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Shameless reblog so you know I posted a new chapter!

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Twelve: Storm's End

|Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Hello everyone! I'm back with another chapter. It's starting to get juicy! These characters are morally gray and extremely complex so they might do some things you don't like. Thank you to everyone who has left comments. I always love reading them and interacting with y'all. Happy reading!

Chapter Warnings: suicidal ideations

The next day was a repeat of the one before, filled with meetings and discussions that you halfheartedly listened to. Daemon did not attend the gatherings, much to your delight as you recalled the way your fists collided into his skull. You stood beside your brothers, countenance as cold as stone, picking at the seams of your black cotton gloves that matched your mourning gown. It seemed as if you were the only one still visibly grieving in your attire.

Indigo as dark as night cloaked your figure in a shroud, a sheer veil covering your hair and face as was custom during this period. This attire was not just a symbol of mourning, but a reflection of the societal expectations and traditions that governed your life. You supposed that to some, there were more important things than giving recognition to the memory of your passed loved ones, even if you hadn’t met them yet. Yet for you, there was so much more than just death to grieve over, a loss for something you had not yet received.

“The purpose of war is to fill graveyards, my dear Lord Staunton,�� Lord Celtigar patronized, promoting the group of Councilmen to go further into their bickering over battle strategy and how best to proceed in the coming days.

Most of the Queen’s Black Council stood around the painted table. Lord Staunton of Rook’s Nest, Lord Bartimos Celtigar of Claw Isle, Jacaerys Velaryon, the Prince of Dragonstone, Lucerys Velaryon, Heir to Driftmark, and you, the passed-over and forgotten firstborn daughter. Resentment burned in your chest.

The crown rested heavily on your mother’s head, an unspoken weight that a simple golden headpiece carried. Your Queen Mother stared listlessly ahead, thoughts swirling inside her mind that you so desperately wanted to know. Too much had happened in the past days for one person to handle alone. You knew that it was a struggle for yourself to even leave your bed with the scent of death and betrayal mixing in the air, and you had not gone through the physical challenges of labor like your mother had.

You realized then, with a profound clarity as your mother’s delicate lilac eyes met yours, that she was the only being holding the realm from war.

A deep well of sympathy shimmered in her warm gaze as she glanced back at you. It enveloped you like a soft blanket, a silent promise of understanding that was impossible to ignore. She was your mother, after all. Yet, amidst the flood of emotions, you wrestled with the turbulent currents within yourself, searching for the strength to forgive her. The struggle weighed heavily on your heart.

“Lord Corlys Velaryon and the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen,” a knight said.

As you watched your grandparents descend the steps leading to the Painted Table, each tap of your grandfather’s cane tugged at your heart. A white linen bandage was tied around his neck as he greeted the Lords, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling next to your mother. His dark, penetrating eyes swept over the room, taking in the familiar surroundings and the gathered Lords, the flickering candlelight reflecting a lifetime of memories. The atmosphere was rich with the aroma of aged wood and the soft murmur of conversation, heightening your sense of connection to your family’s history in this space.

“Lord Corlys,” she politely greeted, rising from her chair. “It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”

“I’m very sorry about your father, Princess,” he consoled. No one dared break the silence and correct the title, not even your mother, as he turned to the rest of the room.

Baela and Rhaena approached your brothers, with the eldest asking quietly for permission to take your place next to Jace. You stared, your resentment towards the political maneuvering evident in your refusal to move.

This was your position at the head of the table, next to your brothers, and you refused to yield, not for her, and not for Jace as he nudged Luke to step aside and make room for his betrothed. The twins exchanged triumphant glances with one another as they looked back at Lord Corlys, igniting a rage within you that you thought had been extinguished.

They flaunted their new titles as future wives of princes: Baela taking your birthright and becoming Queen of the Seven Kingdoms alongside Jace. Your breath caught sharply in your throat as you envisioned her standing next to your brother in your place, the crown of Jaehaerys shimmering brilliantly atop Jace’s head, the golden rays catching the intricate details of the metalwork. She held his hand, her fingers entwined with his, radiating a confidence that twisted your stomach into knots. The very thought made your nails dig crescent-shaped imprints into your palms as your jaw clenched tightly, a simmering fury boiling just beneath the surface. With a sharp turn, you shifted your blazing gaze away from them and towards Lord Corlys, who was intently examining the intricately carved map of Westeros.

“Your allies?” he asked, as your mother nodded and gestured to the table. “Too few to win a war for the throne.”

Your mother pressed her lips together, the corners of her mouth betraying an unspoken tension. With her hands clasped tightly in front of her, she addressed the room, voicing the thoughts that seemed to swirl in the air like an uninvited guest. “Well, we would also hope to have the support of Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”

“Hope,” he stated, “is the fool’s ally.” Your grandfather’s words were bold and brazen, especially after what transpired with Daemon.

“Arryn and Baratheon all share blood with me and swore oaths,” your Queen Mother responded, her voice laden with a mixture of pride and resignation, attempting to justify her waning grip on victory.

“As did House Hightower if I remember correctly,” your grandfather retorted, a cadence to his tone that made you involuntarily smirk.

Your mother’s expression was unamused, her lips slightly upturned in a grimace. “As did you, Lord Corlys.”

The only sound echoing through the chamber was the howling winds of the sea outside, as each member held their breath. Your grandfather’s gaze shifted from your mother at one end of the table to you. His granddaughters stood proudly beside their prospective husbands.

Truly, you couldn’t blame your mother for strategically pairing your cousins with your brothers, even if it was a desperate attempt to win over Rhaenys and secure Luke’s already declared claim to Driftmark.

Did Corlys have a choice in who he declared for?

He looked at you then, your dark silhouette a contrast to those around you. His granddaughter had always been one to feel her emotions far more profoundly than what was expected for a girl of her age. When Laenor was discovered dead, corpse burnt far beyond recognition, Corlys was unsure whose sobs echoed the loudest in the marble halls of High Tide, his wife’s or yours. He pitied you then as he did now for emotions that ran so deep you could not overcome them, for even then, when he couldn’t bring himself to tell his granddaughter that Laenor wasn’t her father, just as he now couldn’t bring himself to admit he knew your mother would never name you heir.

Lord Corlys knew Rhaenyra’s selfish desire for recognition, whether it was because she could never be the boy her father wanted, and so neither could you, or she loved her daughter too much, she could not allow her to grow without her embrace. He was unsure. Though what he did know to be a valid and unimpeachable fact was that war was coming and that there would be no war so terrible as this.

“Your father’s reign was one of justice and honor,” he declared, turning back to your mother. “Our houses are bound by blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand! You have the full support of our fleet and our House, Your Grace.”

Your mother was breathless, violet orbs glancing at you in what you could only explain as a subconscious reflex. The man she once thought her closest ally wasn’t there, which meant she had no one to wordlessly convey her emotions to without fear of judgment or misunderstanding. Though you were relieved with your grandfather’s declaration, you made no move to describe it, your satin veil obscuring your tears from the onlookers.

You no longer had the desire to be the shoulder your mother leaned on, as your resentment had spread its inky black tendrils inside your bones like lichen on an ancient tree. She wanted to have you by her side constantly, to protect you from whatever harm the next sunrise would bring. Yet in doing so, she created a hurt so vast and deep it reached a depth inside your soul that no physical wound could scratch.

As it has been many times in your life, you would have preferred death rather than this agony your mother called love.

“You honor me, Lord Corlys,” your mother swallowed harshly, gathering her emotions that ran deep within her, like the sea. “But as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war’s first stroke is to be fought, it will not be by my hand.” Her words were steadfast, no matter how uncomfortable it made her to say them.

Blood had already spilled, you screamed inside your mind. War’s first stroke had already befallen! The words clawed at the enclosure of your mouth, biting at the steel bars to be freed. Your younger sister was dead, and your mother acted as if her stillbirth was something unavoidable—as if it wasn’t because of the stress of her father’s death and the usurpation of her throne that caused the premature birth. War was already ongoing.

You wondered if she even wanted to fight for her birthright. Was your mother so adverse against violence that she would rather have the realm teeter on the brink of war for Seven knows how long than to spill blood?

“You do not mean to act?” Lord Corlys questioned, his brows rising to his hairline in surprise.

“No. I simply wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war,” your mother answered matter-of-factly as she crossed her arms. Her gaze fell to the glowing carved map of Westeros, scanning the bronze flags placed atop it. It was indeed too few to win a war.

“We must secure allies and go to King’s Landing at once,” you spoke into the tense silence. Your declaration surprised even you as you inhaled a calming breath, lifting your veil and revealing your face to the room. It no doubt appeared the way that you felt, exhausted from crying tears of rage and hurt. “We will show those treacherous vipers that we are a united front. They would not stand in our way if we did. Vhagar may be the Queen of All Dragons, but it doesn’t mean she is undying.”

They all stared at your dark form, cheeks still pink and eyes glassy from tears, as they glanced at the Queen. “Daemon atop Caraxes, Princess Rhaenys with Melys, you on Syrax, Jace on Vermax, and I on Gaelithox. We shall surround King’s Landing and force their surrender.”

“I will not raze the capital,” your mother replied firmly.

You sighed, lifting your eyes to the ceiling as you approached the table. “We needn’t burn innocents. The pressure of our unified strength would be more than enough to intimidate them into surrender. One dragon alone can burn legions of men; they are not ignorant of what five could do.”

“And once we arrive in King’s Landing, dragons soaring above city rooftops, how do you propose we ensure that this treachery will cease? That I secure the Keep and the oaths of the Great Houses with no army?” your mother interrogated, her tone lowering. It seemed as if she was scolding you instead of treating you as the equal she wanted you to be.

You knew this wouldn’t work. Your mother was just as stubborn as you when it came to your beliefs. “They will bend the knee to you, or they will burn once the usurper is dead. There is no other way, mother,” you beseeched, trying to get her to see reason. Whatever sentiments she held for Alicent was blinding her to reason. “With what men-at-arms we have, and our dragons, the only blood that needs to be shed is Hightower.”

“Do not allow your personal feelings to guide your judgment.” Your mother was quick to answer, too fast for your liking, as you finally snapped. All the rage and hurt you kept bottled within like the obedient princess you were erupted in a roar from your throat.

“You tell me to withhold my sentiments? You do not wish to act because of whatever mawkishness you still hold for Alicent. The Greens are using your past friendship against you with these false terms of surrender and hesitancy. They think you are weak and seek to take advantage of you. Do not let them,” you snapped, hand gesturing wildly with every sentence. “You say you do not want dragons to go to war, yet you know in your heart they will not hold the same honor. Dragons will fly, but this is what will stop everything from burning.”

Silence was the only thing to be heard within the Chamber of the Painted Table. No one dared to break the silence that shrouded everyone as your mother stared at you with bated breath. It was what they were all thinking. Your Queen Mother had power, yet she refused to wield it because of whatever peaceful restraint she felt she needed to have. She did not say a word as you waited for her answer, leaving you in a tense silence to grapple with your undignified outburst.

“Are you finished?” she inquired, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side. Frustration flickered in her eyes as she fought to maintain her composure, glancing at you, who was visibly upset and unable to find your calm amidst the growing tension.

You answered nothing. What could you possibly say after openly disrespecting a monarch, only to have them not dignify you with an answer? You realized, with profound sadness, that your thoughts weren’t of importance to her, despite your mother saying she wanted you to be on the Council. You remained silent, withdrawing from the table. She was the Queen, but she was your mother first.

A sudden realization overcame you then as you thought to reply, though you now understood it was pointless. This was what your mother wanted, for you to stand and observe while she kept you from your birthright for whatever convoluted reason she had.

The thick atmosphere seemed to stretch for an eternity as you felt the stares of every lord in the room. They would not help you. They only wished to endear themselves to your mother and Lord Corlys for personal gain, as you were no longer someone worth endearing to. Your grandfather’s cane tapped as he approached the Painted Table, causing your angry yet embarrassed gaze to flick to him. You released a huff through your nose at their ability to leave things unsaid.

“The consequence of my near demise is that we have control of the Stepstones,” Lord Corlys began, gesturing to the Narrow Sea. “I took care to garrison the territory this time fully. A total blockade of the shipping lanes is underway, if not already in place. The Triarchy has been routed. If we further seal the Gullet, we can cut off all travel and trade to King’s Landing.”

Your mother looked between Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, eyes wide with shock evident on her features. She finally had the upper hand.

“I shall take Melys and patrol the Gullet myself,” your grandmother spoke, a self-assured smirk gracing her elegant features.

Your fury at everything that had happened, at your mother replacing you, at the treasonous actions of Otto and Alicent Hightower, at Aemond for being forced to choose the opposing side, at Aegon, the fucking cunt of a man who stole your virtue, being on the Iron Throne, burned hotly within your gut. They had the gall to offer surrender as if they were the ones who had the moral high ground. You wanted to kill them all, have every yellow-bellied lord and knight who accompanied them in your mother’s supplanting and murder of your babe sister, melted into nothing but a pile of ash and regret. You would see to it with or without your mother’s support.

Lord Bartimos leaned over the carved map of Westeros, resting his hand as he gathered your mother’s attention. “When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround King’s Landing and lay siege to the Red Keep, as the Princess said, and force the Greens to surrender.”

“If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyre, and Storm’s End,” your mother replied, her tone holding a cautious mirth to it as she glanced at you.

Despite her poking holes in your proposition, in the end, it was the only option. It did heal small parts of your damaged pride, but you knew within your soul that your mother wouldn’t admit to her mistake, if she even saw it that way. You were thinking steps ahead of her, while your mother was only focused on pacifism due to her old friend and her father’s legacy.

The Greens shat upon Viserys’s legacy the moment they crowned Aegon king. Why shouldn’t she do the same?

“I’ll prepare the ravens, your grace,” Maester Gerardys bowed, a confident grin upon his countenance.

“We should bear those messages,” Jace said, his shoulders squared and voice strong. “Dragons are faster than ravens, and they’re more convincing.”

You couldn’t argue with your twin, but you were unable to deny your apprehension at serving as an envoy at the behest of your Queen Mother, who chose her son over you. The irony was all too apparent, and your ego refused to subject itself to something like that.

“Send us,” your brother asked as you felt a pang of sadness within your chest. He was being so brave and so assured that you couldn’t help but feel proud of him. He was doing it all without you.

“I shall fly to Sunspear if my Queen allows it. Queen Esabella was fond of me during my time there. Their son Qyle Martell is still unwed.” You felt like a girl again, convincing your mother to allow you to go riding out on your dragon in exchange for good marks on your lessons, yet the suggestion was sound. Even if Qoren Martell refused, you knew his wife would endear him to at least remain neutral in the matter, for your sake. “A marriage of House Targaryen and House Martell would prove to be most formidable. No one would dare challenge your throne.”

Your mother looked at you, torn, lips parted with indecision as she fidgeted with her gold rings. There would be no chance of loss if you had the Dornish Empire at your disposal, and she knew that, but that meant she would no longer have her daughter. You would have to leave Dragonstone, leave Westeros, and leave her arms. Rheanyra would never allow her only daughter to leave her side. Never.

“She is right, your grace,” Lord Corlys said, words cautious yet firm as you all waited for her answer.

“Very well,” your mother decided, convincing herself of this decision. You felt your heart leap into your throat at her words, surprised yet elated to finally have your mother’s approval. “Jacaerys will first fly to the Eyre to visit my cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys and the Princess will fly south, first to Storm’s End, then to Dorne. However, there will be no talk of marriage proposals without prior discussion.”

You didn’t care that she disregarded your suggestion of a betrothal, too relieved to have your mother’s acceptance after all the denials, finally. You would fly with Luke and do your duty. That much was sure.

“We must remind these Lords of the oaths they swore and the cost of breaking them,” your mother declared, a smile wrinkling your eyes. It felt nice, no matter how brief, this feeling would surely be.

Donning your riding leathers, you had Edwina braid your hair in the fashion of your ancestors, connecting intricate pieces until they were snug to your scalp with golden pins of dragon glass so no wind could move it. You would present yourself in the colors of your mother’s House, rather than your typical blues and turquoise. The formidable black and red would be a statement to all.

You knew Luke was worried about flying in such unfamiliar territory, and to secure House Baratheon. So much rested on his shoulders all at once, but you would be there to support him no matter what. You understood what it felt like to be abandoned. It was not a feeling you wanted your little brother to experience.

Your mother ordered you, Jace, and Luke, to meet her on one of the many battlements overlooking the island. Harsh wind swept across your cheeks as the three of you approached her, the delicate slope of her back facing you. It felt fulfilling to have some purpose back in your soul.

“It’s been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men. The Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps,” she began, a light-hearted, yet severe lilt to her tone as a knight came forth with the book of the Seven. “But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms, we must answer to their gods. If you take this errand, you go as messengers, not warriors. You must take no part in any fighting.”

Lucerys moved first, young though he was, his hand firm as it touched the book. “I swear, mother–Your Grace,” he corrected, his voice trembling faintly, but the words were clear.

Jacaerys followed with less hesitation, his oath spoken with the careful pride of a man already burdened with too much responsibility. “I swear, your grace.”

And then all eyes turned to you as you hesitated. Not because you feared breaking faith with the Seven, your belief in them had always been fleeting, but because you knew what it meant. Your mother did not ask for this vow to bind you to duty alone, but to ensure you would not fly away again, not in word, defiance, or in fire.

Your hand hovered above the thick tome, fingers brushing its surface like a ghost’s touch. It was cold, colder than it should have been, as a chill passed up your arm and settled in your chest.

“I swear,” you said finally, each word a stone pressed into your throat. “In the eyes of the Seven.”

When your hand left the book, it felt like a chain had been fastened to your wrist. Your mother’s expression softened for a fleeting moment, relieved, but only marginally. She looked down at the scrolls in her hands, her voice resuming the Queen’s cadence.

“Cregan Stark is closer to your age than to mine,” she said, her eyes moving between Jace and you. “I would hope, as men, you can find some common interest.”

You watched your brother shift uncomfortably but said nothing. He knew, as you did, that Cregan Stark had little interest in small talk or flattery. The Lord of Winterfell was a man of brutal winters and harder truths.

Your mother took a deep breath, one of those slow, measured inhalations that you recognized all too well. It was the kind of breath she took when discussing topics that hurt her more than she would ever acknowledge. You found yourself taking the same calming breath now, as a storm of emotions began to rise again within you.

“Which is why,” your mother continued, voice unwavering, “once your sister finishes securing the Dornish Empire’s support, she will meet with you in the North and offer her hand to Lord Stark.”

The world came to a standstill, wrapped in a suffocating silence that drowned out any hint of warmth or breath. Time itself seemed to pause as if your heart had ceased its rhythmic dance within your chest. You fixated on her, your gaze locked in disbelief, struggling to fathom the weight of her words. It felt as though your mind revolted against the reality that your ears had just registered.

You? To extend your hand? Not a letter filled with promises. Not gleaming gold or an offer of high standing. Just… you.

You were set to fly north, your pride bundled in furs and frost, to kneel before a man you had never met and offer yourself to him. You loathed the cold, and your mother was aware of that. Your mouth opened, but no words came out—only the familiar sting behind your eyes and the tightness in your throat.

“This is not a punishment,” she said quietly, gentler now. “Tis a strategy. A union the realm cannot ignore. Fire and ice, joined by blood and vow. With the North behind us, the Greens cannot stand.” But all you heard was the North will have you, not because of your mind, or strength, or dragon, but because of the name between your legs.

A marriage proposal to a Dornish prince would be more advantageous than one to a Stark. This alliance could mend over a hundred years of tension. Yet, she chose a house that has never broken an oath. It was impossible to comprehend her reasoning.

You shook your head, voice breaking free at last. “I said I would obey and do no harm,” you declared bitterly, “not that I would beg for my fate.”

“It is not begging,” your mother replied her calm beginning to fray. “It is a duty. It is a sacrifice.”

“Tis the same thing,” you spat. “You cloak it in honor, yet it is the same cage. You take away my crown and give me a collar.” Jace looked between you, torn, lips pressed in a firm line. “And if I refuse to fly?” you asked, barely above a whisper. “Will you banish me to the shadows as you did with Daemon?”

An oppressive silence enveloped your family, heavy with unspoken truths. You turned away, no longer fueled by the fire of defiance, but instead weighed down by a deep sense of resignation. With a slow, deliberate gait, you made your way toward the entrance into the castle, each step echoing the heaviness in your heart, as the weight of your decision settled around you like a dark fog.

But halfway there, you stopped. The storm inside you hadn’t passed; it had merely paused to take a breath. You turned back to face your mother, your voice low, but sharper than the wind that battered the stone battlements.

“Daemon wants to fight for us. I wonder, when the time comes, will you?” The question struck the still air like a sword drawn from its scabbard.

Your mother’s brows knit, her expression unreadable. “I will always fight for my family, but this is not as simple as one or the other.”

“It could not be simpler,” you said, your voice trembling now, not with fear, but with conviction. “If you accept the Greens’ terms, you will forfeit my life. And Jace’s and Luke’s and Joff’s. If you do not claim the throne, we will be taken hostage or put to the sword. My brothers will be sent to the Wall. I do not know which fate will await us, but I do know they will call us ‘bastards’ first.”

“Alicent promised that you would be treated with kindness,” your mother said, her voice hesitant but firm, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as you.

You stared at her, jaw tightening. “The word of a usurper means little and less.”

The wind howled between you both now, as if it too sought to speak but had no words. Your mother looked away, not out of shame, but to steel herself against the pain. You could see it in the flex of her jaw, the way her hand gripped the scrolls tightly, the way her breath slowed. Behind you, Jace stepped forward, reaching for you, but you pulled away.

You could no longer tolerate this farce as you turned to leave a final time, your mother’s voice calling, soft but certain. “You are not a pawn. You are the Queen’s daughter, but sometimes queens are forged by fire they never asked to walk through.”

You didn’t stop, didn’t look back, voice trailing behind like ash. “Then let the fire burn. I would sooner walk barefoot through it before I would ever kneel.”

The calls of Vermax and Ayrax echoed among the cliffs, their sounds seeming to taunt you as they faded away as if saying, “We are free to fly. Why aren’t you?” You knew Gaelithox could surely sense your longing—the desire to soar among the clouds. However, your indignation overwhelmed your thoughts and actions. Your pride prevented you from fulfilling your mother’s wishes, no matter how important the task was.

Your body felt utterly drained, as if the weight of the world rested on your shoulders, despite having engaged in no strenuous activity. A weariness enveloped you like a heavy fog, prompting you to call Edwina along with your other maids. You wanted a bath, yearning for the warm water to wash away the chaos of your thoughts and provide a much-needed respite from the madness that had taken hold of your mind, if only for a few hours.

Steam curled from the surface of the bathwater, rising to meet the cool air that lingered against the stone walls of your chamber. You sank into the warmth with a sigh, hoping it might soothe something deeper than sore muscles—something coiled tight in your chest, twisted with longing and loathing. The water whispered around you, but your mind was filled with thoughts you couldn’t silence.

Aemond.

You told yourself that rejecting him had been the right decision. His unwavering loyalty to his brother and his treacherous kin made him unworthy of your love and a traitor. You seethed at the thought of the bitterness festering in his heart, the same bitterness that had kept him from wanting you until it served his interests. Yet, despite all your reasoning and the justifications you clung to like a lifeline, none of it could soothe the deep, gnawing ache that settled in your chest, a persistent reminder of what might have been.

What a strange, cruel thing, how even after everything, some part of you still wondered. What if no one had dared to challenge your mother’s throne? What if your betrothal to Aemond had been honored? What would your days look like then?

You imagined yourself at his side, perhaps in a quiet corner of the Red Keep, with sunlight filtering through the tall windows of the library. His eyepatch would be set aside, and the harshness of his mouth would soften if only a little. You would engage in spirited debates over books, though he was often too cold and precise. Yet, he would listen and he would try because you would matter to him in a way that transcended the throne and his duties. Perhaps he would rest his hand on the small of your back as you walked together through the gardens, whispering his secrets only to you.

You could fly together as you promised with Gaelithox and Vhagar twisting through the clouds in perfect rhythm, your laughter carried by the wind.

You would no doubt have a brood by then, small children running around the red stone halls with heads of brown and silver, with another on the way. Aemond would warm your bed every night; his sinewy body interlocked with your plump frame as he pumped his seed inside your womb.

Suddenly, you felt that familiar tingle within your lower stomach, traveling to your womanhood as your cheeks warmed not from heat. Fingers ghosted over your slick folds, lips slowly becoming more sensitive as visions of what could have been flashed in your mind’s eye.

But then, before you could fully enjoy the natural pleasure of your body, came the blade of truth, sharp and gleaming. That world had been taken, and he had helped destroy it. Your fists were tightly clenched beneath the shimmering water, sending delicate ripples cascading across the surface like whispers of lost hopes. The dreams that once sparkled with possibility had long since crumbled to ash, and yet you still found yourself mourning them, their memory heavy in your heart. Each pulse of movement sent reminders of what could have been echoing back, making the ache of loss all the more tangible.

Abruptly, a sharp, urgent knock echoed against the heavy wooden doors of your chamber, breaking the silence that enveloped you like a thick blanket. Heart racing, you instinctively lowered yourself, feeling the warmth of the tub beneath you as you sought refuge in it.

“Princess,” Edwina said, her voice low and urgent. “Your mother summons you to the Chamber of the Painted Table. At once.”

You blinked, releasing a huff through your nose that splashed the water. “Now?”

“She said immediately.”

Your breath caught as you groaned. Rolling your eyes, you rose, water trailing down your limbs, already reaching for the thick robe Edwina laid beside the tub. You still refused to allow anyone to assist you in your bathing. As the warmth of the bath had been forgotten—the dreams, the ache, even Aemond, forgotten, for now. Duty called, and the throne your mother still fought for hung in the balance.

Luke must have returned from Storm’s End by now at a late hour, and she no doubt called for another meeting with her Councilmen to discuss the news. The bitter part of you hoped Lord Borros had refused your mother, citing her idiotic decision to name your younger brother as heir. You hoped she would finally see the grave error she had committed if that was the outcome.

As you left your quarters, indifferent to the inappropriateness of your attire, you stormed down the halls of Dragonstone. The torches flickered vigorously as you passed, the hem of your damp robe clinging to your ankles after your bath. Guards and servants alike avoided making eye contact with you, though you paid no mind.

The Chamber of the Painted Table was dimly lit, as if the fires themselves were aware of the gloom of war that lingered in the air. Your mother stood at the head of the table, one hand pressed against its edge, her knuckles white. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes were hollow. Luke wasn’t here.

“Mother?” you asked carefully, voice cutting through the tense silence. Your stomach turned as you observed their expressions, irritation forgotten.

She didn’t look at you. Did not move. For a long moment, no one said anything, leaving you to suffer in your anxious silence. Daemon turned toward you, his eyes bloodshot and mouth set in a hard, grim line. You had never seen him like this before, and it terrified you.

“Your brother,” he rasped. “Luke...”

Your heart faltered. “What about Luke? Where is he?” you asked, breath quickened with the unknown.

Daemon swallowed, regaling the news as if briefing soldiers. “Prince Aemond was there when Luke arrived at Storm’s End. Lord Borros rejected our offer, and he allowed Aemond to betroth himself to one of his daughters,” he spat the words like venom. “When your brother left, the Prince pursued him atop his dragon.”

Your knees nearly buckled. It was as if someone had sliced the air from your lungs with Blackfyre.

“Luke left,” your mother finally whispered, her voice hoarse with restraint. “He tried to return to us. He did not go as a warrior.”

“Vhagar,” Daemon added, jaw clenched. “He and Vhagar ripped your brother from the sky.”

A sound tore from your throat, something between a gasp and a sob, but no tears followed. The room began to blur at the edges, like a fever dream, spinning in a slow, suffocating spiral. Your hands reached blindly for the table, catching yourself before you fell. The wood grounded you, but only barely. Your eyes fell on the very place Luke had been flying over, and beside it, the black lines of swirling sea where he vanished into death.

The grief hit you not as a scream, but as a slow collapse. Your chest constricted so tightly it hurt to breathe, your stomach hollowed as if your body rejected every breath, every beat of your heart that Luke’s did not.

You knew of the anger Aemond held inside him after what happened on Driftmark, but you never thought him capable of this.

“Aemond,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. Your voice cracked under the weight of his name.

Not long ago, you envisioned him differently. His voice in your ear, and the brief moment of tenderness in the confines of your bed chambers. You imagined what life could have been like if the war had not occurred if honor had triumphed. But now, the man you once dreamed of had not only allied himself with your enemies, he had taken your brother from you and claimed a Baratheon girl in your place.

It was a betrayal.

It was heartbreak.

It was war.

The heat radiating from the map beneath your palms was like a bed of embers, searing into your skin, the warmth both intense and unsettling as your weight leaned heavily forward. You did not shed tears like the delicate, regal princess that others thought you were. You didn’t cry out as a sister might; instead, you shrank quietly, like a soldier clinging to memories of what once was.

And in a way, you were.

Your arms curled beneath you as you slumped over the map of Westeros, limbs weak as the ridges of the carved wood pressed into your cheek, cold and unforgiving. The tears came then, slow and silent, leaking from the corners of your eyes as your body trembled with the enormity of it all.

Your little brother was gone. The man you loved was a monster. Your mother’s war was no longer about a crown.

Aemond Targaryen had to die.

“I will go to Storm’s End,” your mother said abruptly. Her voice did not waver.

The words compelled you to raise your head from the warm, unyielding wood, a shiver tracing down your spine as your stomach tightened with an unfamiliar weight. You could still feel the imprint of Westeros against your skin.

“My Queen,” said Lord Bartimos, stepping forward, “forgive me, but that is not wise. You cannot go. Storm’s End is hostile territory now.”

“They are our enemies,” added Maester Gerardys gently, “and you are our hope. If anything were to happen to you-”

“I will not sit idle while my son’s body rots in the sea or the belly of a beast!” your mother snarled. “I will find him. Whatever is left of him. I will not leave him there.”

“It is a trap,” Ser Erryk said gravely. “Prince Aemond may still be near. The Greens may want you to come.”

“I care not,” she hissed. “He took my child.”

Silence fell once more. The Painted Table glowed red from the firelight, making it seem as though the carved realm was bleeding. Your mother’s hand trembled slightly as she gripped the edge of the table, her rings clinking against the wood.

You stood, your knees still shaking. “Then I am coming with you.”

Her gaze snapped to yours, and for a moment, her face softened, almost.

“No,” she replied firmly.

“Mother, please. He was my brother.” Your voice cracked, wetting your lips before continuing. “Let me come. Let me help you find him.”

She shook her head, pink lips frowning. “I need you here.”

You blinked, confused, indignant. “Here?”

Your mother strode around the table, pausing before you, voice low. “Daemon is furious. He hungers for vengeance. I’ve given strict orders for there to be no attacks until I return. I need someone I trust to make certain he listens. Someone he will not dismiss or ignore.”

Your breath hitched as you scowled. “So I am to be a leash for your husband.”

“You are to be my voice,” she corrected, more gently this time. “You are the only one left who can remind Daemon that this war cannot be won through rage alone.”

“But I need...” Your chest burned. “I need to do something. Anything. I cannot sit here again and-”

“You will stay,” she said, and her tone brooked no argument. “That is final.” Her hand brushed your cheek once before she turned away.

You couldn’t breathe.

You turned on your heel and stormed out of the chamber, your shoulders tense and shoes hitting the stone floor in a furious rhythm. Guards and courtiers shrank away as you passed, but you noticed none of them. Your vision was a blur, and tears were already starting before you reached the sanctuary of your room.

The door slammed behind you, and then you collapsed. Sobs burst from your chest as you sank to the floor, raw and gasping. You curled your fingers into the hem of your robe, knuckles white, trying to hold yourself together, but it was no use.

Your little brother was gone. The man you loved had killed him, and now your mother had turned away from you once more. Everything inside you felt hollow, like a shell left too long at sea—cracked, waterlogged, and ready to shatter.

Your cries echoed in your bedroom, and you had never felt more alone.

It was hours before you finally rose from bed, moving from one place of comforting solitude to another as you wrapped yourself in thick furs in front of the fire. The halls of Dragonstone had long since emptied, lords and ladies sleeping in their lush beds of silk, but the fire still burned, casting flickering gold and orange against the obsidian walls. You sat within your greeting room in front of the flames, knees drawn to your chest, forehead resting against them. The heat seeped into your bones, but it did little to thaw the cold within.

Your mind was heavy with grief and rage, blended so thickly you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began. The weight of your brother Luke’s death crushed down on you. Murdered by Vhagar. Murdered by Aemond.

You used to hold him so close within your heart, sympathetic yet understanding of his rage at the loss of his eye... It turned your stomach to realize the man you thought would be by your side had taken your baby brother from the skies and dashed his bones across the sea. And still, your mother had said nothing of vengeance. Still, she held her peace. Still, she placed Jace upon the throne in waiting.

But what of you? What of your fire, your blood, your pain? You had always been her daughter first. You had stood at her side, not behind her, not beneath her. Yet now, you were treated like some bitter, grieving girl to be tucked away behind doors.

And for what? For duty? For Jace?

Anger flared in your gut, molten and rising. Your hands shook in your lap, fingers curling in the thick wool of the fur you wore. You were her daughter. And Luke, your brother, was her son. How could she not burn the realm to the ground?

You didn’t remember falling asleep again, only the way your body gave in, surrendered. Your exhaustion bore down upon you like armor, heavy, suffocating, and unyielding. You woke to the creak of the wooden door opening. The fire was still alive, now low, smoldering like an old memory. You blinked, sore and disoriented, jaw aching from how tightly you must have clenched it in your sleep.

Maester Gerardys stood in the doorway, clutching a letter sealed with the green wax of the Seven-Pointed Star.

“It arrived just before dawn,” he said quietly. “From King’s Landing.”

You sat up straighter as your limbs protested. From King’s Landing?

“We accept personal letters from the enemy?” you inquired with a stern quirk of your brow, a test of his loyalty. Your pulse quickened as you nevertheless took the parchment, staring at the seal, the wax soft and sun-warmed.

“How else might we accept terms of surrender?” the Maester replied as he bowed in exit. You could not argue with his words.

Only one person could be desperate enough to send a raven after such a grievous sin had been committed. A chill ran down your spine at the thought of its implications. With trembling hands, you cautiously broke the wax seal, watching as it fell away like a fallen leaf, and began to read the message inside, your heart racing with a mix of dread and anticipation.

My light, There are no words I might pen that could right the horrors which have unfolded. Still, I beg you to read this not with the anger of a dragon, but the mercy of the gods. What happened to Prince Lucerys was not meant to be. Aemond, my son, whom I know you care for, did not intend his death. He is not a monster. He is burdened by grief and shame. He confessed it to me and begged for forgiveness from the Seven. We do not wish for war. I write to you not as a Dowager Queen, but as a mother. I pray to the Seven for you daily that your soul may be unburdened, that your heart may find peace. I pray, too, for an end to bloodshed before it begins. Bend the knee to Aegon, and this madness and your family will soon follow. It is the only way. You are the light that once softened my son. I wonder if he still dreams of that. I have not given up hope. Let peace live, even if we must suffer to bring it. Your light shines brighter than all the flames of war. With Love, Alicent Hightower

You stared at the page long after the words ceased to make sense.

“My light.”

A tremor started in your fingertips. Your breath hitched.

She dared... she dared to speak of peace? Of love? Of Aemond, the boy you once cherished and the man who seized your brother from the heavens, his gaze laced with malice from that one wicked eye. A visceral scream tore from your throat before you could even comprehend the sound escaping you. The parchment, now crumpled and wrinkled, was clenched tightly in your fists and flung into the flames. It danced with the fire’s hungry embrace, curling and blackening into ash, consumed in an instant without a moment’s hesitation.

“Mercy?” you spat, rising to your feet as your chair slid with a screech. “There will be no mercy.”

Not for Aemond. Not for his mother. Not for the throne.

You knew what you had to do now. You could not endure living the rest of your life in misery without taking action. The same impulse that dragged you atop your balcony railing years ago had taken a new form, taking hold of your logic. As you put on your riding leathers, which were so dark a blue that they almost looked black, you lined your waterline with soft strokes of kohl to lessen the glare of the morning sun. You tied the side strings of your tunic until you could barely breathe, tightening it until you felt the crushing pain of suffocation begin to take hold.

Aemond would die by your hand. This was the only way. It would stop whatever revenge Daemon would go on before it had a chance to come to fruition. A brother for a brother, a son for a son. Even if it costs you your life.

You had known it since your stepfather confessed the news, lurking like a shadow at the edge of your grief. You could not live in a world where he breathed, and Luke did not. You would take his life as he took your brother’s, and then... Then the fire within you would finally go out. The pain and agony of loss and betrayal would finally be over, and that was far more enticing than any vengeance.

Your heart was numb as you crossed the brimstone halls of Dragonstone, the sea wind whipping your flyaway strands from your updo. You didn’t feel it as your body moved with purpose, with a clarity so sharp it was almost painful. The grand doors to the armory were unguarded at this hour, your mother’s men believing no one would have the gull, or rather the stupidity, to take the contents within as you retrieved a small sword. You were not proficient in the art of swordplay, having only sparred occasionally with your brothers for fun, but you knew and understood the basics. You knew how to kill a man, and that was enough.

Through the black caves you walked, into the belly of the Dragonmont, where the fires of old still warmed the earth. The smell of smoke, sulfur, and damp stone surrounded you, but it was not unfamiliar. This place had always been part of you, and so had Gaelithox. Your dragon stirred before you even called to him, most of the Keepers resting at this hour. The massive green and crimson beast blinked down from his perch on the jagged ledge, scales glittering with green flame and ash. He rumbled low in his chest, sensing your pain, your rage, your grief.

“I need you. I have no one else,” you whispered, reaching a trembling hand toward Gaeli, tears burning your eyes. “Luke is gone. We ride to death.” There was no fear in your voice, only resigned resolve.

Gaelithox lowered his great head, his scales glistening like polished emeralds in the waning torchlight, as he gently brushed his powerful snout against your chest. You wrapped your arms around him, drawing in a shuddering breath that seemed to echo the weight of your grief. Climbing onto the saddle felt almost instinctual, yet each movement reminded you of the aching fatigue that coursed through your limbs, an ache born from days without rest and the relentless grip of sorrow.

As he shifted beneath you, his warm, sinewy body providing a solid anchor in this turbulent moment, your tears began to flow freely, soaking into the fabric of your undershirt. You didn’t bother to wipe them away, surrendering to the rawness of the moment and letting the salty droplets mingle with your anguish.

He would die.

Aemond Targaryen would die, and so would all the love and hope within your heart, even if you had to burn the world and your soul to do it. And when it was done, you would follow your brother into the sea.

As the heavens erupted in a cascade of colors at dawn, Gaelithox spread his magnificent wings wide, casting a slight shadow over Dragonstone. With a steady command from you, the world below faded away, and together, you ascended into the boundless sky to King’s Landing.

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Oh boy, here we go! I’m sure everything will turn out fine, probably. I enjoy seeing everyone’s thoughts as the story progresses. Thank you so much for reading!

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shesjustanothergeek · 9 days ago

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The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Twelve: Storm's End

|Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Chapter Warnings: suicidal ideations

“The purpose of war is to fill graveyards, my dear Lord Staunton,” Lord Celtigar patronized, promoting the group of Councilmen to go further into their bickering over battle strategy and how best to proceed in the coming days.