off at Tumbleton and Aemond! We saw Vhagar! She was flying over the Kingswood. ‘Twas brilliant! She scared half the guards with us, since the only dragon they’d ever seen was Tessarion.”

The exuberance of his younger brother brought a hint of a smile across Aemond’s scowling face, and his violet gaze shifted from where he watched Jace and Baela to look down the table, leaning closer towards Abrogail who was smiling indulgently as she soaked her bread in the soup.

“Did you? She quite enjoys it out there, and roosts in the cliffs. Perhaps she thought Tessarion was a screeching swan.” Helaena giggled and Daeron sputtered in indignation at the tease.

Even Otto Hightower looked amused, a strange fondness in his expression while the king was content to enjoy his course, humming occasionally and giving a hint of a smile before drawing Lord Otto into conversation about the Westerlands and the Ironborn.

It struck him as odd. Had he not missed Daeron? Was he not interested in the journey from one coast of their land to the other? And all the boy had seen? Daeron was talking about the small villages along the Mander, and how Ser Gwayne had explained the river villages were similar to those of the Riverlands themselves.

“The Mander comes from some spring deep in the mountains around Tumbleton,” Abrogail explained. “Were it not so, it might be possible to dig a canal to connect the Mander to Blackwater Rush. Wouldn’t it be extraordinary to travel by boat from Oldtown all the way to Harrentown?”

The empty bowls were in the process of being taken away and replaced with trenchers of broiled pork, the scents of arbor red and ginger wafting from the crackled fat. Individual meat pies arrived, stuffed full of beef and cloves, cinnamon and carrots that Baela beside him dug in with gusto. There was no fish, thankfully, for Jace was tired of fish.

“Can you imagine the amount of pleasure barges that would come out of such an endeavor?” Ser Gwayne laughed. “See the sights of the Mander to the desolation of Harrenhal.”

“Harrenhal is not desolate,” Abrogail said, teeth catching on her lower lip as if she could not believe the words came out of her. “Our family has worked tirelessly since it was so graciously gifted to us by his Grace’s grandfather to uphold Princess Rhaena’s care for it.”

“Abby is more interested in aqueducts and cisterns for now,” Aegon said, drawing Jace’s attention to the first words his uncle had spoken all through dinner. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that the pair of them matched - the only difference in their clothing was Jace’s doublet was black on the left side, and Aegon’s was black on the right side. Outside of the accidental coordinating outfits, Jace’s eyes darted back to Abrogail’s. Her cheeks were flushed.

“I’ve been meaning to study the plans for Queen Alysanne’s cistern network,” Jace blurted out before he thought too much on whether or not it was a good idea to do so. He ignored the way Otto Hightower and Queen Alicent’s gazes swiveled to him.

“They’re quite fascinating,” his aunt, no, his soon to be aunt, said softly, but there was a hopeful look in her gaze. “Aemond and I looked over them while I was working on my plans for Harrenhal.”

Aemond’s violet gaze was boring into him. Jace focused on Abrogail beside him. “I’d love to see them when you have time after all the festivities.”

She smiled then, cheeks dimpling in the way Joffrey’s did, and it made Jace’s heart ache with a sensation of loss, of things that could have been. “I would enjoy that very much. Perhaps we should include Ser Gwayne in the review, so he may be reassured he’s not being sent away to a desolate ruin.” Gwayne winked at her and Jace caught the way Aegon tapped his ringed fingers against his own goblet, watching the interaction at play before him with a scowl.

“Uncle Gwayne and Daeron will accompany Aegon and Abby to Harrenhal,” Helaena explained to Baela, who barely spoke over the course of the meal and instead was watching their family with slightly narrowed and suspicious eyes. “So it’ll be the four of us here.”

“Such fun, won’t it be, nephew,” Aemond said, droll with a smirk cut across his mouth as he drank from his goblet.

Jace met the smirk with his own smile. “Of course it will, Uncle. Just like we were boys in the training yard. I look forward to testing our mettle with one another. I have fond memories of such things, and grandfather enjoyed himself, didn’t he? What was it, grandfather? We push one another down, pull each other up?”

“Hear hear!” the king agreed with a jovial laugh, rasping and amused. “We’ll throw a proper tourney for your nameday, eh?” He reached out to pat Jace’s hand and Aemond’s own fingers clenched around his goblet.

“Well, Jace’s nameday has already passed along with Aemond’s,” came Helaena’s soft voice. “But mine is next and I think I should like a beehive of my very own. Perhaps I could take the ones over in Rhaenys’ garden? By grandfather’s tower.” She cocked her head. “The apis mellifera are quite fascinating creatures, you know. Why, I read an account that explained that after the drone impregnates the queen, their genitals are ripped out and explode, having fulfilled their purpose.” Helaena hummed, thoughtful. “Truly, it is quite common in the animal kingdom for the male of the species to be subservient to the female. Perhaps I could interest you in exploring this endeavor with me, Baela? Since Jace and Aemond will be too busy hitting one another with long sticks in the yard.”

Escaping her brother’s apartments to the gardens could not have happened sooner. Two days before, the Westerlands party had arrived.

Jason Lannister made his entrance with all the pomp and circumstance the Warden of the West commanded, and was accompanied by her grandfather, Lord Rodrick Reyne of Castamere, and her half-sister in tow.

Corynna Strong had married the third Lannister, Erwin, when Abby was still a little girl. She had not seen her sister in years, not since their father and Harwin had passed. Cory had insisted on taking her to the Westerlands, to Casterly Rock and away from everything she had known and loved, all for some excuse that ‘Abrogail needs a mother now and she should be with her kin.’ Abby had sobbed into Queen Alicent’s lap, beseeching her cousin to let her stay. The memories of Alicent holding her much as she had done when Abby was small and her mother was ill, the kindness that had become fleeting within Alicent Hightower had come, continued to feel confusing in light of her recent treatment.

‘Do not cry, dear, sweet girl. You will stay here, with us. I will care for you.’

Cory had returned to Casterly Rock as there was no way to reject the Queen’s declaration, more annoyed, Abby thought, with the lack of control over someone else than any real upset. She’d given birth not long after to her first child, and it was all for the best, it seemed.

With very little of an actual relationship, it seemed Cory was making up for lost time, diving into a series of criticisms and demands at what Abby should be doing. Pinching at her upper arms and hips, clucking her tongue and commenting how she looked sickly, brows arched in disapproval at the new gowns, ready to demand new ones made until Abby found her frozen voice and said that the queen herself had approved them.

She released a long, shuddering breath and took in the air of the garden and the scent of the hydrangeas that surrounded that particular part of the path.

“There is nothing wrong with my dress,” she muttered to herself. Her underdress was a dark, oxblood red linen, black lacing along her forearms. The loose surcoat fell around her, dark blue and green damask edged in black instead of her usual silver. Her hair was unkempt, loose and wild around her shoulders, twisting down to just past her waist like an urchin.

Another sigh and she smoothed her hands over the front of her dress and turned to go back inside only to run face first into Ser Edmund Vance’s chest.

His warm hands grasped her by the arms, laughter low and vibrating through him. “Easy there, Lady Abrogail,” he said, and she felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. “Whatever are you running from?”

“Ru-running?” she stuttered in confusion, and drew herself away from the warmth of the older man and his refreshing care and kindness. “Oh, it’s all so much inside. I came looking for some fresh air, really.” Abby swallowed and cleared her throat. “Have you too come to take a turn about the gardens? We could walk together.”

Edmund gazed down at her, head cocked as if she were something amusing and he reached up to tenderly tuck some of her wild hair behind her ear. His finger gently traced the shell of it and Abby was helpless to hold back the shiver that snaked pleasantly down her spine. His light brown hair gleamed golden in the sunlight, every inch as valiant and noble as Ser Gwayne Hightower, every inch as handsome.

And he seemed interested in her.

Nothing could come of that. She was betrothed after all. But it wasn’t as if it was all official quite yet; only rumor and talk and they could very well declare that he’d marry Cassandra Baratheon at the feast instead of her.

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and they headed down the terrace into the garden maze of flowering bushes. It was just them, it seemed, and Abby’s belly fluttered at the daring impropriety of it all.

‘If Aegon can gallivant into brothels after making hollow promises, I can enjoy the companionship of a handsome man.’ Besides, it wasn’t as if Abby was planning to sleep with him.

“Abrogail is not a name I’ve heard before,” Edmund chuckled as they walked together through the gardens.

Abby shook her head, a bright smile crossing her face. The truth of it was something that made her feel close to her athair, the love in the name more than enough to make up for strange looks. “No, my father found it in a book during his studies at the Citadel. Abrogail was the name of a Shadowbinder of the supposed founding of Asshai. It’s said that after raising the city, she retreated to Stygai, the City of Ash, where she has ruled in the dark for a thousand years, with her corpses and dragons.” A laugh escaped her. “He always liked the name, and was quite content that I had no desire to flee to Asshai to learn blood magic.” Edmund’s face was the picture of surprise and disbelief, and his laughter joined hers, warm and hearty.

“You? Named for a demon witch from Asshai? I never would have thought it,” Edmund said with a shake of the head. “You are as far from such a beastly creature as they come.”

“Why thank you, Ser Edmund. I am reassured to know that my schemes to bind all of Westeros through blood sacrifice and fire are still hidden.”

Their eyes met and Ser Edmund let out a laugh. The sound was lower than before, though no less warm, and it settled in Abby’s belly, the feeling now familiar from all the times that Aegon had roused it to the surface in her. He looked down at her, his hazel eyes hooded and Abby felt herself freeze. She knew that look now, she knew what it predated, and yet she did not move away, she did not raise her hands to stop him. Instead she bit her lower lip, worrying at the flesh there. Edmund raised a hand, his thumb gently swiping at her mouth.

“That is too sweet a mouth to destroy so, my lady,” he murmured.

‘When had he stood so close?’ Abby wondered, for there were only a scant few inches between them now.

“I’m sorry,” she said, eyes downcast, the familiar words falling from her lips though she knew that she had no reason to apologize to the man before her. She owed him nothing. Yet her feet stayed firmly planted where they were.

Edmund’s thumb and forefinger found her chin, tilting her face up toward his. He smiled at her then, a slow, easy expression, and something fluttered to life in her belly, though she was not sure if it was desire or anxiety. Time seemed to still and Abby opened her mouth to make some excuse, to pull away, to head back inside to deal with her frustrating sister. But then Edmund’s lips were on hers, a soft weight that silenced her.

‘He is so warm.’ That was her first thought as his hand cradled the soft curve of her jaw. He deepened the kiss then, a swipe of his tongue against her own. It was so different from how Aegon had kissed her. There was no battle for dominance that she was expected to lose, no licking flame of the desire that had built and built for years now. It was a nice kiss, she supposed, and Edmund was a nice man. For a moment she leaned into him, tasting him, allowing him to guide her face just where he wanted it, allowing him to lead.

The confusing feeling in her belly grew and she knew it now for what it was - a distinct sense of wrongness. For all that Aegon was, and for all that he was not, he was hers. Edmund was not, would never be.

She pulled away, ever so slightly, tilting her face back toward the ground as the heat built in her cheeks.

“Come now, Abrogail, demon queen of Asshai,” he whispered. The sound of his voice was rough, like water over the stones of the river, and it tugged at something in her, something she had only so recently discovered. He leaned in once again, this time crowding her against the wall, his mouth on hers. Her hands found his chest, fingers curling into his doublet, just as the cold stone of the wall seeped through her gown, shocking a gasp from her. “I knew you didn’t find me so terrible.” The edge of laughter in his voice should have calmed her. Instead discomfort skittered uncomfortably over her skin.

‘He doesn’t taste right,’ she thought, and as quickly as the thought came, Abby pushed it stubbornly away. Then, just as quickly, she realized he had not used her proper title. The intimacy of it doubled the uncertainty she felt and her struggling attempts to figure out how to release herself from it.

“Should I think you so terrible, Ser Edmund?” she asked him. Without waiting for an answer, she pushed herself on her toes to kiss him, to ignore the discomfort that she was feeling and tell herself that this was more than fine. Helaena had kissed other boys than just Aemond or Warren Fossoway. She had overheard Cassandra Baratheon whispering about stolen kisses behind tapestries and in alcoves with some lord. She too should get her share of kisses. Even when they didn’t make her ache low in her belly, it still stroked at the shivery bit that made her want.

Even if the kiss was only nice, even if he pressed his body against her more and stroked the heat of his palm against the curve of her waist, slipping beneath the fabric of her surcoat to bunch at the linen at the base of her spine.

A sound of protest tore from Abby and she pushed at Ser Edmund’s chest, but he did not move. He seemed to take her sound for one of desire and dropped his hand from her jaw to the curve of her breast. The discomfort and warring desire flared hot and instinct drove her. She lifted her hand and clawed her fingers across the side of the knight’s neck, unable to get her knee up or hope to push him away, to do what Harwin had taught her.

To do all the things she didn’t need to when it came to Aegon.

It was Edmund’s turn to hiss, and he drew back with a startled look. The hand that had been on her breast reached up to clap against his neck and she could see the lines of crimson her nails left in their wake.

“Unhand me,” she snapped, cursing the tremble in her voice, and shoved at his chest, trying to get his arm out from under her gown.

“Are you trying to live up to the moniker, Abrogail?” He asked in amused confusion, looking at the red on his fingertips.

“Lady Abrogail, Ser Edmund,” she forced out. Her hands were trembling and she shoved him back again now that there was some space between them. He faltered back a few steps, and Abby tried not to think that he’d done it to make her feel better, not because there was actual strength behind it, and the thought of it was almost enough to have her claw across his handsome laughing face. “You overstep with your familiarity.”

“Have I? Was it not you who kissed me just now?” He tilted his head, regarding her like a child. “How can one overstep when one has been invited.” It wasn’t a question, and Abby’s cheeks burned at the truth in his statement.

“I-I did not invite you to touch me that way, ser.” Her fingers curled against her belly but she forced them down into fists at her side, refusing to let him see how desperately she wanted to protect herself. “And you did not move when-”

“Many women give such protestations, Abrogail-”

“Lady Abrogail, ser.”

A smirk played across his handsome face, another shake of his head, and the condescension she felt from him reminded her of the same that she felt from the queen. She felt trapped and confused at the idea that these people thought her a little girl, a naive child, yet put her in these positions and expected something more of her.

The way she had expected more from Aegon.

‘You put yourself into them’, said a voice that sounded suspiciously like her brother, Larys, curled unpleasantly in her mind.

“If you’re trying to insinuate that ladies do not play at the occasional dalliance within the gardens and in the shadows of a keep, Lady Abrogail, then you have much to learn.” He reached up to try to brush her hair from her face once more and she snarled at him, reaching up to claw at the back of his hand, this time like a feral cat. She gripped his hand, nails cutting into the skin, and tore quickly.

“Leave marks,” Harwin had told her, cupping her face in his hands with the most serious look she’d ever seen. “Should someone hurt you, you tear at them like the pikes in the Red Fork in a feeding frenzy, so none could ever have cause to doubt you.”

She wanted Harwin then, to stand between her and this awful man who had come to her in friendship and kindness.

Yet, Harwin was dead and she was alone.

“I do not wish to learn anything from you, ser, if you only wish to speak down at me so.” Her voice did not tremble this time and her fists clenched in her skirt, ignoring the shine of red beneath her nails.

“Oh, but I’m sure the drunken princeling they mean to shove into our lands is an eager teacher, hm?” He chuckled at whatever look must have been on her face. “Your father was one of the smartest men in the realm, and they say you are clever as well. Do not tell me you are distracted by the gold and the titles.” He advanced and she retreated, her back hitting the wall once more, but she would not shrink against it. “If the Targaryens mean to exercise power in our realm, they will be in for a rude awakening. You, my lady, need people on your side and I am happy to be your stalwart advocate.” His voice lowered. “Your shield. Your teacher. Your-”

“Prince Aegon is my betrothed. He is my shield, my defender, and I am his. Do not mistake the colors of my bridal cloak for the loss of my family name and my loyalty to the rivers. I am Lady Strong, and my children will be raised in our way, blood of the dragon or not. If you dare to insinuate that my marriage has compromised the honor of House Strong, or our standing, I shall make it known of your dishonor towards me, which is now considered treason, in case you’ve forgotten. And if you try to touch me again, I will tell Aegon, and he will have you dragged by the hair to feed Sunfyre. He is my shield, and he shall defend me. Not you.”

Her trembling increased and Abby clutched her skirts, giving the knight nothing more than a sidelong glance as she darted around him, the dismissal she gave chafing at the manners and propriety that had been etched into her bones, even after what he had done, the words he had thrown at her.

She did not know where she was going, only that she needed to run from this. A sob tore from her throat and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth before spitting the lingering taste on the ground, as if it were enough to rid the memory.

The crescent of red beneath her fingernails made her skin crawl and she hiccuped a small, frightened sound as she burst into the Godswood.

Aegon was standing there beneath the great heart tree. He faced the carved, weeping face, his head tilted back, eyes closed as if in prayer.

She turned abruptly in hopes of avoiding him, avoiding his questions and his angry eyes, and her skirt caught between her legs and under her shoe, sending her to the ground where her hands scraped against the pavestones. She let out a pained cry before she could stop it, all hopes of being gone before he noticed her dashed as she was.

“Abby?”

“Please not now,” she whispered, wincing at the bloody scrapes on the heels of her palms. Her prayer was not powerful enough because Aegon was there beside her, his hands reaching out before he stopped himself. Aegon’s fingertips only just brushed her hand and he gazed at her. His silver hair fell into his eyes, lilac clear for once.

He had freckles over his nose and across his cheeks. She loved those freckles.

“Let me see,” he said softly. “Please?”

Abby couldn’t breathe. Her throat was choked up and she shut her eyes, hot tears rolling down her cheeks and with a nod, she held out her scraped palms to him for inspection. “I’m sorry,” she whispered instinctively.

“Why?” He asked just as softly. He pulled a handkerchief from the inside of his jerkin. He paused in the motion, brow furrowing as he realized that a dry handkerchief wouldn’t do much good. She shook her head and spat on the heels of her palms.

“There,” she sniffled. Aegon snorted and began dabbing the dirt off the scrapes.

“Clever girl.”

“I try.”

“Why are you sorry?”

Abby blinked through her tears. “What?”

“You said you were sorry. I was asking you why.” Aegon’s thumb stroked along the lifeline of her left palm in a soothing manner. There was a gentleness in him that eased the lonely fear she felt. “Unless you were apologizing for falling. Then perhaps your skirts should apologize to you.” His eyes widened, lips pressed together comically, and he shrugged.

Abby’s teeth scraped over her lower lip but it did little to disguise the twitch of her smile. “Mayhaps-” her words were cut off by the hiss of pain. It was fleeting and he shushed her softly.

“I’m sorry.” His thumb pressed gently into the center of her palm and his eyes hidden by the fall of his hair.

“Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitched and Aegon met her gaze. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Pink bloomed in the round of his cheeks and he leaned forward to press his forehead against hers. Abby released a long breath that she felt like she’d been holding for weeks. Mayhaps she had. Or perhaps it was only in the past minutes since she’d woken that morning. Since…

“I…” He breathed in her exhale and Abby was transported to the meadow in the Kingswood where everything in her begged to soothe him and tell him it was okay. Then, she held back. Here, she held back too. “I didn’t see you. I thought I did, but I wasn’t.”

Her eyes flooded with tears at his words. Aegon was not one to apologize, but since this betrothal, he had done so twice already. She knew he had meant them before, but little had changed. In the simplicity of the words that spilled from him now were different. Quiet. Vulnerable.

Truth.

Three times for a wish. Three times to make it real.

Aegon’s hand cupped her left cheek and his thumb brushed her tears away, but they were replaced with more. “I saw… Cole says every girl is the Maiden, every woman the Mother,” he whispered with his voice cracking. “My mother who has rejected me with more fervor while she clings to me for this mad future, and how she clings to her Seven as if it will make it better and yet none of them were what I needed. It was you. It was always you standing there when I had nowhere else to turn. You, who had always been there with open arms to accept me. How could I see you as anything but holy? How could I not see you as the Maiden come down to me, as if I was as worthy as Galladon of Morne for your affections. How could I not cling to you when my mother and her gods turned their backs to me. To face the idea that I was losing your acceptance when I didn’t know what I had done was too much. It was too much like everything else. Gone was the safe harbor in you, because I was so foolish as to not see the true you, only what my mother and Cole had told me you should be.” Tears shone in his lilac eyes and rolled down his cheeks as her own did. “I was blind to truths, no better than my father. I punished you for it. It’s unforgivable, to treat you so, when I’ve always wanted… I do not know.”

The prince was not prone to rambling. He was not one for a slew of words and speeches and declarations in this sort of way. While not as reticent as Aemond could be, to hear Aegon present this all to her was a surprise. He was breathless at the end of it with lilac eyes wide and focused on her and Abby’s heart clenched hard in her chest. The idea that this was something he’d tumbled over and over with himself and was looking for the opportunity to tell her took her by surprise and overcame the fear and the nerves that threatened to drown her.

Abby leaned into his touch, wet mouth dragging against the skin of his hand. Words were wind. Words did not matter coming from her right now. She knew that she had her own apologies to make, but the lack of rehearsal in Aegon's words, the way he compared himself to the man he hated most, tore at the gentle parts of her and robbed her of her own declarations, as if Aegon had borrowed them to give himself strength. Her tears came faster and Abby drew back when Aegon shifted.

"You do not ne-need to know, just hearing you…” Her breath hitched as she tried to find something to say that felt worthy, but he silenced her when he reached down to scoop her into his arms. Her lips parted and she tried to speak, but being held close like this, surrounded by the warmth of him instead of the cold ground, or being crowded against a cold stone wall by someone she did not truly want, had her falling silent. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck as he headed up the gentle incline and carefully sat them down among the twisting roots of the weirwood tree.

How often had the two of them sat here beneath the bone white boughs, sharing marchpane and honey cakes? How often she was talked into reading him tomes assigned by the maester for his studies?

He said nothing as they sat, only held her in his lap and pressed his warm lips to her forehead before tucking her head beneath his chin. Abby lifted a hand to fist into his black shirt sleeve and for the first time since the death of her family, she let herself lean into him for the warmth and reassurance that had been absent from her life for so long. The culmination of everything that had come before, everything happening now, threatened to drown her. She pressed her face further into his neck, her sobs soft against his skin, and his arms tightened around her.

Abby had seen Aegon at low and weak moments. He had wept in her lap and into her hair numerous times over the years.

Now Aegon had found her fallen, and like she had done so often for him, he lifted her up.

Aegon’s tears wet her hair and her own soaked into the collar of his shirt. Abby imagined herself sinking into him, slipping into all the gaps and spaces of his body and nestling in there where it was warm and quiet, where they could be alone together away from everything else.

“I’m sorry for what I said that night,” she whispered against his throat, her nose stuffed from her crying and voice thick and raw. “I expected something different from you, something I never asked for, and that wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat and Aegon’s arms tightened around her, his fingers stroking her hair.

“You are rather terrible at asking for things,” he said in his own low voice. Abby let out an indelicate snort, sputtering at the gentle tease. She vividly recalled the last time he ordered her to tell him of her desires, and her cheeks flushed deeper than they already were. How she craved it, how she wanted more.

She shifted against him so her fingers could fidget with the buttons on his shirt, needing something to distract her hands with. “I suppose I need to practice then.” A swallow and a sigh. Aegon huffed a chuckle and his breath sent her hair fluttering. His hand was warm when it took hers and she felt him run his thumb against the back of her hand.

Then Aegon went still, and Abby swallowed. There was no resistance when he lifted her hand and there was no hiding the red crescents beneath her usually well kept nails, and the streaks of crimson on her fingertips he hadn’t seemed to notice before.

Fair enough. Aegon often missed the details.

“What’s this?” he asked in that low tone, the one that vibrated through his chest and into her very bones. “Abby?”

Cold swept through her veins and a terrible knot of anxiety twisted tight in her belly. Shame followed quickly after the cold, a red hot sensation that burned along her neck and stung at the corners of her eyes, painful in her cheeks. It was one thing for men to engage in such things. It was another for women, let alone someone betrothed to the prince of the realm. She could still feel the vicious smack of the queen’s palm against her face, the cold and remote look in the woman’s large eyes as they tore her apart.

She had been given a duty as Aegon’s betrothed, and it was to fix him. It wasn’t to love him. It wasn’t to be intimate and passionate with him. How ugly the thought was. How cruel it was to think they had betrothed them, while thinking that she could not love the wreck that was Aegon, that she cared for in spite of his faults and flaws. How could she do anything but love him?

Helaena had her share of stolen kisses. Many of the ladies of court had. Why should she be any different? Aegon certainly was no chaste, virtuous son. He would come to their marriage bed well practiced.

Abby’s mouth was dry and she swallowed harshly. Nerves were night moths fluttering wildly in her belly. “I…” Another clearing of her throat, and Abby lifted her gaze to meet his. “Ser Edmund tried to take more than what I had allowed. It seems chivalry was not part of his knight’s vows.”

Silence grew between them while Aegon studied her face and she felt bare before him. There was no hiding behind her hair even as she half tried to. There was no disguising the flush of her skin and the trembling of her mouth. She wanted to beg him not to be angry at her, that she didn’t intend to make the knight think he was owed more, but Abby kept her mouth shut. She had kissed him just as he kissed her and it had been her choice to do it.

Aegon studied her face with her hand clutched tight in his, thumb pressed into the center of her palm. She didn’t look away. She would not look away, no matter what kind of shame she felt. Defenses pushed at her throat. Little hedges like ‘I promise I didn’t encourage him’ were tempting, but she swallowed them down as she tried to swallow the shame she felt and the anger at how the man had behaved.

Slowly, Aegon shifted the arm that curled around her so he could lift his hand to cradle the back of her head, his fingers in her hair. The touch sent a shiver down her spine and chased away the heated curl of shame with the intimacy of it. His thumb stroked against her palm and he gave a slow nod.

“I suppose with how I’ve treated you, it’s the least you could have done for yourself, hunītsos.” The use of the endearment took her by surprise, and she met his gaze, the pupils blown wide with a simmering anger. “But if this is from protecting yourself, I’ll bring you his hands should you wish.”

Her laugh was short and shocked, tearful as it was relieved and she curled her fingers around his. “I do not need his hands. He walked away wounded in both body and pride after I told him that you would have him drug by the hair to feed to Sunfyre. Though I would hate for our poor boy to be fed such a meal.”

Aegon stared at her in ill disguised surprise at what she said. She couldn’t tell what was going on through his mind. Was he upset with her? Did he think she asked for it? That she had led him on how he had accused her of?

“You, my fierce Abrogail,” he finally said, hand still cradling her head and his other came up to trace a knuckle along the softness of her cheek, “were brilliant. You hide your claws and fangs so well, but they are sharp to be sure.” Aegon’s cheeks were lightly flushed, lilac eyes dancing with a tumult of emotions she could not untangle. But she knew his anger lay not with her. “Our poor boy?”

Abby scrunched her face up shyly. “Sunfyre likes me and I like him. You have to share him.”

“I have to?”

“You must.”

Aegon rolled his eyes and nudged his nose against hers. “I mean it truly. I do not enjoy the idea of someone else kissing you, but it pales to the treatment after. I would not have you hurt and afraid. I know how men can be.” He faltered then but Abby could fill in the details. She understood that Aegon had been that sort of man. ‘Was he still that sort of man?’ she wondered.

“Were you aware he’d gotten a child on one of my maids barely a moon ago? He did. I gave the girl moon tea and money for her to go back home to her family and find a new position, since she was clearly incapable of refuting my son’s advances. Very much like you seem incapable of refuting him.”

Her voice was a quiet breath and she pressed against his chest. “Would… if you kissed me and I didn’t want it, or if you touched me and I didn’t want it, even if maybe I seemed like I did, o-or I had changed my mind. Even when you’re my husband and you have your rights. I know you have your rights and my duty and-”

“I would stop,” he cut in. Aegon’s voice was firm, and she knew that he meant it. “I never want to look at you and see fear in your eyes. Fear that I put there. I will take anger, I will take pity and sadness, but I could not...” His voice had started strong, but as he went along, it wavered, thick with emotion until he fell quiet with a shake of his head. “When you looked at me that night of the feast, the words that you said-”

“I should not have-”

“Stop,” he commanded, not harshly, but firm. “I need to say this. When you said those things, the idea of you seeing me as something sick and broken, I could not abide it. I could not breathe. If you saw me as a monster, as something not worth your touch, then there was nothing else for me.” Aegon tilted back, putting space between them, his head thumping gently against the tree, and he turned his gaze to the gentle whisper of the blood red leaves above them. “I was harsh with you in my pain. You caused me hurt and I wanted to throw it back tenfold. Why should I try, if I upset you so? If you no longer leaned into my touch, for the little time I had it? I… fuck.”

Aegon would not look at her, and Abby felt a knot of worry in her chest, the cold and hot feeling twisting through her. His hands had fallen away from her as Aegon drew in on himself, but she did not pull away from him, did not reject him, and he did not shove her away. “We didn’t make promises,” she whispered.

“We did. You asked me to only ever touch you that way.” He pulled his fingers through his hair, tugging on the silver strands as he took a deep breath. “I… took the Lefford girl into my bed.”

Marla Lefford, Lord Loras Lefford’s younger sister who had arrived with the Riverlands party. A pretty maid around her age, with pin straight brown hair and bright green eyes. She’d been nice, if a little flighty, when they had met.

Abby felt a rush of jealousy but swallowed it down, letting it burn all the way to her gut, a new sort of pain. A nod. “Were you kind to her?”

He might have snorted a sad sort of laugh, but there was no effort in it. Honesty was the order of the day and he shrugged. “I wasn’t unkind. I wasn’t the first one there, but I think she expected more. More care, perhaps. More enthusiasm, certainly.” He swallowed audibly and looked up at her. “I’ve been… engaging with Cassandra Baratheon. I didn’t take her to bed. I wouldn’t.”

The memory of Cassandra Baratheon speaking of stolen moments in alcoves and behind tapestries came in stark clarity and she felt a coil of heat and sick. She’d listened to her and never realized that it was Aegon she’d been referencing.

“Why not?” She didn’t want to know, but the words escaped her before she could lock them away. The jealousy burned hotter as she thought of Cassandra Baratheon and her womanly secrets, her sharp laugh and the tossing of her hair. How beautiful and worldly she was. How stormy and clever she was. How so obviously not Abby.

She was the better match for Aegon in the long run. Cassandra Baratheon was the heir to the Stormlands as it stood right now.

But Cassandra Baratheon did not grow up at Alicent Hightower’s knee. Cassandra Baratheon would not be a tool sought to control Aegon by his mother through her. Perhaps that was what made him want her. Abby thought she would choke on the notion.

“If I took her to bed, I knew she’d hurt you with it,” he said softly. “For whatever that is worth, I didn’t want to hurt you in that way. Whatever was happening was between us, I would not put you in her sights with my foolish choices.”

“She’s coming to Harrenhal with us,” Abby said in the same quiet voice.

Aegon clucked his tongue, a helpless look. “I have been known to, as you say, not think things through.” He looked at her then, helpless and nervous, tentative and hopeful. Brave, in the way he so rarely exhibited. “We do not have to bring her to Harrenhal. If you do not want her there, then she won’t be there.”

Her eyes rounded in surprise at the decision placed in her hands. She held it, unsure of what to do. Courtesy, propriety, the swallowing of unpleasant emotions, all of it compelled her to answer that she would put the matter behind her and allow Cassandra to come with them, so as not to offend the fickle Lord Borros. It would be the right thing to do. The forgiving thing to do.

The Seven preached such forgiveness.

Septa Lyserra taught those virtues, yet the woman had pulled her from Aegon’s arms, torn the ring forcefully from hair where it had gotten caught, sought to punish and inflict pain for something that Abby did not find wrong, did not think she had anything to be sorry for. That was not kindness. That wasn’t gentleness, or understanding. It was cruel.

Should she tell Aegon what had happened in his mother’s room? To explain? No, she couldn’t. She couldn’t come between Aegon and his mother.

But how she ached to say something. How she wanted to tell Aegon the pain that had been caused, and to be defended, to be comforted and protected. How she wanted to use her voice to speak of the hurt that she’d been caused.

“I do not want Cassandra Baratheon at Harrenhal,” she said in a quiet but firm voice. Her eyes were wet and she still trembled from the emotions tumbling through her. “I do not begrudge you what you engaged in with her, and I’m glad you told me. But I do not want her there. I do not want her in our home, where we’re to make our life together. I do not care what it says of me, of what gossip would spread; if they call me insecure, if they call me jealous. I do not want her there.” Her breath hitched and she reached up to drag the edge of her red sleeve across her wet eyes. “You’re a prince. You’re charming and beautiful, and you ride the most beautiful dragon in the world. I want to be yours, Aegon. I’ve only ever wanted to be yours and… and I-I want you to be mine. I want you to want me as much as I want you. I do not care about the Lefford girl, or Cassandra Baratheon, whatever brothel visits, or what else came before. I am selfish enough to admit I want you to myself now. I want our marriage, our marriage bed, to be only for us.”

Aegon looked at her like he’d never properly done so and Abby’s hands fluttered up to cover the flush of her cheeks, tilting her head to hide behind the fall of her messy curls. For the first time the two of them sat there with their hearts held out to one another, without dressing or armor. They were naked, their ribs cracked open, and she was begging to crawl inside the cage of him, to wrap herself around his heart and be surrounded by him, bone and flesh knit together to hold her close and keep her safe and warm.

“Hunītsos,” he murmured, and he wrapped his hands around her wrists to tug them from her face. She resisted and he snorted, tugging more until he had her wrists held. “Abby, look at me.”

Her resistance gave way and he held both her wrists in a single hand so he could cup her left cheek in the rough warmth of his palm, his fingers stroking where they tucked into her hair. Aegon was smiling softly. It was a ghost of one, barely there, and he simply watched her, searching for answers to questions she did not know.

Then his smile widened and he nodded and Abby thought she finally knew what question he had been asking all this time.

It was not conscious to fall forward into his touch. He pulled her in and the feel of his mouth was, before everything, right. The taste of spiced wine and something inherently Aegon. There was no sense of wrongness or unsettling discomfort. Kissing Aegon felt like coming home. It felt like being wrapped in a blanket warmed by the fire on a cold night. Gently, he used the grip on her wrists to tug her closer and when he released her, she twined her arms around his neck and his freed hand looped around her waist to cradle her close. The kiss did not deepen. It was nearly chaste. It was a dream. It was everything she missed over these past weeks.

The groan that Aegon released when they parted shot straight through her, and it took everything in her not to whine for more. She wanted to chase his pouty mouth and dive into the pool of heat that had gathered between them. Instead, he nuzzled his nose against hers before resting his forehead to hers.

“I want to be better for you. I want to be who you see me as. I want to be worthy of you, but I do not know how. I do not know if I’m good enough.” Abby’s fingers lifted to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck and breathed in his exhales. “I am afraid” went unsaid but she could hear it woven amidst his words. The desire to comfort him was there, threatening to overwhelm her, to push aside her own pain, to reassure him without doubt that it was fine.

“Who do you want to be, mo realta geal?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

She pressed a kiss to his lower lip. Soft and sweet, a gentle reassurance. Aegon exhaled and she could feel his shiver match her own. “I have always believed that you did not have to be what you were. To throw yourself into wine and women, to put down your swords; these are things I wish you had not done, but I understood why. When you said those words to me, when you lashed out in pain, I grew angry because I realized you were supposed to be different when it came to me. I also was not seeing you fully. But I see you now, and I still want you. I choose you and whomever you choose to become. Do not do it for my approval. Do it because it is what you want most. You do not have to be anyone else but Aegon, and whatever that means to you.”

Aegon’s nod was minute, the gesture reminding her of the little boy he’d once been, shy and nervous. “Do you mean it?” He whispered, and she would not have heard him had they not been so close. His voice was thick and his eyes shined with tears.

“I do,” she whispered.

He sniffled and nodded again. “You do not need to be my mother. You do not need to be one of those perfect ladies. You are fierce and passionate and you are so beautiful when you are free. You are not the Maiden or Mother or whatever the seven hells demand. You are Abrogail Strong and I’ve wanted you for as long as I have had memory.”

“I don’t know if I know how to be anything else, Aegon.” Her voice was so small she could barely hear herself.

“Neither do I, Abrogail,” he said with his own soft kiss to her trembling mouth. Abby whimpered and his chuckle was soft and deep, snaking through her with a heat that made her hands shake. “We’ll be fools together, won’t we? Stumbling in the dark to figure it out.”

A shaky laugh sounded and she shook her head with a shy and tremulous smile. “I’m afraid of the dark.”

“That you are. Never fear, I shan’t let go of your hand.”

“Good, because I will not let go of yours either.” Abby felt her cheeks flush and watched his own do the same. It had been so long since she heard him sing or pluck the strings of his gittern or lyre. “I would like to hear you sing me songs again.” He had done so when they were young, but Aegon’s interests had fallen to the side as they’d grown, the same as her own interests in painting and archery had done. Could they, perhaps now, reclaim them?

He exhaled, blowing moonlit hair out of his eyes. “Well, then it’s settled. Might as well chain us together.”

“Is that not what marriage is supposed to be?” She asked with a teasing grin and a pinch to his side. Aegon squealed with a high pitched sound and her grin broadened. “Ticklish, my prince?”

She found another spot along his ribs and he squirmed with another flurry of strangled giggles as she tickled him. His hands found her and the soft, tender bits beneath her arms and her shrieks of laughter joined him as they fell sideways in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

[chapter fourteen]

#fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen x oc #hotd #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #house strong #aegon x abby #my fics #baela targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacelaena

[simpingland]

Taste of Wine and Smell of Lavender // Aemond Targaryen x OC!fem!Dayne

At that very intense dinner with the "Velaryon" boys, Ashara Dayne, betrothed with Prince Aemond wants to know why is he so stuck in the past. Meanwhile, Aemond is surprised by her true character and charisma.

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She ran around the halls with a fast pace, she knew that she was being excessively late tonight. And Alicent was going to be pissed at her. And she was right, when the doors opened again just for her to enter, the first eyes she caught were the Queen's. Even the poor King was already there. Nobody stood to greet her, and the "Velaryon" boys looked at her with a hidden grin. The Targaryen girls looked at her with a raised eyebrows. The princess Rhaenyra side eyed her, as she was previously talking with her husband. Aegon did laugh, and Helaena gave her a sweet smile, happy to see her there. She couldn't look at Aemond, too ashamed of herself.

"Sorry im late, your majesties..." she apologised. "I'd lost track of time, and I didn't know the room the dinner was being held."

"It's alright, dear, take a seat." Spoke the King with a kind tone.

It was not alright, she knew that. This was a special occasion and she just acted like a stupid child, when she was a grown woman, about to get married and a part of the royal house in Westeros. Anyway, she better take her seat, besides his future husband, Aemond.

He didn't look at her, but she did, trying to smile at him. He looked colder that usual, and she understood the reason when she looked at the person in front of her. Lucerys Velaryon was enjoying his dinner at the other side of the table. The boy was handsome, and at the soft lights of the candles and surrounded by his family, remembering that he was the one cutting out Aemond's eye with a knife was hard to believe. She wasn't there when it happened, but Helaena told her all about that night.

Aemond had fault in those events, in her opinion. Not only he took Vaghar, but he was very close to killing Jace, his own nephew. Helaena told her as well about the bullying. But for the gods...every kid carries a pain, that is not excuse for being cruel. She fears for her future marriage, but it was an important political move, her mother and Alicent reminded her about it every day.

"Lady Ashara" called Rhaena, the sweeter twin, apparently. "Have you been to Skyfall lately?"

"Yes, I have, princess. My brother just fathered his first kid...a boy" she told her. How much she missed her hometown. His brother, now the Lord of Skyfall, was the head of the house of Dayne. It was extremely hard to say goodbye this second time she left to come back to King's Landing. She told him about Aemond's ignorance towards her. But her mother, a Lannister woman, told her to stop her weeping and get on the carriage again.

"How sweet, to be an aunt." Said Rhaena. And started a conversation with Rhaenyra.

Ashara swallowed a bit of her wine, and she almost choke at the terrible taste of it. It was not of her likening, thank the Seven, no one noticed. She left the cup on the table and pushed it away from her, not realising that Aemond caught her, and smoothly, he took the cup, giving her his. When she looked at him confused he was already drinking from it. Aemond's cup had another drink, another smell. When she tried, she identified the drink. White whine, uncommon in the Red Keep, very common in Skyfall. She smiled down at her cup and thanked Aemond, pulling her hand in his hand, but he pulled away.

She was not aware of Aegon's insults towards Jace, so when he stood up, she jumped on her sit. And she was scared again when Aemond stood up as well. The boy gave a sweet toast wishing his uncles for the best, but he was clearly annoyed. Ashara couldn't hid it, it made her smirk, and she left out a little snort when Aegon said a soft and humilliating "to you as well". Aemond did look at her then, and she started to look at her own cup as if the wine just started talking. When Aemond sat again, she was saved by Helaena, who stood up to toast too.

"I would like to toast to Baena, Rhaena and Ashara. They'll be married soon..." oh, gods, this was becoming depressing. The smirk fade completely in Ashara's face. "It isn't so bad.. mostly he just ignores you" well, she already knew that feeling. "Except sometimes when he's drunk."

Daemon laughed, and Otto gave her an approval word. But Ashara found that part absolutely devastating. Poor sweet Helaena, married to that prince. Everybody knew about yesterday's rape of that young servant girl. The only hope left for Ashara was Aemond's dignity, something that always separated him from his brother. The Dayne girl's face dropped again and Aemond saw it. Many nights he had seen her leave her food on the plate. She grew quiet on his presence, but with Helaena or the ladies at court he could see her giggleling and talking none stop. But he didn't know how to comfort her, he was not a romantic man, he was a protective one. If only that could be enough. He also got stressed at her, she was always late at everything, spoke way too laud for his likening, was a gossip of great talent, and a terrible horse rider.

Something stroke both brothers when Jace took Helaena for a dance. Ashara found it sweet, but she understood that for them it was some type of dare. She looked at Aemond, who looked at her back for a while and she gave him a smile. Like the ones she had given him for the past three months, the months she had been there.. He didn't return it, because he could sense in her a feeling of disconfort. But he did have trouble looking away from her. That night she looked prettier that usual and he understood why she was late. She also smelled incredibly well, the instant in which she sat beside him, the feeling of hipocrasy in the room left for a bit. He watched her enjoy the wine, she was for sure missing Helaena by her side, and Aemond thought of her as the sweetest sight of the room. The King was carried away from the room, and only Rhaenyra and Daemon stood up. When a pig was brought to the table, Aemond and Ashara heard a little giggle. And they found Luke smirking. She couldn't remember the joke of it, but she knew Aemond was getting tense, and that Luke was a bit of a deadass for such a dumb movement.

Aemond punched the table and Ashara had her second heart attack that night. He brought the cup up, the music stopping at the second.

She was puzzled by his speech, but she did caught the fact the he had insinuated that the boys were bastards of the deceased Harwin Strong. Helaena told her about that as well. Jace got it at the instant and the fighting started. Ashara watched as Aemond received a punch, and he smiled while she panicked. She stared at the fight getting as far away from the table as possible. Helaena was the one pushing her aside until Daemon broke the fight. Aemond walked out of the room, leaving everyone behind, and Ashara left soon after.

She wanted to reach him, to ask him why he had chose violence over a silly boy laughing at him. The House Targaryen was falling a part and he decided to ruin the chance of fixing things. She decided to follow him. It was late and the halls were in complete silence, so she tracked his footsteps without problem. He was heading to the yard, the gods knew why.

"Prince Aemond" she called once she got closer, he walked still.

"It's late, my lady. You should go back to your quarters" he commanded.

"I'm not tired." She refused. Ashara had to run a bit to finally put herself beside him. "I really wish to know what happened there."

"Well, didn't you see? I toasted for my ungrateful nephews and they didn't enjoy it"

"That I saw and that you know. I'm not stupid."

"I didn't say you were, I just thought you were late to the events, as you are well used to."

"Please, stop it."

"What do you want" he finally stopped on his track, pulling himself over her, towering her to make her regret her insolence. She did not, but she did blushed.

"The truth..." she tried to raise her voice but it was harder than she thought. "Something there has triggered you to the point of ruining the last chance of this family to make amends."

"You speak as if you were part of this family, as if you had been here all this time." He gave her his back, walking slowly towards the training section of the yard. Only a few torches left to illuminate the place.

"I do know things...I haven't waste my time here all this months." She kept following him, but a bit further than before. "I will be part of it soon, as well..."

"Well then, you go and found out, my lady. There's no need for me to be the one informing you. So...fuck off, my lady."

"The fuck I'm going!" She screamed. She left Aemond turning around, surprised by the sudden outburst of the lady. "I'm tired of rumors about you...My body, my loyalty, my entire life has been handed to you. The least you could do is tell me why did you make such a comment. It's fucking treason, Aemond."

He wished to be alone in the yard and do a bit of fencing before going to bed, leaving his anger out of the bed. But with this little bitch throwing facts at his face it was impossible to do that. He could threaten her, but there where already two miserable woman in his family, and he hated the men that hurt them, Aemond's biggest honor was to find himself different to them.

"The pink thread..." he spoke softly. "Aegon, Jace and Luke gave me a pig when I was a dragonless kid"

"I heard Luke laugh, but I still don't understand why" she felt brave enough to get closer to him.

"They put a fucking pig in front of us. And that fucking little bastard started laughing" he explained. She was starting to understand where he was going. "He ripped my eye, with no consequence at all and up until this day he has the nerve to laugh at me."

"My prince, Prince Lucerys is a stupid teenage boy. Everybody knows he's a bastard, you can not take offense of such a... moron." Aemond smiled at such a mean insult.

"But that moron is the fucking heir of Driftmark. He's going to be married to a true Velaryon girl, and two fucking eyes"

Ashara didn't know what to say. The stories she was told made her disagree with Aemond. He did wrongs and this was immature. If only she could make him reason...but sadly, Aemond did not had her as a priority, so her opinion was nothing to him but a bother.

He watched her struggle. "What are you plotting now?" He asked. He had seen that face, the one she put every time she couldn't speak her mind during dinners. It was the face she put when Aegon said the most disgusting story of the day. Or when Helaena was out of her reach for gossiping at feasts.

"Can I speak my mind? Truthfully?" He nodded. "You are wasting to much time and spirit at pitying yourself, my prince."

"Pitiying?" His tone was an angry one and she became nervous but kept on talking.

"You are older, bigger, smarter and way more powerful that those boys. He took your eye because you were about to fucking kill his brother. If Helaena is right, that night at Driftmark you claimed a dragon with no protection and you made Jace, Luke, Baela and Rhaena bite the dust of the floor unarmed. You are the rider of Vhagar, a dragon of the fucking Conquest. The dragon rode by Visenya, the best Targaryen fighter in it's history. It must be a tragedy to lose an eye of the face being a boy. I was burying my dear father on the ground when I was a girl, and I would give both eyes just to speak with him again. If you think you are missing something for the eye you lost just open the other one fucking left."

She pulled away from him, fearing his reaction, but he did nothing but nod. She decided to continue, feeling as if she just scolded too much. "You think of me whatever you wish, but what you do concerns me, my prince. If I have to give you a family I have to protect it as well. And tl9ur family is in the future, not in the past. Is not in Driftmark, nor in the other side of the table giggleling. Your family is what is important and your family is me and I'm in front of you. I know you see me. Stop looking away. Please."

She swallowed. Worrying about his reaction she looked at the floor. Silence invaded the yard.

"I ignored the Daynes were so bold..." he finally said.

"They are when they have a sword in their hands."

"But you have no sword."

"It might be the half Lannister in me, my prince."

"Right, I forgot..." he got closer to her. "I have payed way too little attention to you. I knew you speak way too much, but I never thought I would enjoy that."

"I'll take that as a courtesy" she blurted.

"But you don't know, not really. You don't know how it feels the need to cover half of your face to hide the disgusting wound made by a little bastard. What you know is that you are going to spend the rest of your life with such a dishonour beside you."

"What dishonor, my prince? I will never be ashamed of something which I'm not guilty" she corrected him, again, she put her hand over his arm, this time he didn't pushed her away.

"If I showed you my eye you would walk away in fear."

"Do it, I might go fuck off, just like you wanted."

He took of the patch, showing her the stone buried in his eye, or the hole where his real eye was missing. She smiled at him, and he frowned.

"It's a very pretty stone, my prince... it shines beautifully with this little light."

"Are you pitying me, Ashara?"

"No...in fact I'm kind of scared of you." She admitted, making Aemond smirk.

"Don't be. I didn't know you were such a sharp tongue girl...kept laughing at Aegon at dinners and I might end up loving you." This made her laugh, and she promised to do that. She did look pretty at the light of the torches as well, but he preferred her with the sun above her, her features illuminated and her smile fully displayed. "Do you know something about fencing, my lady?"

"I forgot the little I had practice as a kid."

"Want to learn?"

"I don't really like Ser Criston much, I'm afraid." This made Aemond laugh because she spoke in a tone of complete honesty.

"Then I'll have to teach you."

"Alright...don't know if Queen Alicent will approve." She half joked.

"I won't tell her. We will met here late at night, so no one see it."

"That's a very nice offer after everything I have said to you... I feel like there's a trick."

"You think that because you are half Lannister. But there is a condition."

"I was right then." She smiled. Aemond put both of her hands around his shoulders, and he put his hands around her hips.

"In exchange..." He whispered in her ear. "I want a taste of your lips."

She moved one of her hands to touch his face, softly, feeling the beard growing a bit in his chin, invisible to the eyes, and she caressed the eyebrow from his missing eye. She kissed the temple from the missing eye's side and when Aemond felt her breath reaching his lips he moved to caught her our of eagerness, but she smoothly moved away and smiled at him. Finally, she connected her lips to his. It was slow, wet and warm, with a mix of red and white wine.

His family was right there, under the moonlight, kissing his brushed cheek, the patch on the floor and her hands on his neck. She smelled of sweet lavender.

#game of thrones fanfiction #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon x oc #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x oc #house of the dragon imagines #aemond targaryen x reader #ewan mitchell fanfic #ewan mitchell #aemond one eye #aemond fic #aemond targaryen reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #prince aemond #aemond fanfiction #house of the dragon aemond #aemond the kinslayer