iamfina5

[iamfina5]

Team green after Viserys kicked the bucket.

House Targaryen is a fucking nightmare. :)

Inspired by this:

[iamfina5]

The Kinslayer Couple

Summary: In the span of a week, the peaceful life of Princess Valaena Velaryon is destroyed. At its start, the Iron Throne is usurped, casting the realm headlong into war. Her mother is annointed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and she Princess of Dragonstone. At its end, her brother Lucerys is slain by her husband, Aemond Targaryen. In a story of love and tragedy, betrayal and hope, Valaena must embark on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, daunted by friends and foes on either side of the fray.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ambers and Honeys

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135 A.C.

Climbing through Sea Dragon Tower, Aemond curses his brothers. After six moons of dread and despair, he has at long last returned to Dragonstone to meet his wife and child, yet he does not have the clarity of mind for rejoicement. Rather, he is plagued by thoughts of Aegon and wherewith and wherefore he is here, of wherewith and wherefore Daeron is here with him, and all of Daeron’s incessant questions.

With several stories beneath them, Daeron has grown somewhat breathless. “Did you fly on one of the twin’s dragons? Do they fly well on their own? Who was that third boy? Did you—”

Swiveling on his heel, Aemond stops abruptly. Daeron stops, too, and quiets, staring up at him in anticipation of the answers for his myriad inquiries. Aemond pays him no mind, staring past him as he contemplates the need to turn back. In his haste, he forgot Viserys. He left him with Aegon, who would be sure to kill him was he to discover his true name.

Though he is still drawn to the apartments above his head, he knows he must retrieve Viserys before he advances farther. He brought the boy all this way for one purpose, to unite him with his sister and win back her love. Cursing, he starts back down the stairs. Daeron pesters him with a fresh barrage of queries. “Why have we turned back? Why are we running? Why will you not answer me?”

Aemond continues to ignore him, all the way back to the castle’s front hall. There, he finds Helaena, with a child’s hand grasped in each of her own. Without slowing, he plucks Viserys from the ground and accosts her, “Where is Aegon?”

She glimpses back toward the courtyard. “The twins are telling him about their dragons.” Looking back to him, she wonders, “What happened to Aegon’s face and hand?”

Belatedly, it occurs to him that he neglected to tell Helaena of her husband’s injuries during their time in Lorath. He answers curtly, “Valaena lit him on fire.”

Helaena is nothing short of intrigued. “Really?”

Uninterested in revisiting the old tale, he moves the conversation along. “Did he notice Rys?” She nods. “What did he say?”

“Who,” she questions.

“Aegon,” he clarifies.

“About what,” she asks.

Vexed, he hisses, “Helaena.” Only Viserys reacts to his frustration, giggling, whilst Helaena keeps her same, placid expression. Shushing the child in his arms, he enunciates, as calm and clear as can be, “Did Aegon say anything about Rys?”

At last, her confusion clears. “Oh. Yes.”

He waits for her to say more, but for naught. Impatiently, he demands, “What?”

“He asked who he was,” she answers.

He continues to prompt her. “And what was your reply?”

“I cannot explain everything to you,” she tells him and, gripped by some impulse, wanders off with Maelor.

Muttering under his breath about ladies’ love of talking until there is actually something one wishes to hear from them, he turns back toward Sea Dragon Tower. He stifles yet more frustration as faces another impediment. With yet another question set on his lips, Daeron stands in his way. “So, who is this?”

Thankfully, Viserys is well trained by now, and he answers for Aemond, “My name is Rys.”

His attention diverted, Daeron greets the boy pleasantly, “Hello.” When he looks back to Aemond, he has his same question set on his face.

Ruefully, Aemond mourns that he did not draw up a colorable lie before he departed from Lorath. Granted, he had not expected to meet anyone here but Valaena and Baela, both of whom surely would have recognized Viserys at once, and without threat to the boy.

He decides it best to tell a simple tale. “I took a liking to him in Essos, so I took him with me.”

Faintly horrified, Daeron repeats, “You ‘took him?’ Did his parents give their blessing?”

Thinking of how Rhaenyra and Daemon might react were they to learn that he came upon their youngest son, alone and unsuspecting, Aemond laughs. “No.”

Wincing, Daeron chastises softly, “Aemond.” Hardly ashamed, Aemond gives him a flat look. Sighing as though disappointed, Daeron straightens. This forces Aemond’s gaze upward, and it occurs to him that Daeron, the little shit, has outgrown him. It seems to occur to Daeron, too. He smirks, inquiring, “How is the air down there, Brother?” Scowling, Aemond shoves past him and starts back toward Sea Dragon Tower.

During this second trek, Aemond asks the questions. “Wherefore are you and Aegon here?”

At his side, Daeron regales him with a whimsical tale, nearly so whimsical as the tale of his own travels through Essos. As Daeron tells it, Aegon took Dragonstone a few months past, though he was here as early as the year’s start, unbeknownst to all. Later, Daeron ventured here with Valaena after his dragon and their army in the South fell. At first, he was taken to King’s Landing so that Rhaenyra might relieve him of his head, but Valaena convinced her to augment the Queensguard with his sword, and she named him Valaena’s sworn protector.

Hearing this, Aemond is brought up short. He stops and turns toward his brother. “You turned your cloak?”

This characterization earns Aemond a glare. “Only to right the wrong of turning it in the first place.”

Troubled by his tone, Aemond steps in close to him. Unshrinking, Daeron stands his ground. Aemond does not allow this to deter him from scolding his little brother, supposing that few people appear intimidating with a child on their hip. Voice low, he intones, “What, you’re Black now? You truly think our half-sister should rule?”

“You and Mother and Grandsire always said she would kill us if she took the throne, but she showed me mercy.” Daeron waves his arm in a wide arc. “And consider that all three of our mother’s sons live. It is three of her sons who have been slain.”

Aemond is diverted by the tally. He knows the count to be too high not only for Viserys, but for another, as well. Carefully, he sets Viserys down so that he does not hear. Pushing Daeron farther down the hall, he inquires, “Three?”

Ducking his head, Daeron divulges, “Aye. Joffrey was struck down two moons past.”

“How did it happen,” Aemond questions, worried for how it will affect his relationship with Valaena.

Haltingly, Daeron details a week of riots in King’s Landing, punctuated by the deaths of Daemon, Joffrey, and two of their family’s dragons. He says that Rhaenyra and Aegon the Younger were forced to flee lest they be slain, too, and now, they are nowhere to be found.

Disquieted, Aemond wonders, “Who rules the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Rhaenyra is missing. Aegon hides out here.” Daeron shrugs. “No one.”

Aemond is somewhat struck by the gravity of his words, for so much has been sacrificed so that one of his elder siblings could sit the Iron Throne. Ultimately, however, he decides that such is not his concern. Not now, when there are far more pressing, far more personal matters at hand. Starting down the hall again, he commands Viserys to keep up with him, uncaring if Daeron does the same. He keeps a steady pace. When they pass Rhaenyra’s rooms, he steers Viserys away from her door, the little boy having roamed toward it on instinct.

When at last they come upon Valaena’s apartment, Aemond is astounded and thoroughly chagrined to find Criston keeping sentry before it. The sight of the knight standing watch is reminiscent of one moons past, before he and Criston both were cast out of Dragonstone. Thinking of the marks the man left on Valaena before his departure, Aemond seethes, though his voice is measured as he hails him. “Cole, you’re back.”

The turncloak is as insolent as ever. “As are you, my prince.”

Aemond lets his displeased stare linger a moment longer before attempting to brush past him. Unfortunately, he does not get far. As he places his hand on the door’s knob, Criston catches his wrist. “Lady Valaena is not allowed any visitors.”

Just as he had when last Criston pulled this stunt, Aemond lifts his right hand from the door and opens it with his left. As he shoves past him, he impels Viserys through the door ahead of him lest Criston get a good enough look at the boy to recognize him. Daeron trails them, closing the door behind him.

The solar is empty when they enter. Worming out of Aemond’s hold, Viserys makes for the bedchamber. Aemond follows at a slower pace. For all that he has envisioned meeting Valaena again, he finds it daunting now that the moment is upon him. He is uncertain of how pleased she will be to see him, especially now that he knows she has been Aegon’s prisoner for two moons. He prays that, as intended, Viserys will mollify her.

He comes into the room to find Viserys climbing onto the bed, where Valaena lies, sound asleep. Aemond would think it odd for this time of day was he not so preoccupied by the sight of her, so clearly with child.

She is ensconced within her linens, the bedclothes tucked all the way up to her chin, though it is clear what lies beneath them. With her laid out on her back, her stomach protrudes into the air, taller than is her head, even with its perch on her pillow.

Aemond is stunned, to say the least. To think that he would return home to find his wife with child—another child—all with him having known naught about it, having suspected naught, as well. He supposes the timing is right. It looks right. By the gods—

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[iamfina5]

ADDAM AND SEASMOKE + reddit posts

[iamfina5]

my contribution to the biter zuko agenda ✨

[iamfina5]

The Kinslayer Couple

Summary: In the span of a week, the peaceful life of Princess Valaena Velaryon is destroyed. At its start, the Iron Throne is usurped, casting the realm headlong into war. Her mother is annointed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and she Princess of Dragonstone. At its end, her brother Lucerys is slain by her husband, Aemond Targaryen. In a story of love and tragedy, betrayal and hope, Valaena must embark on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, daunted by friends and foes on either side of the fray.

Author's Note: I have changed the summary for this fic.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Dreamwine

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135 A.C.

Sat on Dragonstone’s throne, Aegon cannot hide his grin as Valaena and Baela are dragged into the Great Hall. Both are fettered wrist and ankle, Baela’s chain singing as she thrashes wildly. Valaena is impassive as Criston leads her to the foot of the throne, her steps careful. Both girls are bloody and singed, the soot on Valaena’s face streaked through with tears.

As the girls are brought to a stop, their guards leave them but do not stray far, lest either doxy rush him. Stood to the right of the throne, Marston Waters calls, “All hail King Aegon! Aegon the Dragonheart, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Baela spits as high as she can, though this does nothing to diminish Aegon’s joy. He spreads out his arms in greeting. “My dear cousins, how glad I am to see you both again.” His eyes fasten to Valaena, who is rounder than he remembers. “Valaena, you’ve gotten fat.”

Inflamed, Baela answers for her, “Fuck you.”

Ignoring her, he points to Valaena’s rotund belly, pronounced by her flimsy, blood-soaked nightgown. “Do you know, it is treason for you to have stepped outside of your marriage to mine brother. And now, you’ve married again, Lady Stark. It will be a wonder that you are not remembered as the second whore of Dragonstone.”

Whereas Valaena had scowled somewhat when called Stark, this latter appellation fails to make its mark. “Call me what you like,” she dispassionately replies. “So long as you admit the order of things.” 

At the implication that she is Princess of Dragonstone, a title which he feels should not exist, he smarts. Grasping Blackfyre’s hilt, leant against the side of the throne, he poses, “Is it not a man who should sit this throne? Any throne? Is that not the order of things?”

She raises her chin. “Her Grace my mother has created a new order.” 

“As you say, Niece,” he allows, smiling pleasantly, though his grip on Blackfyre tightens. Pivoting, he announces, “Now, enough fanfare,” and nods to Marston.

Marston steps away from Daeron, who he has minded till now. Idly, Aegon eyes his youngest and only remaining brother, not quite sure what to make of him. This night, Daeron has not been nearly so obliging as Aegon would expect. Notwithstanding, he stops short of interfering with Aegon’s plans, staying put as when left alone.

Moving to stand behind Valaena and Baela, Marston places a hand on either girl’s shoulder. He orders, “Kneel and swear obeisance before the king.”

Valaena declines, shrugging off Marston’s hand. Baela refuses with yet more vehemence, whirling and slashing him across the cheek with her nails. “My cousins the Queen Rhaenyra and the Princess Valaena can command me. You cannot.”

Marston does not seem to appreciate this slight, though neither does he possess the nerve to give the girl the clip she deserves. Undaunted himself, Aegon needles her, “Come now, Baela, I should not like for us to get off on the wrong foot.”

Looking back to him, Baela rakes her eyes over him and remarks scathingly, “That would be your left foot, yes?”

Incensed, Aegon feels a sharp twitch in his left cheek, the flesh there thick and stiff. Resentment broils within him, hot enough to burn, just as Valaena had done to him near a year past. Malice bubbling beneath his mangled skin, he turns his eyes onto her. Discreetly, she casts her gaze aside.

Too late, with his attention already fixed on her. “Valaena,” he calls. She glances back up at him. “Have you put more thought to how you should like to pay the debt you owe me?” Her lip curling slightly, she appears confused, so he clarifies, “Words or flesh?”

The words evoke a memory, so clear he can see it in her eyes. Two boys and a girl, he had demanded of her in Rook’s Rest. A year past his children’s disappearance now, and she has not yet made satisfaction his loss.

She says nothing, so he asks again, simpler, “Where are Helaena and the children?”

Before the war, he little minded when his children were absent. He found them bothersome, often shrill and unpleasantly sticky, but they were his. Jaehaerys, in particular, he thinks especially valuable, as the boy is to be his successor. For near the entirety of the war, he has been without his heir, having to settle for Aemond and, worse now, Aenar, Valaena’s own son. His queen consort being absent has also been a great inconvenience, the vacancy left by Helaena granting Alicent far too much latitude.

Just as she had in Rook’s Rest, Valaena remains silent. Aegon raises his brow, though he is largely unsurprised. “Do you not wish to answer?” He gives her yet another chance to make good, but foolish, she flaunts it. “Then I think we require a whipping girl.” With the prompt spoken, the doors to the hall creak open, and Valaena’s handmaid is led into the room.

As the girl—comely enough to distract him on some other day—is made to kneel, horror dawns on her mistress’s face. With no small amount of glee, Aegon recalls how fond of her servants Valaena has always been. “Aegon,” she begins before biting her tongue. After a moment’s thought, she tries again, “Uncle,” and stops again, hearing her blunder as he does. This address, more deferential than the last, is an admission of defeat. Still, she presses on as he grins. “I do not know.”

At this, he feels his face contort in surprise. Whilst before, Valaena told him she had Helaena’s trust, she now claims no such confidence exists. “You do not know?” She shakes her head. He sighs, disappointed. “You do your handmaid no favors.” Lifting his hand from Blackfyre, he signals to a nearby guard, designated a headsman, who readies his own sword.

“No! Aegon! Aegon,” she cries, panic gripping her. Earnestly, she entreats him to believe, “I do not know where they are. I told Helaena to go someplace where she and your children would be safe, and none, including myself, would ever find them. I could not possibly tell you where they are. I could tell you a lie to satisfy you now, but it would be a lie.”

As if credulous, he leans forward, a look of contemplation pinned to his face. After a moment, he looks to the handmaid. “Girl, what is your name?”

At first, the woman does not seem to realize he speaks to her. When she does, she answers, her voice shaking like a leaf, “Aster, Your Grace.”

He smiles warmly. “Good-bye, Aster.”

Valaena screeches, lunging toward Aster, but Marston withholds her. The sword drops, and she hits the floor in the same moment as does Aster’s head, having gone limp in Marston’s grip.

Blood pools along the floor, seeping into the cracks in the stone. Aegon straightens in his seat. He suggests, “Let us try this again.”

Two men step forward to drag Baela away from Valaena. Gasping wetly, Valaena tries to grasp for her, her hands clenching in her skirts, but Marston keeps his grip on her, and the fabric slips through her fingers. Even as the men push at her, Baela still refuses to kneel, choosing instead to go slack and let her body hang awkwardly between them. Aegon rolls his eyes.

His solace is that, at last, Valaena takes him seriously. She begins sniveling, her voice nasally. “No, I don’t know. I don’t know.” Finally, she gives in, kneeling before him, her hands clutched as high as her chain will permit. She blubbers, “Please. I swear—I swear, I do not know where they are. I don’t know, I swear. I swear to the Seven, to the old gods, to the gods of Old Valyria! I swear on my life.” She must realize he does not think much of that. “I swear on Aenar’s—on my son’s life, I swear—”

“All right,” he interrupts, grown tired of her weeping, whatever pleasure it gave him at first. Besides, he supposes, Baela is a useful pawn so long as her father and grandsire live. By contrast, Valaena does him more harm than good. He makes this clear, informing her, “Do you realize, if you’ve no knowledge of my family’s whereabouts, you’re of no use to me.”

Valaena, still shivering from fear, takes his meaning. She protests, “I’m your kin.”

Amused by this newest attempt at groveling, he replies, “So, what?”

Hysteria threatening to return, her breath comes fast, and her voice cracks. “I’m with child.”

His amusement waning, his voice hardens. “So, what.” He waves the headsman forward.

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[iamfina5]

Tom & Ewan for Esquire

[iamfina5]

WIP - “Revenger”

“Well, because I’m getting revenge. You’re getting revenge. And you’re—do you—what do you—do you want revenge?”

Digital painting

I feel like this painting is taking forever. Of course, the fact that I’m working on two other pieces at the same time isn’t helping….

[iamfina5]

The Kinslayer Couple

Summary: The ground falls out from beneath Valaena Velaryon’s feet within the span of a week. The week begins with the death of her grandsire, making her mother queen and her Princess of Dragonstone. It ends with the death of her brother Lucerys at the hands of her husband, Aemond Targaryen. From there, Valaena embarks on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, forced to discern who are friends and who are foes on both sides of the conflict.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Fall of Dragonstone

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135 A.C.

At dawn, the moon turns the sky red, bathing the lands of white and gray in blood. Three amethyst eyes look out across the hills as a storm gathers. Wind and lightning lash at the landscape, scourging the sand to reveal great, cavernous paths. As night settles over the land, one traveler takes to the trail set out for him, whilst the other forges ahead in the sky.

Across the sea, four lilac eyes close forever. Valaena towers over two of them, having gouged them out herself. On Dragonstone’s shore, two sets of legs lie still as she stands on their toes. When the sky clears, the tide swallows one of them, and the other burns.

Valaena blinks up at the ceiling as her mind clears. Another night has past, leaving with it another strange dream. For weeks, she has dreamt of purple eyes and stormy, bloody skies. She has dreamt of Essos, with its sandy plains and rolling hills, recognizing it despite having never ventured so far east. She thinks she dreams of Aemond sometimes, but she can never recall seeing him once she wakes. On some nights, she is sure she dreams of a girl with three dragons. The girl looks much like a dragon herself, with moon-white hair and violet eyes. The girl reminds Valaena of a storm, much like the one that brought Aenar to her.

This past night is strange for the dream it brought her. Usually, she wakes as soon as the girl sets out across the sky, perched on the back of a black dragon. This night, her dream concluded in Westeros, rather than Essos. Distinctly, she recalls a vision of Dragonstone, and it pulls at her like the tide. It is nearing a moon now since she left the isle, and she longs to make her return.

Sequestered in Winterfell, Valaena thinks she should be angry. She waits for resentment to build within her for her mother, her step-father, her eldest brother, her new husband, but any piece of it that does soon wilts for the winter. All she feels is a bleak melancholy, set deep in her bones.

That, and the early stirrings of the babe within her belly. The child speaks to her in light whispers of touch, too young yet to respond to her own caresses. Some days, this connection is all that preserves her, while on others, it drives her further into despair. The child is her last link to Aemond, alongside its brother, and she deplores that it will never meet him.

Languishing in bed, Valaena bemoans her life as it is now. For the first time in her existence, she feels directionless, unsure of how to conduct herself. So much as she might have once claimed that she did not belong to Aemond, she sees this now for a falsehood. They married too young for her to be wholly her own, and the same was true of him. Thrown together, they were cast in the same mold, taking on each other’s mannerisms and tastes. Without him, she wonders which thoughts and impulses are purely her own, and which to follow.

In the absence of surety, she has settled on doing only as others expect of her. Always, she has lived at the mercy of others—her grandsires, Otto, Alicent, her mother. It has long chafed at her, but no longer does she see cause to fight against it. It is simpler to be the sort of princess for whom none worry, one that does as she is told and naught else.

After the Sun has climbed over the horizon, Valaena goes through the motions of readying herself for another day in Winterfell. When Lily helps her dress, she smiles at all the appropriate junctures of the maidservant’s stories. When Lily asks whether she prefers black or red for her gown, she answers red. When Baela summons her for breakfast, she goes, even as her bed calls for her return.

Daeron accompanies her to the Guest House, taking the seat beside her when they reach the dining room Baela has reserved for them. When Baela arrives, she does so in a huff, plopping down opposite to Valaena.

With a contrived cheerfulness, Valaena says, “Good morrow.” Looking down at her plate, she laments the absence of fish there. Ever since she arrived, she has been craving anchovies. Unfortunately, Cregan tells her that all of the fishing spots north of White Harbor have dried up for the winter.

Grumpily, Baela spoons some sugar into her tea and then lets the utensil fall with a clunk. “You shall never believe what Jace did last night.”

Happy to focus on someone else’s worries, Valaena beckons for her to spill her—or rather, Jacaerys’s—guts. Without further ado, Baela divulges, “He asked me to marry him before the heart tree.”

Her brow raising, Valaena sips from her own, unsweetened tea. “Did he?”

“Yes,” confirms Baela, manifestly irate.

“And did you,” Valaena asks.

Baela throws out her arms. “No!” Slumping back in her seat, she blusters, “Only now, he accedes to marry me!”

Before Valaena can throw some water on Baela’s flames, Daeron fans them. “Always, he has had such gall.”

Baela purses her lips, supposing, “He has, hasn’t he?”

Unfond of the turn the conversation has taken, Valaena interjects, “Daeron, you are not being helpful.” 

Frowning, he responds, “Who sayeth I mean to be helpful?”

“You only defend him because he is your favorite,” Baela accuses her. Jumping on the charge, Daeron nods vigorously at her.

Unconsciously, Valaena glimpses to the left, as she has done amid a thousand other conversations to share a glance or take a cue. Her gaze drops to the floor when she sees that there is no longer anyone there to answer her stare.

Halfheartedly, she prolongs the spat. “Jace is not my favorite.” 

“Yes, he is,” Baela and Daeron say in unison.

Singly, Baela crosses her arms and queries, “Why else would you have your special lunches with him every day?”

Valaena sighs. “Because he feels left out—”

Baela’s hand smacks the table, halting Valaena’s tongue. “Because there is an embargo, to which you agreed.” 

“I did,” acknowledges Valaena, “but it’s gone on too long. He knows he’s done wrong. He apologized—” 

“So, all is forgiven,” Baela remonstrates, nearly at her wit’s end.

Receding somewhat, Valaena makes clear, “I did not say you need forgive him, but bear in mind, you still need marry him.”

Her wit’s end met, Baela switches tack. “What if Aemond had kissed another, hmm? Would all have been forgiven?”

Valaena feels as her face collapses into a glower, displeased is she to have her late husband invoked. Beside her, Daeron shifts uncomfortably. “If Aemond had done such a thing, he would have done so as my husband, not my betrothed, and even so, I would not have forbidden his sister from dining with him.” 

Valaena imagines steam coming from Baela’s nostrils as she blows out an angry breath, glaring daggers at Valaena all the while.

With a sigh, Valaena switches tack herself. “Baela, of course, you are right in this—”

Taking up her spoon once more, Baela declares, “Thank you. Let that be all that is said.” 

Simultaneously satisfied and displeased by this outcome, Valaena relents and finishes her meal.

For the remainder of the morning, Valaena meanders about the castle, listless. The castellan manages to corner her an hour into her stroll. He confers with her on Winterfell’s food stock and the myriad of guests’ needs—all those things which concern the lady of the house. As noon approaches, she is enlivened by the prospect of spending time with her son. At this time of day, she can wake him from his nap and play with him for an hour or so before he need eat.

In the nursery, she finds Aenar awake already, sat on the floor with Rickon running circles around him. Each boy holds a small, wooden sword, Aenar’s clenched in his little fist. He waves the toy sporadically, and, whenever he does, Rickon dashes forward to tap it with his own.

Spying her in the doorway, Aenar drops his weapon and crawls across the floor to her. Put out by his playmate’s inattention, Rickon picks up Aenar’s sword and reproves, “’Enar, don’ put your sword down. In a real battle—” Spying Valaena, too, he gasps, drops both swords, and bypasses Aenar as he rushes toward her. 

“Hello, Mother!” Valaena emits a surprised grunt as Rickon embraces her legs, his hands high on her thighs. “Me an’ ’Enar are playing!”

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[iamfina5]

Eye of the Universe

Summary: Decades after the final battle with the Sith on Exegol, war continues to ravage the galaxy. The Resistance fades from the system’s collective memory, and Rey realizes the only way to rectify the state of the galaxy would be to stop the Galactic Empire from having ever formed. To ensure as much, she uses the last of her strength to will the Force to send her through time so that she may give an important mission to a young Padawan learner by the name of Bahan Naberrie.

Chapter One: Folds of the Universe

If they are to be trained as Jedi, most younglings are chosen by a master between the ages of nine and thirteen, with few outliers. Bahan Naberrie is ten years old when Jedi Master Saesee Tiin selects her as his apprentice.

Seasee never spent much time in the crèche, having come to the Jedi Order when he was fourteen years old, but needs must. He incurs a sparring injury that is more vexing than truly pernicious, but it is onerous enough to warrant temporary reassignment. Rather than venture out on a diplomatic mission with Master Kit Fisto, he oversees the Jedi initiates as they meditate in the mornings.

The younglings struggle to focus, twitching and blinking at their friends and giggling, and he struggles to be patient with them. After the tenth gentle correction with little result, he sighs and sits before the brood, opting to lead by example and meditate himself. Unfortunately, this tactic fails, too, and he opens his eyes to seek out the worst culprit for punishment.

Rather than narrow in on the Nautolan boy in the corner feigning flatulence or the pair of Gungan girls in the middle of the group poking one another, his eyes fasten to a human girl sitting in the back row. Her hands rest on her knees, her fingers straight and still as her breathing, and they remain so even as the other children snort and shriek and squirm. Her eyes are closed, and they open only when she senses his attention through the Force as he harmonizes with her. She blinks wide at him before her gaze drops to her lap, and she shuts her eyes again.

He lets the meditation session run its course, most of the children regaining and losing focus in turns. The girl in the back endures the hour, and at its end, she approaches him, having felt his desire to speak with her. He rises to meet her.

“Yes, Master Tiin,” she asks, staring up at him with guileless eyes. As an Iktotchi man nearing his mid-life, he towers over her, and he knows his large cranial horns and sunken eyes do nothing to soften his appearance. Nevertheless, she does not look timid in the least.

“What is your name, young one,” he inquires, further intrigued by her.

Some measure of amusement flickers across her face, but it is gone as soon as it appeared. “Bahan Naberrie.”

As the other children crowd around the door, clamoring to each other about what they hope will be served for lunch and how they wish to spend the afternoon, Bahan’s attention stays with him. He asks her, “You don’t like to play with the other children?”

“When they’re calmer,” she tells him, nonchalant.

He feels his smile, which he is told looks more like a sneer, make an appearance. She does not cower from it. “Do you have a master?”

At this, she perks up, her excitement beginning to near that of the other children.

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[iamfina5]

The Kinslayer Couple

Summary: The ground falls out from beneath Valaena Velaryon’s feet within the span of a week. The week begins with the death of her grandsire, making her mother queen and her Princess of Dragonstone. It ends with the death of her brother Lucerys at the hands of her husband, Aemond Targaryen. From there, Valaena embarks on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, forced to discern who are friends and who are foes on both sides of the conflict.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Odyssey

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135 A.C.

The ship lurches, and Aemond tumbles from his hammock. Falling onto the uneven, wooden floor, he rolls uncontrollably to the port side of the ship and stops by smacking into the wall. Groaning, he struggles to sit upright and regain his bearings.

Deftly, the member of the crew nearest to him swings his legs from his own hammock and stands. Grinning down at Aemond, the man taunts, “Up on your feet, greenie.”

Groaning again, Aemond uses the wall as leverage and shoves himself up from the floor. Following the rest of the men, he stumbles as he makes his way to the ladder leading up to the deck. He is the last to emerge into the waterlogged, night air. Crewman run off in every direction, taking up a dozen tasks to keep the vessel upright amid the storm into which they had wandered while they slept. Disinclined to drown himself, he gets to work, too, helping to pull all of the sandbags hanging from the ship onto the deck. As the ship lurches again, he catches sight of the moon, white and waxing and gibbous between the clouds.

Two moons past, he had escaped from Daemon’s clutches with the unwitting aid of his wife. Years earlier, Valaena had shown him the secret passageways carved into Dragonstone, and so he had hidden within them for a week, stealing food from the kitchens and waiting for Daemon to lose his scent. For five days, his uncle and the little girl he brought with him had burned every ship that sailed from Dragonstone’s shore. On the sixth day, for whatever reason, they had stopped, and so Aemond had contrived a plan to stow away on the next ship with sails wide enough to leave the bay. In his time on Dragonstone, before Valaena had overthrown him, she had told him of how she smuggled her way onto a ship to Duskendale at the start of the war. He had thus embarked on a similar strategy, disguising himself by using her dagger to shear his hair as close to his scalp as he could get it and covering what was left with mud. He boarded a Westerosi merchant cog called Woods Witch with a gray flag for its destination. Gray, he had foolishly hoped, for Oldtown.

Gray for Asshai, he had later learned.

Now, he toils like a peasant, and for what, he often wonders. He meant to return to the mainland so he could recoup his losses, mayhaps find his brother, come back to Dragonstone with more men, and reclaim his dragon and his wife and his son. Rather, he is bound for the farthest part of Essos on a vessel set to make its return home after another three moons.

Pulling the last of the sandbags onto the ship, he takes a break to breathe. Leaning on the rail, he squints at the turbulent sky through the rain. A cord of lightning sparks in the distance, and he is reminded of a breath of fire amid the clouds in another storm a year past.

“Luke,” someone calls, the shout nearly lost in the roaring wind. Still, Aemond hears it and turns toward the sound. The first mate, Devan, waves to him, silently begging assistance with the aft sail. Rushing over, Aemond helps him set it to right.

Aemond had lasted a half-day on Woods Witch before being discovered. When one of the crew had rooted him out, he had been brought before the captain, Tom, who had asked his reason for stowing away on his ship. Naturally, he had bent the truth in his answer. Whilst he had maintained that he was fleeing Daemon, he claimed that it was because he feared the old prince would burn the whole island, not just him. The captain had accepted this tale of cowardice and asked his name.

He had offered the very first name which came to his mind, even as shame crawled up his throat alongside his voice. “Luke.”

At this, Tom had smiled. “My son is named Luke also, after the queen’s late son.” He had thus permitted Aemond to remain so long as he carried on like a member of the crew.

The ship lurches again, and Aemond struggles to maintain his hold on the halyard. A tall wave makes its way over the starboard side, soaking him and Devan. His grip on the rope slips, and he staggers back into Devan, who shoves at him. Aggrieved, he turns to confront him, but this loss of focus turns out to be a grievous mistake. Yet again, the boat lurches, and he tumbles toward the port side afresh.

As his head bangs against the wooden railing, his visions swims. He clutches at his head, his fingers digging through the short, wet strands there, and another blinding pain strikes him, though not from any sort of blow. It feels rather like a cord snapping, tearing him away from all he knows.

Suddenly, despite his pitiful knowledge of seafaring—why, he often despairs, did he not hearken to Valaena more closely when she spoke of such things—he knows exactly which direction is northwest. Craning his neck, he squints past the railing and through sheets of rain, out toward Dragonstone, invisible at this distance of hundreds of leagues. Dragonstone, where he left Vhagar, and where he feels her slip away now. Like a light going out, it occurs to him that he is not a dragonrider anymore.

He begins to feel glad for the battering rain, even as it continues to rock the ship and push him farther away from home, as it conceals the fact of his tears. By the time Woods Witch makes it out of the storm, he is completely numb, and he cannot say whether it is for the sopping cold or the hollow cavern opened up within him.

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[iamfina5]

The Kinslayer Couple

Summary: The ground falls out from beneath Valaena Velaryon’s feet within the span of a week. The week begins with the death of her grandsire, making her mother queen and her Princess of Dragonstone. It ends with the death of her brother Lucerys at the hands of her husband, Aemond Targaryen. From there, Valaena embarks on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, forced to discern who are friends and who are foes on both sides of the conflict.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Gray Satin

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135 A.C.

Upon the discovery of Hugh Hammer’s and Ulf White’s deaths in Flea Bottom, a revelation which rocked the Red Keep, Jacaerys sends a brief notice to his sister. Two days later, his betrothed arrives in King’s Landing, intent on claiming one of the fallen dragonriders’ mounts.

Rhaenyra, approving of the idea, sends Jacaerys and Aegon along with Baela, bidding they try for the dragons, as well. In the castle yard, Joffrey begs Jacaerys to permit him to join them, tugging on his arm with his round face shining up at him. Guiltily, Jacaerys refuses, stating that there is no need as he has Tyraxes. Joffrey shuffles away, dejected, as Jacaerys stifles a frown and climbs into the carriage after Aegon.

At the Dragonpit, Aegon is timid around both Vermithor and Silverwing, not daring to come closer than a few yards to either beast. Jacaerys makes a lackluster attempt to claim Vermithor, but as soon as the old dragon’s hackles rise, he retreats. He would rather not burn for the chance to claim a dragon, certainly not when Vermax is so recent in his memory.

Baela is fearless as she approaches Silverwing and not hesitant in the least. It is this boldness, he thinks, which lends to her success. Silverwing bows her head and extends one winged arm, and Baela practically scrambles up her back. Her smile gleams like her new mount’s silver scales as the beast treads out of the Dragonpit, and even amidst the ache that has lived in his soul since this war started, he feels his heart warm with hers.

Rhaenyra treats Baela to a feast upon her return from her victory lap in the sky. She commends her on her bravery, and a dozen lords toast Baela the Brave. A score of fat, roast quails are served. Jacaerys picks at his, his stomach roiling from emptiness and regret as he watches its mostly intact carcass be carried away at the end of the night.

The next morning, Baela suggests they marry forthwith, and he refuses anew. She asks him why, fixing him with a hard, unhappy stare. When he gives no answer, she leaves him and returns to Dragonstone. He swallows his sense of dread and guilt, swirling low in his gut, for having disappointed her yet again.

In the afternoon, a short riot erupts near the harbor, crushed by the City Watch but not forgotten. There is another the next day. A skirmish a week later. After a fortnight, Celtigar decrees that traitors, rebels, and murderers will be beheaded in the Dragonpit, and their corpses fed to the queen’s dragons, with the cost of three pennies to witness the fates of such evil men. The next moon is mostly quiet. 

In its midst, a peasant woman with long, black hair arrives from the riverlands, praying for an audience with the queen. Jacaerys thinks nothing of her until the request is granted. Later that evening, he finds Rhaenyra staring out at the sea, the turmoil of the bay’s waters reflected in her eyes.

The following evening, the strange woman meets with his mother again, alongside Celtigar and the Manderly brothers. Late in the night, a guard discovers a maidservant impaled on the spikes beneath Maegor’s Holdfast. When Jacaerys raises the matter, Rhaenyra seems unconcerned, inexplicably believing the woman to have slipped when cleaning the windows.

Within a week, she dismisses Addam from his post in the Dragonpit, invoking resentment from Corlys. Her Hand complains of the disfavor shown to his grandson after all the loyalty the boy has shown his queen throughout this war, but Rhaenyra brushes him off. The war is near over, she reasons, let the dragonseeds be returned to Driftmark. Jacaerys has to persuade his grandsire from joining Addam himself.

The next edict from Her Grace is just as erratic, though it does not evoke the same cause for concern in Jacaerys as did her others. She summons to the Red Keep King Daemon and Princess Valaena, demanding audiences with them both. Daemon arrives after three days, disappearing into Rhaenyra’s rooms with her as soon as he enters the castle. When Veraxes and Silverwing are spotted on the horizon later in the afternoon, Jacaerys embarks to collect their riders.

On this trip to the Dragonpit, Joffrey absolutely refuses to be left behind. All the way through the city, he jabbers to Jacaerys about everything that has captured his attention of late, the two of them not having spoken at length for some time.

Upon arriving at the Dragonpit, they find Valaena, Baela, and Aenar waiting for them. Daeron joins them, as well, having already mounted a destrier to escort them back to the Keep.

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[iamfina5]

The Kinslayer Couple

Summary: The ground falls out from beneath Valaena Velaryon’s feet within the span of a week. The week begins with the death of her grandsire, making her mother queen and her Princess of Dragonstone. It ends with the death of her brother Lucerys at the hands of her husband, Aemond Targaryen. From there, Valaena embarks on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, forced to discern who are friends and who are foes on both sides of the conflict.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Valonqar

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135 A.C.

Daeron loses his dragon and his brother’s war in the sixth moon of 135 AC.

After Aemond set up the Butcher’s Ball, the last great Green army marched north along the Mander. Longtable and Bitterbridge ceded easily to Daeron and his cousin, Lord Ormund Hightower. The same easy victory was expected of Tumbleton, even after the arrival of the Winter Wolves. The tide turned, however, when Rhaenyra’s dragonriders arrived.

Never before had Daeron seen Vermithor and Silverwing fly, but his wonder at the beasts was short-lived. Their riders, two dragonseeds calling themselves Lord Rosby and Lord Stokeworth, scourged the town with whips of flame from one end to the other. Thousands died by dragonfire, and as many perished by drowning as they tried to swim the Mander.

His dragon—his Tessarion, his Blue Queen—never stood a chance against the older, larger mounts of the Old King and Good Queen Alysanne. She threw herself into the air before he could climb onto her back. He watched through tears as she was torn apart in the sky, Silverwing tearing through her wings and lower limbs and Vermithor locking his teeth into her neck and tearing off her head. As the pieces of her corpse plummeted to the ground, he felt as though he was being lanced through the gut, and he promptly lost the contents of his stomach.

Somehow, circumstances only worsened after the dragonseeds landed their dragons. Roddy the Ruin slew Ormund and his cousin Ser Bryndon, leaving Hobert Hightower in command. Despite Hobert’s leadership, a savage sack of the once-prosperous market town followed. Lord Unwin Peake, Lord George Graceford, Ser Victor Risley, and Bold Jon Roxton turned their men against Hobert’s, and soon, thousands more were dead, Hobert among them. The chaos continued for days, Green and Black soldiers both partaking in the carnage. Drunken soldiers robbed every home and shop, and every wealthy man was tortured unto death to reveal where he had hidden his gold and gems. Every woman was fair prey for the soldiers’ lust, even crones and little girls.

Even Daeron.

The dragonseeds haul him sixty leagues northeast to King’s Landing, eager for a prize from the Queen Rhaenyra. It is the only reason he was spared the sword or their dragons’ teeth, he suspects, as several of his former loyalist lords had suggested they slay him and claim he died in the battle. By the time he finds himself in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, held up by Hugh Hammer before his eldest sister, he is well and truly sick of having the man’s hands on him.

He holds strong only for the sake of his mother, who kneels prostrate before the Iron Throne. He is sure to be executed within the hour. His mother’s begging merely delays the inevitable. Nevertheless, he intends to remain standing until Rhaenyra’s headsman puts him on his knees, no matter how he trembles from the effort of keeping his spine straight.

“He is an innocent boy,” his mother attests, her hands clasped above her head as if in prayer.

Innocent. The word resounds in his mind, taunting him. He certainly cannot claim innocence, not to Rhaenyra. Their father had named her his heir, binding the entire realm in loyalty to her, and yet Daeron had betrayed her. No, he cannot claim innocence. He is far too old for naiveté to excuse his actions with regard to the war.

How circumstances might have differed if he had kept his tacit vow to her. She would have been a more favorable master than Aegon, certainly. Their brother abandoned the capital and their family moons past and has yet to be seen by anyone. Mayhaps Rhaenyra would not have placed Daeron in a position in which he might lose his dragon and his dignity.

Rhaenyra breathes his thoughts aloud. “Prince Daeron might have had a place of honor at my court if he had kept faith, but he sought to rob me of my birthright. Now, retribution is nigh.”

Alicent’s body jolts as she gasps out a sob. “Please, Rhaenyra. I—”

The giant doors at the front of the hall creak open, stealing everyone’s attention. Only Daeron keeps his eyes on Rhaenyra, too weak to turn his neck and peer backward. He is alerted only to the sounds of heavy breathing and broad steps smacking against the stone floor.

Another sound soon joins the cacophony. The voice of a knight is projected across the hall. “Valaena of House Velaryon, Princess of Dragonstone a—”

“Your Grace, I beg a word,” interrupts Valaena, fighting to catch her breath as she bustles down the aisle toward the throne.

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[iamfina5]

The Kinslayer Couple

Summary: The ground falls out from beneath Valaena Velaryon’s feet within the span of a week. The week begins with the death of her grandsire, making her mother queen and her Princess of Dragonstone. It ends with the death of her brother Lucerys at the hands of her husband, Aemond Targaryen. From there, Valaena embarks on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, forced to discern who are friends and who are foes on both sides of the conflict.

Chapter Twenty-One: Hope

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135 A.C.

A ship arrives for Jacaerys and Aegon, just as Rhaenyra promised. There is space enough on it for Baela, as well, just as Rhaenyra promised, but despite her brothers’ fevered protests, she does not wish to take it.

Oddly enough, despite Jacaerys’s departure, Baela wishes to remain on Dragonstone. She likes it here, quite simply; she always has. It is close to Driftmark, where her grandmother, she very recently learned, has made her return. She looks forward to visiting Rhaenys, which would be unfeasible was she residing in King’s Landing, where, it is worth noting, she has never before lived.

Beyond her desire for comfort and familiarity, there is the rift between her and Jacaerys to consider. He denies its existence, but she is not so blind. When the war started and he returned from his trip north, she had not been able to bear the thought of parting from him. The longer the war has dragged on, however, she finds she needs time to herself, especially so long as she remains just herself. Before he boards the ship bound for the capital, she asks him again to wed her now on Dragonstone. Again, he refuses her, so she bid him leave without her.

She thinks also of her recently widowed sister, who she is loath to abandon now. As they stand in Dragonstone’s front hall, bidding farewell to Daemon, who intends to follow the boys’ path atop Caraxes, Valaena stares steadfastly at the floor. Her form is buried underneath a capacious, black dress. Her hair is held up by a bejeweled net. Her face is covered by an impassive mask, mottled with bruises that have turned from purple to yellow to green over the past week.

Baela’s eyes are forced away from Valaena as her father steps up to her. He brings her closer with a hand on her shoulder. It is his way of silently requesting a hug from one of his daughters, so she indulges him with a kiss to his cheek and a warm embrace. One last time, he asks her if she is certain she wishes to remain here, offering to fly her to King’s Landing on Caraxes if she likes. She stays firm in her decision, shaking her head.

Valaena’s jaw clenches as Daemon moves over to her. She resists his touch when it falls onto her shoulder, muttering a quiet but resolute valediction.

Evidently, this is insufficient. Keeping his grip on her, Daemon ducks in close. She stiffens. Even when so near, it is difficult for Baela to hear that which he whispers to Valaena. She catches some whisper of a regret, but the rest of what he says is too soft for her ears.

Despite his efforts, Valaena does not warm to him. Knowing when the battle is lost, he relents and leaves them both with one last word of parting. After he has gone, Caraxes’s sinuous body winding around the castle and Sheepstealer shoving off from the ground, Baela turns to Valaena. She thinks to suggest some activity that will cheer her, mayhaps a card game. However, Valaena strides from the hall already, marching in the direction of Sea Dragon Tower.

She does not see Valaena again until supper. The atmosphere is dismal and quiet as Valaena sullenly pushes food around her plate and occasionally takes a bite of bread. They had gone through the routine pleasantries at the start of the meal but fell silent after that.

Though it does not usually fall to her, Baela strives to liven the mood. “The roast chicken is excellent.”

Her eyes not moving from her plate, Valaena agrees, “Yes.” The affirmation is as good as a lie. She has not touched the fowl.

Unsatisfied, she tries again. “How did you spend the day?”

Valaena is silent for a long moment. Baela wonders if she has forgotten that they are in the midst of a conversation before she sighs loudly and answers, somewhat inopportunely, “The ledgers are in order, at last, and the villagers have all been accorded their share of grain for the coming winter.”

“This is most welcome news. They must be terribly pleased.” From Aemond’s brief reign over the isle, Baela recalls many a disgruntled commoner being led past her rooms to beg for bread and for trade to be restored. She recalls, too, all of them being led away disappointed.

Valaena sighs again. “Yes.” Listless, she takes another bite from her bap.

Baela refrains from sighing herself. Hoping to stir Valaena, she opts for a more exciting topic. “So, I’ve had a thought.” Valaena makes no response, but, fairly certain that she is still listening, Baela continues, “I intend to try for Vhagar.”

As expected, this rouses Valaena. Her head pops up, her gaze riveted to Baela. “What?”

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[iamfina5]

AEMOND TARGARYEN and FLORIS BARATHEON HOUSE OF THE DRAGON (2022-)

[iamfina5]

The Kinslayer Couple

Summary: The ground falls out from beneath Valaena Velaryon’s feet within the span of a week. The week begins with the death of her grandsire, making her mother queen and her Princess of Dragonstone. It ends with the death of her brother Lucerys at the hands of her husband, Aemond Targaryen. From there, Valaena embarks on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, forced to discern who are friends and who are foes on both sides of the conflict.

Chapter Twenty: Craven

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135 A.C.

“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm and steal my throne at no cost?” Valaena stares down at her husband, who at last stands on his knees, put there by Criston. He stares back at her and holds his tongue, defiant to the last.

Sighing, she issues him a more meaningful question. “Where is Aegon?”

This time, he answers her. “I do not know.”

“But you believe he lives,” she gleans. It has been the topic of some debate, whether Aegon’s abscondence from the Red Keep had been wholly successful. Aemond nods. “Wherefore?”

His frown worsens. “Just a feeling.”

Dryly, she remarks, “How romantic.” From beside her, Jacaerys and Baela snicker.

His jaw clenching, Aemond inhales a long breath through his nose. For a moment, Valaena thinks he will make some rejoinder, but no such response comes. Flicking her hand in his direction, she orders that he be taken to his new accommodations to await his remotion to King’s Landing.

As two burly squires drag him from the room, Jacaerys complains, “I still think it best we dispatch him now.”

The decision to take back Dragonstone today had come to her as she laid in bed last night. For a moon, she had been laying the foundation of her plan to oust her usurper husband, but following her coupling with Aemond, she had realized that she was allowing him to ensorcell her anew. She had been swayed nearly to the brink last night, on the verge of admitting her true love for him and just barely withholding the admission. If she did not act swiftly, she had appreciated, she would lose her chance.

Baela reproves Jacaerys before Valaena has the chance. “Her Grace will want the pleasure herself.”

His lips twist in displeasure. “Very well. I shall write to Mother—”

“No, no,” Valaena diverts him, standing from her throne. As a unit, the three of them descend from its dais. “Allow me. I should prefer that you oversee the men.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I did not succeed in that role when last you gave it to me.”

“Don’t be silly,” she admonishes. After months of her brother doubting himself, she has grown tired of his lack of self-confidence. Nevertheless, after the Greens had come harrowingly close to exterminating the lot them by setting the Triarchy on them—and indeed succeeded in stealing little Viserys away—she cannot quite blame him. She keeps her irritation from her voice and sets him on a practical course. “We need free our leal men from the dungeons. I do not trust those who turned for Criston.” Jacaerys nods, more self-possessed with responsibility before him. “Give the commons and the squires to Ser Robert. Let him decide their fates. The knights,” she distinguishes, her eyes trailing to Ser Alfred Bloome, a sullen and sour man, “hang them. They have broken their oaths.”

“And Criston himself,” wonders Baela, her voice low so that the man in question does not overhear.

Biting her lip, Valaena tastes the late Lord Reyne’s blood. “Leave the oathbreaker to me.” 

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[iamfina5]

The Kinslayer Couple

Summary: The ground falls out from beneath Valaena Velaryon’s feet within the span of a week. The week begins with the death of her grandsire, making her mother queen and her Princess of Dragonstone. It ends with the death of her brother Lucerys at the hands of her husband, Aemond Targaryen. From there, Valaena embarks on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, forced to discern who are friends and who are foes on both sides of the conflict.

Chapter Nineteen: Princess Argella

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135 A.C.

Valaena sways farther along the expansive mattress, perched on her hands and knees. Her hair, hanging over her shoulders, swings with each forward press of Aemond’s hips. He plows into her at a steady pace, gripping the plump flesh of her behind with such firmness as for it to bleed white under his fingers. A long, wobbly moan leaks out of her, punctuated by low, guttural groans.

Spreading her apart under his hands, Aemond watches as he slides into her again and again, aided by the slick produced by her excitement and, he notes, the blood of her courses. Growling under his breath, he shifts an arm down to curl around one of her thighs and splits her farther apart. When next he pushes in, harder than before, a high, squeaking grunt escapes her, repeated over and over as he proceeds with the same, harsher momentum.

In company of one particularly forceful thrust, he grabs her by her nape and shoves her face down into the sheets. Valaena screams, comes, and screams again. He continues until he has had his pleasure, too, and she has taken to puling, her eyes spilling over as much is her cunt. When he finishes, he thrusts her forward, and she crumples atop the bedclothes, her limbs askew and twitching. Her crying persists, smeared onto the fabric beneath her.

He exhales a shudder, uneasy. “Was it too rough?”

She wipes at her eyes and gasps for breath. “No. It was perfect.” A final, few sobs slip from her. Once her eyes have dried, she stands up on her knees and shuffles away from him, fixing the bottom of her dress to cover her lower half.

He thinks to tell her, “You’re bleeding.”

Her neck twisting around so that she may peer down at her calves, she wonders, “I am? Where?”

“Your moon’s blood,” he clarifies.

Her hand goes under her dress. “Is it the seventeenth?” When her hand reemerges, her fingers shine mostly with white but with some pink. She peers farther back, eyeing his sloppy cock. “Sorry.”

“You should be sorry,” he quips, clapping her on the bum and educing a shriek from her. His hand does not stray far, falling to the hem of her chemise with the aim of pulling it over her head. She resists his efforts, and he complains, “Are you to never bare yourself to me again?” For as many times as they have lain together in the past two weeks, she has never denuded herself more than to raise her skirts high enough for him to find her core.

Waspishly, she complains in turn. “I let you fuck me. What more do you want?”

Enunciating, he reiterates, “I want to see you.”

“Well, everything is not as it was,” she dismisses.

Unwilling to let himself be spurned, he climbs onto the bed, as well, and eases up behind her. He slips his arms around her, pawing at her hips as she leans back against him. In a dull tone, he says, “I know. You hate me now.”

Since Valaena returned to Dragonstone, they have spent more and more time with one another each day. While she certainly no longer ignores him, she does not mind him as she did before the war. Before he blundered and killed Lucerys, she was stout in her devotion to him. She spent every minute of the day with him feasible and listened to every word he wished to grace her ears. She never stepped out the room in the middle of a conversation or stared too long at the sword he left by the door when they retired for the night. He is no longer certain that same devotion exists. He wonders if she is merely passing the time with him, using him as a familiar tool for her enjoyment.

She denies, “No. Well, yes, I do, but no, it’s—” She trails off, appearing bashful despite what they have just done. Gesturing down the length of her body, she repeats herself. “Everything is not as it was.”

He gleans that she speaks of the changes wrought on her body by her efforts to bring their child into the world. In doing so, his thoughts turn to that which lies underneath her dress. Feeling his excitement grow once more, he squeezes one of her breasts. She tips her head back onto his shoulder, and he nuzzles into her neck.

“Aemond,” she breathes, pushing back against him. “We’ve just finished.”

Sucking a mark into her skin, he says, “We could finish again.” Hoping to tempt her further, he lifts her skirt, his hand running up along her warm, slippery thigh until it meets her silken cunt. His seed drips out around his fingers as they dip inside. Once he has her mewling and rubbing herself back against his arousal, he tries to pull her dress all the way off of her.

She catches his hands, still surprisingly alert. His lips hovering over hers, he richly entices, “Come on.”

Her breath comes out heavy, her chest heaving as she glances between his eye and his mouth. He edges her on further by grinding into her backside. A gasp flutters out of her, and she caves. “Very well,” she accedes, though before he can crow in victory and whip her dress off her, she grabs his chin, her nails digging into his skin. “But if you so much as blench, I shall kill you in your sleep.”

Grinning, he tears her dress over her head and tosses it onto the floor behind him. Taking her by the shoulders, he spins her around and pushes her back to lie on the mattress, her legs twisting underneath her as she falls. She lies there, her hair strewn about her head and her arms spread out, staring up at him with both fortitude and trepidation in her face.

Pleased with his victory, so early in the day, Aemond drinks his fill of her. For all the suspense, he finds she appears much the same as she did before her pregnancy, her limbs and breasts only slightly thicker for it. He recalls that in Rook’s Rest, her face had more weight in it, less than in her gravidity but entirely gone now. Her skin is as pink as it always is after they fuck. The main difference is the pudge of her stomach, detailed with lines of stretched skin, lighter than is the rest of her. He does not mind it, as she might have feared, thinking it somewhat charming, this proof that she had borne Aenar. With that part of her sufficiently explored, his eye travels back toward her head, and—gods help him—he blenches.

Wroth, she bites, “What have I just said?”

He points to what appears to be a scar, the skin raised and red, on her right shoulder. “What the fuck is that?”

Valaena’s neck crinkles as she tips her chin down to peer at her shoulder. She deflates. “Oh, that.” Aemond shoots her an exasperated look, and she explains, very matter-of-fact, “I was shot by a flaming arrow.”

“What,” he blurts. “When?”

Not sounding terribly upset, she reveals, “During the Battle of the Gullet.”

Gradually, he deflates, too, lying down next to her. Leaning across her, he rubs a thumb along the months-old wound, relieved when he sees that his touch does nothing to irritate it. After a moment, he brings his hand down to the base of her sternum and caresses the skin there. “I’d no involvement in the Triarchy’s attack, do you know.”

“Yes, I know. Ser Criston told me so,” she divulges.

Any reprieve he might have felt in learning that there is something for which she does not blame him quickly turns sour at the mention of the turncloak with the inexplicable, newfound attachment to his wife. “What else has Ser Criston told you?” He stays quiet for only a handful of seconds, an old curiosity winning out. “What did you tell him at Rook’s Rest?”

Her brow raising, she parrots, “Rook’s Rest. That feels so long ago now.” She takes a pause herself before saying, “I confess I don’t recall.”

Huffing, he accuses, “A lie.” She shrugs, not seeing fit to deny it.

His hand still lingering low in the valley between her breasts, her own hands come up to embrace it. She becomes preoccupied with the ring on his index finger, the one she used to wear every day. Slowly, she drags it from his finger and moves it onto her thumb, its former home.

Warmed by this gesture of acceptance, Aemond’s mouth ticks up, and he pushes it too far. His hand trailing up her sternum to its top, he wonders, “Where is your necklace?”

Valaena is silent for a long moment, giving no indication that she has so much as heard him speak. She strokes along the A engraved on the ring on her finger, seemingly serene, before heartlessly informing him, “I flung it into the sea,” and getting up to dress for the day.

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