#Aegon ii Targaryen x ofc

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Aegon II Targaryen X OFC // Part 2

Disclaimer/Trigger warnings: MDNI, smut, oral sex (m), Season 2 non-compliant, dragonriding as foreplay, canon misogyny, aegon is pretty possessive in this fic, Targcest, OC is Viserys and Aemma's daughter, OC is named Daenerys because I love my OC being the second Daenerys in ASOIAF after Alysanne's daughter, OC looks like Elizabeth Olsen.

Part One here:

The singers would go on to craft ballads about the great love of King Aegon and Queen Daenerys long after the Dance of the Dragons. There is little doubt the queen loved her husband, though in truth her true love may well have been her dragon. Princess Daenerys bonded with the Grey Ghost shortly after her ninth nameday during a visit Dragonstone with the rest of the royal family. King Viserys decreed that his children could attempt to claim one of the dragons from the Dragonmont — provided they were “bold enough.” Prince Aegon claimed the young dragon Sunfyre, a splendid beast with golden scales and pale-pink wing membranes. Many expected Princess Daenerys to choose one of the hatchlings, or perhaps Silverwing, former mount of the Good Queen Alysanne, as the princess had been named for Queen Alysanne's eldest daughter who tragically died in infancy. But it was the Grey Ghost, a shy and reclusive dragon by all accounts, who bore the princess into the sky that day, to the delight of her father, the king.

-- Archmaester Gyldayn, The Dying of the Dragons

Though she rested in the comfortable bedchambers of her childhood, Princess Daenerys felt anything but a child as she fought to find sleep that night.

Aegon’s touch had branded her. Her blood felt impossibly hot, boiling beneath her skin. And the pleasure… What had happened as he ground his thigh against her, that indescribable ascent to liquefying ecstasy…

What was that?

Daenerys wondered dimly if only Aegon was capable of making her body do that, if he knew some secret trick from his frequent visits to the brothels of Flea Bottom. Could any other man in the realm make her see stars like Aegon could?

No. She only wanted Aegon. Her betrothed, her blood. We are the blood of the dragon, like Rhaenyra and Daemon. We are meant for each other.

He hated her, he scared her, and yet…

And yet…

Daenerys lay awake long into the night, until the stars were her only companions.

Her stepmother wasted little time the following morning establishing control of the wedding celebrations and, by proxy, Daenerys herself.

The Hightower queen invited Daenerys and Aegon to break their fast together in the royal chambers. Father would not be joining them. The king was still too weary to leave his bed. Daenerys felt her heart ache. He is wasting into nothing more and more as the days pass.

“Lords from across the Seven Kingdoms will be in attendance,” Alicent explained to her, “all of whom will rejoice to see yourself and Aegon wed at last.”

At last. Daenerys didn’t miss the snipe in her stepmother’s tone. I am here now, am I not?

Just then, Aegon graced them with his presence, strolling into the hall and slumping in his seat with nary a word to either of them. He stunk of wine and misery. He sank into his cups last night. Wine had always been Aegon's undoing. Daemon hadn't lied, it seemed, when he told her the prince's drunkard ways had only worsened.

“I was just informing Princess Daenerys of the current arrangements for your wedding day,” Alicent greeted.

Aegon grunted.

Alicent sniffed disapprovingly.

And because Daenerys fell into old rhythms easily, she intervened before Alicent could scold Aegon and send him him further sinking into his black mood.

“I wish to ride Grey Ghost to the Great Sept on the day of our wedding.”

Alicent frowned. “I appreciate your honor of Targaryen tradition, though I worry it will only cause disturbance to the day.”

“I am sure any such disturbances would be minor.”

“The festivities have been arranged long in advance, princess,” the queen said firmly. “Perhaps if you had joined us in King’s Landing sooner we could have accommodated your request.”

Daenerys steeled herself. “I am a dragonrider of House Targaryen and I wish to meet my husband on dragonback.”

Alicent regarded her coldly. “I will present your case to the king.”

Daenerys deflated. Father was too frail to contest Alicent’s will. If the queen insisted Daenerys attend her wedding by carriage instead of dragon, the king would acquiesce.

“I mean to ride today,” she announced, suddenly renounced of her appetite.

“So soon after your arrival?”

“Grey Ghost is unaccustomed to King’s Landing. I would see he settles.”

“Indeed,” said Alicent. “Aegon shall accompany you.”

“What?”

“What?”

They spoke simultaneously, awkwardly avoiding the other’s eye.

“The city can be dangerous, even for a dragon. I am sure my son wishes to ensure his betrothed remains unspoiled.”

“Your concern moves me, Your Grace, though I fear it is misgiven. My dragon is the greatest guardian I could ask for.”

“Two dragons are safer than one,” Alicent insisted. “I am sure the time together will do you both well.”

Already the spider had spun its trap, caging her in its web. Was this her life from now on? Ruled by the whims of the scheming Hightower queen?

Daenerys said nothing as they finished their meal, lost to fear as her future under Alicent Hightower’s command waved before her, a bleak sea with black waves.

Even Alicent Hightower could not sap the joy from her morning ride, thank the gods.

Grey Ghost was unsettled when she attended him in the Dragonpit, roaring and thrashing, daunting even the Dragonkeepers, who had tended to the Targaryen dragons since the days of Old Valyria. Daenerys barely had time to strap herself into the saddle before her dragon was moving, scrabbling from the cavernous Dragonpit and hastily taking wing. She faintly heard Sunfyre’s lilting cry behind them.

Instinct bade Grey Ghost to head for Dragonstone. Daenerys urged him gently away from Blackwater Bay and back towards the city. Sunlight glinted against the rooftops as they wheeled across King’s Landing a few times, before she guided him inland and south towards the kingswood.

Another melodic cry rang out; Daenerys turned in the saddle and saw a familiar golden beast rising in the sky, scales a jeweled hide that caught the sun and scattered its rays like nectar. Sunfyre called out again. To her mild surprise, Grey Ghost rumbled a greeting in return.

With Aegon and Sunfyre tailing them, Daenerys flew Grey Ghost at rapid speed away from the city and towards the kingswood, eager for respite from the city. Sunfyre caught up with her beneath a veil of clouds; she glimpsed Aegon’s grin, felt the silent invitation. Dare to race? It had been one of their favorite activities as children.

She was exhilarated by the thrill of flight, the dragon within her purring — or was that Grey Ghost? Sometimes it felt as though they were one. She felt his contentment now. Sunfyre’s presence emboldened him.

She leaned forward, gripping the saddle handles. “Selagon, Grey Ghost!”

The wild dragon screeched and lurched forward, wings beating the air, a thunderstorm come to life.

Grey Ghost and Sunfyre were equal in size, strength and speed. The maesters suspected both dragons were of the same age, although nobody was quite sure when exactly Grey Ghost hatched -- the wild dragon was born outside of the Targaryen hatcheries somewhere in the cliffs of Dragonstone. Sunfyre gained on them, keeping pace with Grey Ghost as they raced through the sky.

But Daenerys was the more experienced rider. She’d flown everyday on Dragonstone, thrice as much as Rhaenyra and her nephews. Using the clouds as cover, Daenerys urged Grey Ghost higher, looping over Sunfyre and disappearing into the clouds with Grey Ghost’s pale scales a shroud concealing them both. She heard Sunfyre call out again, this time mournful and questioning. Where did you go? Then another, a petulant growl this time. Come back!

She let Aegon worry for a heartbeat, then dove from the clouds behind Sunfyre; Grey Ghost gently lashed the golden dragon’s hind with his tail, trilling a greeting, then wheeled and took off again with more thunderous flaps of his great grey wings.

She laughed, wild and unbidden. Sunfyre and Grey Ghost sang to each other as the dragons looped together in the sky, gold and grey streaks of movement, like the sun had shattered and birthed a rainfall of stars. Both of them hurtled to reach the finishing line — a hillside in the midst of the kingswood, just large enough for both dragons to land.

Everything felt right; Grey Ghost beneath her, Sunfyre ahead, Aegon’s laugh in the wind...

I have been asleep. Only now have I awoken.

So focused on her destination, Daenerys didn’t notice Sunfyre slip away. Suddenly she was painfully aware of the lack of gold in the sky, the empty cold of Aegon’s absence. Grey Ghost called out. She looked around quickly.

Where have you gone?

Something collided with them. Daenerys cursed herself as Sunfyre soared past them, descending at the finish line first.

“That was not fair!” She yelled at Aegon, unbuckling herself from the saddle as soon as Grey Ghost landed and marching towards her grinning betrothed. “You used my own maneuver against me!”

“What can I say? You are a proficient teacher.” He caught her waist and pulled her to him. “I won. What is my prize?”

She glared. “You cheated.”

“I did no such thing! You said it yourself, I merely used your own tricks against you. Bested by your own methods. How does it feel, sweet sister?”

She grumbled.

Aegon laughed. “You always were a sore loser.” He nuzzled into her neck. “Maybe I will let you win on the way back.”

“Let me win,” she scoffed. “I do not need your sympathy, dear brother. We both know I am the better rider.”

“You still lost though, didn’t you?”

She stamped her foot, feeling childish but too frustrated to contain herself.

Aegon laughed again and gazed at her adoringly. “Very well. You are the superior rider, sweet sister. Does that please you to hear?”

He was so warm against her, so firm and unyielding. My husband. Blood of the dragon.

“It does please me,” she said softly. “You please me.”

Aegon softened, eyes shining wetly.

A daring she’d never known before possessed Daenerys. Exhilarated by their race, and the blissful absence of anyone else besides them and their dragons, Daenerys palmed Aegon’s breeches and withdrew his hot, hard length.

Aegon hissed. “Nerys…”

“Let me please you,” she whispered.

She had never see a man’s parts before. Such lewd sights were inappropriate for an unwed princess, according to her septa. She did not know what she’d expected — if indeed she had expected anything. He was hot in her palm. He fits perfectly. Like we were made for each other. Indulging a newfound curiosity, Daenerys stroked the reddened tip, feeling soft skin beneath her questioning fingers.

Aegon let out a moan that was pure music.

The dragon within her purred. Or was that Grey Ghost again? She could not tell. Fire boiled her blood, desire overtaking her senses; desire to make her beloved feel good, to incite another musical moan.

She sank softly to her knees and cautiously tasted him with a flick of her tongue.

Aegon growled, fingers tangling in her curls. “Fucking hell,” he groaned, “where, sweet sister, did you learn to do that?”

He pulled her further onto him until his cock was sheathed in her mouth.

“Did you let some filthy peasant or lesser lord spoil you for me?”

She looked up at him through wet eyes that still somehow conveyed her annoyance, digging her nails into his bare thighs for good measure.

Aegon only laughed at the pain. He gazed at her like she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. Finally, the layers of resentment peeled away, leaving the boy she remembered, her Aegon, who adored her and would never harm her.

“Fuck… You are a dream… Mine…”

He thrust inside her mouth again and again, making her gag and choke. She refused to break eye contact the whole time, however. Her nails left gouges in his skin. Good. Then he shall know he is mine as well.

Aegon tightened his grip in her silver curls. “Ah… My perfect girl... A gift from the gods themselves..."

Experimentally, she hollowed her cheeks and sucked, welcoming his onslaught. Aegon gasped. "I'm almost there, sweet sister. Do not waste a drop."

His thrusts grow wilder, more erratic. He spilled inside her mouth just as Sunfyre gives a shuddering roar. Instinctively she swallowed.

"I cannot wait to fuck you." Aegon scooped her in his arms and clasped her tightly.

"Save yourself for our wedding night," she said playfully.

His hand cupped her face gently, and he looked at her with such wonder it snatched the air from her lungs. "I am dreaming. You are too perfect to be real."

She smiled, turning to nip at his hand mischievously. "Is that real enough for you?"

Aegon kissed them. Behind them, Sunfyre and Grey Ghost sang to each other, reunited at last.

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch

Chapter One: My Dream

|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: Let's celebrate the first episode of season 2 with a new story! I'm publishing this before the show airs, so let's say a tentative prayer in case the first episode is Blood & Cheese. Thank you for reading! (⁠*⁠＾⁠3⁠＾⁠)⁠/⁠～⁠♡

Chapter Warnings: sexism (it's a patriarchal feudalistic society), brief descriptions of childbirth and death related to it, Alicent being delulu.

“My dreams, my dreams! What has become of their sweetness? What indeed has become of my youth?” - Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin

If a daughter were to be born seconds before a brother, it did not matter. He was the heir. If she was born decades before a boy, it did not matter. He was the heir. Or so the realm believed until the reign of Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Son of Baelon and Alyssa Targaryen, Grandson to the Old King Jaehaerys.

When Viserys Targaryen's wife, Aemma of House Arryn, had failed pregnancy after failed pregnancy, a girl was a welcomed result. It proved not only to Aemma herself and her King Husband that she could produce a child but to the realm that there was hope for a son, a much-preferred result.

Queen Consort Aemma Arryn died in pursuit of something she could not control, screaming, wailing, begging her husband not to cut her open, but he did not listen, for the birth of a son was more important than the life of a woman.

The infant Baelon Targaryen died a day later, leaving King Viserys a widower with only a daughter with the same fair skin and hair as the woman he murdered. The woman who laid slain on her birthing bed, bright blue irises now glassy, blood pooling from her womb, was given a Targaryen funeral along with the Heir for a Day, as her good brother called him, her last surviving child whispering, “dragon fire” through tears, with the encouragement of the same man who lusted after her and the throne.

The result of a mother’s and son’s death gave way to grief and anger. Viserys, blinded by the insults levied against his dead child, broke centuries of tradition and named Westeros’ first female heir Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Daemon Targaryen was furious at the abuse of being cast aside for a girl of ten and four and took to Dragonstone, the rightful seat of the Iron Throne's successor, with his whore, Lady Misery, an enslaved Lysene sold into the sex trade that became the Prince's favorite mistress.

Daemon did not hate his niece. He loved his family far more than anyone believed, so he surrendered when the Realm's Delight flew on her dragon to confront her uncle.

Less than a year later, not nearly long enough to mourn the death of two people, Viserys Targaryen married Alicent of House Hightower, daughter of the Hand and dearest friend to his daughter. The King saw the union as an act of fortunate duty and desire instead of love. On that much, the young Alicent Hightower could agree. Perhaps, he thought, it was a way to ensure his daughter would always have her closest Lady around, but Viserys was a fool . He could not see past his blinding grief and selfish lust that he tore the two girls apart.

Rhaenyra Targaryen's mother was a girl her age, a girl she longed to have to accompany her on Syrax, explore the East, and eat cake, but that was never meant to be. The Gods provided as quickly as they took, and her lifelong confidant viewed her with such hate and distaste that Rhaenyra soon began to consider her the same.

“Stepdaughter,” Alicent called her at the Princess's wedding feast to Ser Laenor of House Velaryon. Her voice laced with enough venom, and her dress so green you would mistake her for a snake. This gave Rhaenyra a sickening feeling in her gut, which soon hardened into one of cool indifference.

And that was how they lived.

Silent and icy indifference as Queen Alicent walked through the Targaryen halls of the Red Keep in Hightower Green, birthing the King his first surviving sons and second daughter.

However, there was a moment of repreave in the Queen's and the Princess's glacial flippancy when her forgotten ally fell pregnant for the first time.

Alicent could not help herself from caring for her old friend during her first pregnancy. She quickly fell back into the role of her Lady, supplying Rhaenyra with food, oils, clothing, and occasionally companionship during the quarrelsome nine moons.

The Queen had almost found it within her heart to forgive Rhaenyra for her lies and false swearing beneath the Heart Tree all those years ago, and she did until the labors when she saw the brown tuft of hair atop a young babe's head.

At the time, Alicent did not have a moment to contemplate what that meant before her friend screamed, holding on so tightly to her hand that she thought it might break as the rest of the infant emerged. The babe's face was so purple and cord wrapped around their neck that Alicent nearly cried, fearing life had repeated itself. The nursemaids quickly cut the blue and pink veiny line that connected the child to its mother, turning the babe upside down and spanking it on the back until its cries rang out throughout Maegor’s Holdfast.

A girl.

There, screaming and curling their once lifeless fist, were you , the firstborn child of Rhaenyra Targaryen, only by a mere moment, finally breathing and wailing as they swaddled you in an embroidered black and red cloth, a boy soon following.

“What shall you name them, your highness?” the eldest midwife asked, nearly as out of air as Rhaenyra.

“We…” the princess breathed heavily, positioning herself in the birthing chair. “We had only thought of a boy with the help of Lord Corlys. Jacaerys,” she panted, her cheeks tinged pink, either from exertion or embarrassment from being so thoughtless. Alicent did not know.

The nurse holding Rhaenyra’s son passed him to her, all eyes lingering on that same flattened-down dark hair. “Shall we wait for the Prince, your highness?” another question, holding the unnamed girl.

“I think,” Rhaenyra groans, shifting her weight to account for the new one, “we shall be waiting for a while should my husband suddenly return from his travels.” She glanced at Alicent, watching her once closest friend pick at the skin of her nails. She grinned, a brilliant idea coming to mind as she ordered the maid to give her daughter to the Queen. 

Alicent's doe eyes widened as she accepted. She peered down at the tiny bundle before her, still crying, purple face now a deep red and full of life. The Queen did not know what came over her as she leaned, bringing the child’s blotchy forehead to her lips, inhaling the unique scent only a newborn has. She noticed the muscles around where the babe's brows should be twitching, opening her eyes to reveal a mirror of Alicent’s own looking at her.

The Queen forgot for a moment that she was not her own and that she should be alarmed that the child's eyes bore no resemblance to their parents. Yet the Queen continued to smile down at the small fidgeting bundle in her grasp, her arms wiggling themselves out of their confines to clench and unclench. The cries now became softer but still there. Sounds that used to cause Alicent great distress now soothe her uneasy soul like a salve to a wound. 

“What shall we call her, my Queen?” Rhaenyra questioned, a crooked smile on her face as Alicent broke from her revere. Her plush lips parted in surprise, looking as if a deer caught grazing alone in a field.

The Queen appeared bewildered, unprepared for such a monumental task; all faces turned to her. “I… I am unsure, Princess. I did not come prepared for such an honor.”

Rhaenyra kept the same lopsided grin on her lips, showing the tips of her white teeth. “Tis all mine. It's an honor to have the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms name my first born daughter.”

“An honor I accept gladly,” Alicent rushed, worried that her refusal would shatter their peace.

She paused, pursing her lips in thought. Despite having three and another on the way, she had never named a child. Helaena was the closest she had ever gotten, a familiar name within the Reach but made to fit the traditional Targaryen spelling. Alicent would have something to herself, one tiny sliver of something that belonged to her, and she was unsure what to do with it. She was confident that Rhaenyra would be content with any name she chose, but she wanted it to be unique, to mean something more than just a word.

Alicent thought of her mother then—her darling mother, whom she barely had a chance to spend life with before a fever took her. A mother that her father said she looked like an extension of, and suddenly, only one name felt right.

The Queen was constantly conflicted about every choice she made, every move. From the food she ate to the clothes she wore, Alicent always worried herself over it, wondering if she had made the correct decision, but in this, she was sure. No man, woman, or God could sway her from this choice. It was right. The Queen could feel it in the marrow of her bones that it was so.

“Aelora.”

Aelora, my light.

The King came bursting moments later, a servant dressed in a crimson gown, white apron, and cap standing anxiously beside him. He immediately went straight into the room, brushing past his wife in favor of his daughter. Alicent felt a sour taste in her mouth at the notion, pulling the quiet lump tighter to her chest.

“A boy and a girl!” Viserys excitedly hollered, Rhaenyra passing Jacaerys to him. Anxiousness settled over the birthing chamber, the midwives and maids observing with worrisome eyes at the head of brown hair. “ Ah! And I see they have inherited my favorite cousin's hair.”

He held the newborn with a reverence Alicent had never seen with her own, and she stepped back into the shadows of the onlookers. She peered down, catching the babe's eyes shut and face slack, still with the fresh scent of birth. She brought you to her forehead again as she took in this brief moment of joy, nose nuzzling the infant’s as she grunted at the intrusion.

“Aelora, the Gods’ Light. My shining light,” she whispered so softly against the babe's satin-smooth skin that it drifted into the air like dust, lost in the wind. 

“Oh, and her eyes, too!” Viserys beamed, hoisting Jacaerys into the air as the wetnurses squealed in terror. “She will make a fine queen one day, and should the Gods allow it, you, a king.” Rhaenyra laughed at her father's antics, already planning the children’s marriage. She was too high on the feeling of birthing not one but two healthy babes, a boy and a girl, no less to care. Alicent's amber eyes flicked to her husband and then to your plump face, a frown pulling her lips.

Aegon had come quickly and without fuss. Though Alicent was merely a girl of ten and six when it happened, the moments leading up to it frightened her thoroughly. She worried her nails down to the quick, the pink fleshy beds exposed and bleeding whenever she would use too harsh of a grip.

She knew of what happened to Aemma Arryn, that the babe was stuck and couldn't turn to leave the womb, at least to the Maester’s belief. He gave the King a choice, not the woman who was writhing in pain as her body contracted, to either let the process play out with the chance that the child and his wife could perish or have him slice her open from hip to hip, dig through her guts and blood to pry the child out. Aemma Arryn had no voice in the matter from what she heard from the midwives, as her husband allowed a man to pull Prince Baelon straight from her womb.

Alicent did not want to face the same fate and prayed to the Mother day after day, night after night, until her knees were yellow and blue, and even then, she continued her efforts. She was alone in all this, with no one to confide in. Her father had told her to do her duty when she expressed concern. He assured her the King would allow no such thing if she did everything correctly. He offered no comfort, and Alicent longed for her dearest Princess. Her prayers were answered when that fateful day came, and the labors lasted no more than an hour.

She birthed a healthy boy with blonde hair and purple eyes, but even then, Viserys did not act the way he was now with Rhaenyra's children. A means to end all the uncertainty of an heir, her father said in words of solace. She hadn't understood what he meant then. Rhaenyra was the heir, crowned Princess of Dragonstone, and Lords swore allegiance to her across the realm. To Alicent, there was no uncertainty until there was.

Until Otto Hightower planted the rot that festered and spread in her mind that the girl she grew up alongside, the girl she spent so many days and nights with, the girl that had said she would forget her duty and fly off across the world eating nothing but cake with her friend by her side, would murder Alicent's children so they could not depose her reign.

She did not believe Rhaenyra was capable of cruelty, but then again, she had once considered her incapable of lying to her and was proven wrong.

She began to fuss as if the infant in her embrace could sense the Queen's unrest. Her delicate little face scrunched up as Alicent bounced her softly, cooing soothingly. She smiled despite her unpleasantness within, unfazed by the sudden outburst, unlike when Helaena had her fits as a child. Her daughter would have to meet her niece and nephew, along with Aegon. Aemond was too young. She wouldn't be able to keep a close eye on him.

Though he was half the size of Aegon when he was born, he had grown twice as fierce. At barely three years old, his nursemaids had to ceaselessly follow the moonlight-haired boy less than a step away lest he jump down a flight of stairs just to see if he could. Once, when Alicent dismissed the servants from Aemond's chambers as he readied for bed, she turned her back on him for a singular blink, and he opened his balcony doors and climbed over the railing to get a better view of the night sky. Alicent remembered how he kicked and screamed as she yanked him from the ledge, saying words and phrases she never knew, even at the age she was now.

“My Queen,” the wetnurse called like she had repeated herself as Alicent looked at the girl. “The young Princess needs her first feeding.” The woman held out her arms for her to hand over the fussing bundle, a calm but concerned expression on her face.

Alicent refused, curling her limbs as the babe squirmed, her cries becoming ear-piercing screams. She knew the child needed to eat but could not force her body to release the girl. It was as if her very bones denied the movement that was not keeping the hungry infant close to her. The fleeting thought that Alicent could feed the girl herself crossed her mind, but she shook it away, realizing the ludacrisy of it. It was improper for a woman of nobility to nurse their child. That's what the maids were for, the Queen told herself.

The wetnurse peered at her curiously, walking a pace closer, but Alicent stepped back as if she attempted to harm her. “The King has not held her yet,” she protested, looking towards her King-Husband in an attempt to prolong her time.

“All is well, Alicent. What kind of King refuses to let their babe grandchild eat?” he jested, tilting his head to the side playfully and exposing a gaping smile. It made Alicent want to vomit.

When she doesn't move to listen, the Queen stared at her husband like her silence could serve as a rejection of his words. Viserys sighed as Rhaenyra watched with piqued interest, wordlessly handing Jacaerys to another maid.

“Alicent, give her the child.”

She hesitated again, her brown eyes flickering to Rhaenyra when she did not offer for Alicent to stay while the maids worked. Once again, she mused bitterly, watching the infant intently as she relented. I give my dream away to you. A dream that was never indeed mine.

The Queen bowed to the Princess, congratulating her on the success as she took her leave, hand splaying over the swollen stomach of her emerald green gown. It felt too tight, the once smooth fabric now itching at her skin, the fine hairs on her arms catching between the threads.

How stupid she was to believe in Rhaenyra’s kindness. She felt like a girl again, the same girl who stood beneath the Weirwood, listening to her friend swear on her mother’s memory that she had not lain with a man, only to find out there was moontea delivered to her chambers.

A sudden kick was sent to the Queen's abdomen, halting her brisk pace as she doubled over within the pale redstone hall. Ser Criston Cole arrived moments later, helping her rise to her feet. She soothed the afflicted area with her palm, no doubt the cause being her own making. Despite the growing life inside of her, the Queen has now done it four times. Alicent believed the moment she laid her wide amber eyes on yours was the closest she had ever felt to being whole with someone in her life. It’s as if the child's very being was now a part of her, and every moment she was away, it felt as if she was missing a piece of her soul.

Rhaenyra flaunts and does as she pleases, lies, and tricks all she pleases. It made Alicent furious with a rage she had not felt for nearly a decade. Aelora will not become like her mother. The Green Queen will not allow it, even if she has to twist and shape the clay of Aelora's mind into something of her own. Aelora is her dream. She is the Gods' shining light, and Alicent will be damned if she allows Rhaenyra to blacken her glow.

Septon Eustace's Recount of Princess Aelora I Targaryen's Early Life

The young Velaryon princess, later taking her mother’s namesake, grew into a spritely and mischievous child, playing jests on her Septa and Prince Aemond with the aid of her brothers and the eldest of the Queen’s children, Prince Aegon. She did not develop into a traditional Targaryen beauty with blonde hair and violet eyes; instead, she had a golden chestnut crown with eyes to match. Many said she resembled Queen Alicent, though if anyone made the error of voicing it, they faced Princess Rhaenyra’s wrath.

Though her features were plain by Targaryen standards, the realm rejoiced in her beauty. Lords and ladies commissioned portraits of her countenance throughout the kingdom, proudly displaying a halcyon halo of red rubies adorning the top of her divine facade. The common folk coined the name “The Gods' Light” for the sweet girl. A glimpse of her was as close as one would get to the Maiden, and they cherished it whenever Princess Rhaenyra's faction made rare journeys to the Grand Sept.

Masterlist of Series

Spotify Playlist

I'm excited to write for my favorite war criminal, Visenya Incarnate, Aemond Targaryen. I'm just super happy to write Aemond smut! I'm also taking a different approach to this story because it will solely be based on the show (to the best of my ability), not the book, and will be released with the same progression. It will have accounts of the reader's life through the eyes of the Maester's. Of course, there will be some cannon divergence and whatnot, considering we're introducing a new character into the fray. This fic will also be a lot darker than what I've written in the past, including content such as childhood sexual assault and the after-effects of it, self-harm, depression, suicide, and unhealthy sibling dynamics/relationships.

This story is told from the second person's perspective. The reader only has a name for the sake of a title and the description of Strong features.

Y'all have no idea how fulfilling writing has been for me. It's given me purpose when I've felt like I had none. It's helped my mental health by giving me an outlet for self-expression and a good source of distraction from all the worries I have in life. I wish I could get paid for this!

I hope y'all will enjoy the story as much as I will writing it, and of course, thank you so much for taking the time to read this. You genuinely have no idea how much your support means to me, but I will continue to express it in the best way I know how. ♡⁠(⁠˃͈�� ⁠દ⁠ ⁠˂͈⁠ ⁠༶⁠ ⁠)

Ps. Alicent's mom's name is unknown in the show and the book, so I'm creating a name that combines my original idea with traditional Targaryen spelling.

Pronunciation: Uh-lore-uh, Ae-lore-uh

Origin: Latin

Meaning: dream, dreamer, shining light.

Biblical Meaning: God is light, God's light.

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp, @britt-mf

[therogueflame]

Okay well I took a nap and had an Aemond sex dream, so Aemond girlies, the fic after this Harwin one is for you

[yoursweetheartsrevenge]

Masterlist

This blog is exclusively 18+. Minors do not interact.

You stumble across a woman as typical as any writer should be. She is steaming with stories to write and tales to tell. It's all smut, angst, darkness, and the occasion fluff piece.

Hello. I'm Cecilia. Mid 30s. Literate Bitch living on the East Coast of America. I am just getting back into writing again. Ewanverse characters are my main squeeze, but may dabble with more fandoms in the future. I also occasionally write Aegon II Targaryen fics.

My inbox is always open for chatting and now open for requests! See guidelines located here.

This is a side blog. My main blog is @thewhisperedone You get a follow from her it is but me in a former life.

Cross post all my stories here - My AO3

Aemond Targaryen - Canon - HOTD

When You Were Mine - 1/1 - aemond x madam sylvi's daughter - COMPLETE 🔥💝💘

On A Dark Stormy Night You Awaken - 1/1 - aegon II x reader x aemond - COMPLETE 🔥🔥🔥

Blood of My Blood - 1/? - aemond x ofc - outlander inspired - WIP 💘🔥💀

How Bad Do You Want Me? - 1/1 - aemond x reader - COMPLETE - 🔥💝💘

The Claimant - 1/1 - aemond x niece ofc- COMPLETE - 💘💝

Aemond Targaryen - Modern AU - HOTD

Your Blood, My Love - 5/? - vampire!aemond x ofc - WIP 💀💘🔥

The Academic - 1/1 - modern aemond x librarian - COMPLETE 💀🔥

Ettore - High Life

Disease - 12/12 - ettore x ex gf - COMPLETE 🔥💀💘

Tom Bennett - World on Fire

Thick as Thieves - 5/? - tom bennett x ofc - WIP 💘💝🔥

Will - Salad Days

Never Again - 1/1 - will x fem!hostage - COMPLETE 💘💀🔥

Michael Gavey - Saltburn

Stressors -1/1 - michael gavey x gf - COMPLETE🔥💝💘

Billy Taylor - The Halycon

Sweet Little Flower - 1/1 - billy taylor x ofc - COMPLETE 💝💘

Abraham - Grantchester

Well Bred - 1/? - abraham x ofc - WIP 🔥💘

Osferth - The Last Kingdom

Billy Washington - Trigger Point

Genyen/Shaun - BBC Doctors

Martin Lefevre

Aegon II Targaryen - Canon - HOTD

Martin4Spider - 1/2 - martin x spider - WIP

In Need of Comfort - 1/1 - aegon ii & reader COMPLETE 💘💝

[bronzefuryfic]

Rhae Targaryen

When the only child of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce is brought to King's Landing to meet with the rest of her family, she finds herself caught in a crisis of succession. The Greens battle for her support... and her affections.

Fic Highlights

Bronze Fury is a heavily green-centric fic from the perspective of my OC, Rhae, as she struggles with identity, love, and loss over the course of the canon events in House of the Dragon!

Canon-compliant, but greatly expanded!

This fic aims to enhance what I love most about the show! Rhae is used to add to the themes already present- providing additional motivation for the Greens, and facilitating more opportunities for them to talk and develop. HotD is the outline, and Bronze Fury stuffs it full with...

'Missing' scenes! Have you ever wondered what happened between the time skips? Who were these characters ~before~ tragedy strikes? And when it does... what do their transformations look like up close?

New storylines! Rhae has her own characterization, and her own goals, unique to her experience as Daemon's forgotten daughter by Rhea Royce. See her grapple with her legacy as Daemon's daughter and Lady of Runestone, as well as navigate her role amongst her new found family, the Greens.

Rhae has unique romantic storylines with both Aegon and Aemond!

If you are a fan of jealous!Aegon or jealous!Aemond, you will find it here in spades. This fic explores the jealousy between the brothers on all levels- not just as it pertains to their romantic rivalry! See them bicker, fight, make-up, then do it all over again. And again. And again.

Childhood friends to lovers! (And occasional enemies). This fic begins with the younger version of the green kids and follows them into adulthood. See how it all began. See how it all falls apart.

Pining! Lots and lots of pining. And co-dependency. And betrayal.

Rhae proves herself to be worthy of their infatuation. Their respective connections are heavily grounded in shared experiences (parental neglect, grievous injuries) and genuine feeling. You won't be left wondering why they're both attracted to her, or her to them- It's all very earned!

Rhae and Helaena are best friends!

We need more female friendships! And the one between Rhae and Helaena is tooth-achingly sweet, with an equal amount of time dedicated to their bond as with either brother. They have tea-time, they play with bugs, they pray at the Sept. They have sleepovers and talk about their freaky dreams...

Rhae gives Helaena the space to freely voice her own opinions- learn how she feels about her family, her future, and more!

Alicent and Criston as complicated parental figures!

Watch Alicent lure a motherless girl to King's Landing to secure her allegiance to their cause- by any means necessary. Private communications, private dinners... does Alicent truly care for the teenager she's brought into her home? Or is she merely a means to an end- fodder for the war, meant only to protect her children?

When your father is Daemon Targaryen, pretty much anyone looks better in comparison- and Criston Cole is no exception! Once fearful of the knight, Rhae quickly comes to appreciate his strength... and his tutelage. He's a tough instructor, but Rhae will put up with anything if it means learning to fight from the best of the best.

Dreams of patricide

Sometimes it feels that Rhae can trace all her problems back to a singular cause- that being none other than her father, Daemon. The Rogue Prince killed her mother and abandoned his daughter for fifteen years. Rhae thinks she ought to kill him for that... but not before understanding one thing: Why?

How is Rhae - a young, disabled, dragonless girl - ever going to face her father? Work. Hard, long years of it. Will her efforts to learn combat and claim a dragon be enough? Can she protect her new family from his wrath? Will she be able to avenge those who have already fallen victim to it?

Interested in reading? Check out the BRONZE FURY DIRECTORY!

Still not sure if it's for you? Feel free to send any questions you have! My anons are always on- let me know what you're looking for (characterization, plot, specific character dynamics etc), and I'll let you know if you'll find it in my fic!

[murmel-malt]

had @emilykaldwen's vampire!abby stuck in my brain the entire day. please accept this humble doodle as tribute.

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Aegon II Targaryen x OFC // Part One

REWRITE OF OLD FANFIC

Trigger warnings: MDNI, smut, kink, kinda darkish aegon in this part but not really, Season 2 non-compliant, canon misogyny, possessive Aegon, Targcest, OC is Viserys and Aemma's daughter, OC is named Daenerys bc <3, OC looks like Elizabeth Olsen.

Queen Daenerys Targaryen was the second daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Aemma Arryn. She was sister-wife to King Aegon II Targaryen, and the pair famously fought together during the civil war between House Targaryen known as the Dance of the Dragons. She was a dragonrider who rode the wild dragon Grey Ghost. -- Archmaester Gyldayn, The Dying of the Dragons

Fresh, cold air enlivened her, the pale fingers of dawn beckoning as the princess rose early seeking her dragon. Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma, felt anxious to return to Dragonstone's skies atop Grey Ghost's back. It may well be their final flight. Today, she returned to King’s Landing, bidding farewell to her ancestral home, the island fortress where she had lived with her sister, Rhaenyra, and her sister's family for years.

In three moons, she would be a woman wed.

A restless beast within the princess longed to leave. But something else wanted to remain; she sensed that in common with Grey Ghost, the wild dragon native to Dragonstone. He did not want to leave. Her dragon was shy, avoidant of people and other dragons. He did not care for the Dragonpit. She could not blame him. Neither of them shared any fondness for the capital. Daenerys lacked the taste for politics and pretense, the ever-present demand to portray perfection, perfectly navigating the societal expectations that came with being a princess of House Targaryen. Today she was leaving the relative safety of Dragonstone, where she had supped on freedom unbeholden to the responsibilities that awaited her in King's Landing. She was leaving her home, re-entering a hive of snakes set on twisting her to their will, bleeding her dry from a thousand tiny bites. Who knows what the city is like now? They could all be different. Even Helaena. They could be ... crueler.

Were it not for Aegon, she would refuse to leave Dragonstone.

Father would forgive her. Father always forgave her, even when he wouldn't overlook Aegon's transgressions, or Aemond or Helaena. Daenerys was Aemma’s daughter. The king's favor had not gone unnoticed. Many nights she had comforted Aegon as he cried drunkenly on her lap, feeling guilt churning her stomach. She couldn't help it. She resented Father's preferential treatment; all of her siblings were worthy of adoration, from Helaena and her sweet temperance to Aemond's unwavering sense of duty. She barely remembered her mother, the long-dead Aemma Arryn. Daenerys ached for her all the same.

Another painful pang shot through her, making her wince. She was saying goodbye to Rhaenyra today as well. Another mother taken from her, to be replaced with Alicent Hightower In three moons, the green queen would be Daenerys' good-mother; she did not relish the thought.

Grey Ghost nuzzled his maw into her chest as she descended the Dragonmont, passing the Dragonkeepers with their long poles and lithely climbing across a grey-white wing to strap herself into the wild dragon’s lightweight saddle. The dragon roared, a trill similar to Syrax's call, then spread his wings. A hit of wind as she was thrust airborne, and another as the dragon gained momentum.

And then they were truly flying.

Every woe fell away, every fear and worry and secret. On dragonback, Princess Daenerys felt truly powerful. Her stomach lurched as Grey Ghost swooped from the mouth of the Dragonmont, a steep incline that plummeted them both to the sea. Unfurling his wings, Grey Ghost caught the wind and coasted, claws scraping the ocean's surface, before pumping his wings and taking them straight up into the sky. Clouds caressed her cheeks, the wayward tendrils of her silver curls wild as her dragon. She pressed her hands to Grey Ghost’s scales, abandoning the saddle handles, her dragon’s touch a molten comfort. Grey Ghost looped around the cliffs of Dragonstone, across the fields where the dragons sometimes landed after flights, ducking over the small port villages where fishermen were steering their nets; she heard them cry a greeting, remembering how the smallfolk of Dragonstone were said to view Grey Ghost as a fortunate omen. One glimpse of the Grey Ghost, and a man's net will never go empty. She flew as far as she ever had — further, even, — until she had to steer back lest she arrive at King’s Landing prematurely. Grey Ghost dipped and banked, scraping his claws in the sea again, before taking them higher back into the clouds, where the shy dragon’s pale scales concealed them both.

The sun had fully risen by the time Daenerys heard a familiar whistling shriek calling to her. Daemon. She must have been gone longer than she thought. The rogue prince himself had mounted Caraxes the Blood Wyrm to bring her home.

Sighing, Daenerys guided Grey Ghost back to the Dragonmont with the lightest nudge of her thigh. Caraxes soared to greet her, a crimson serpent among the clouds. Both dragons descended simultaneously, landing inside the Dragonmont at the plinth of Meraxes' skull.

“Nyke naejot chase ao,” Daemon remarked. (I thought to chase you) “Gōntan ao forget īlon issi lodaor, niece? Ao isse particular." (Did you forget we are otherwise engaged, niece? You in particular)

“Nyke emagon daor forgot.” (I have not forgotten) How could she? Everyday she’d thought of Aegon. His lips. His eyes. What does he look like now? Her soon-to-be husband. Daenerys herself had undergone a rapid growth spurt in the years they’d been apart, hips widening under her skirt, her bodice growing tighter.

“Then perhaps you ought be mindful of your timekeeping. We do not want to keep your sister waiting.”

“Indeed we do not.” Daenerys rolled her eyes, running her hands along Grey Ghost’s flank soothingly. Soon. She would remount her dragon before the day was done and return to King’s Landing — to Aegon — at last.

She shivered. In fear or excitement, she could not say.

“You do not have to do this.”

Daenerys smiled at her sister. “I knew you would attempt one last effort to change my mind.”

“It is not too late, Daenerys. We can betroth you to Jacaerys, you would be the future queen—“

“The Hightowers would never accept such an insult,” said Daenerys. “Aegon and I have been promised since birth. It is time we honor the oaths taken for us.”

"I cannot bear to see you shipped off to that drunken sot," Rhaenyra said coldly.

Daenerys glared at her sister. "Rhaenyra--"

"I know."

Rhaenyra didn’t say it, but Daenerys knew her sister sensed the truth. Daenerys had been promised to Aegon the moment he was born, at the urging of Ser Otto Hightower, Hand to their father, King Viserys. Aegon and Daenerys marrying would bring the two branches of his family together, said the Hand, Aemma's daughter and Alicent's continuing House Targaryen's customs, wedding brother to sister, dragonrider to dragonrider. All her life, Daenerys had known Aegon would be her husband. At first it meant little to her. Aegon was her baby brother, a doll to dress up, and then a playmate who followed her lead -- followed her anywhere, really -- as the prince and princess tore through the Red Keep, playing monsters and maidens and come-into-my-castle. They claimed their dragons together. Did everything together, even things they were not supposed to do until they were married. He was hers, and she was his.

But that had been before Driftmark. What if the Aegon that awaited her in King’s Landing was unrecognizable?

Rhaenyra took Daenerys’ face in her hands. “Sister,” she breathed. “You look much like our mother today.” In her ivory riding coat trimmed with silver and white fur, beaded with moonstone and opal, Daenerys unintentionally wore the colors of House Arryn. In truth, she had been avoiding the debacle of wearing black or green, opting to honor her dragon instead.

But for once Aemma’s ghost felt soothing. Daenerys closed her hands over Rhaenyra’s, their foreheads touching, both sisters sharing an intimate mother in honor of their late mother, the woman who connected them through life and death.

“I am proud of you, sister,” said Rhaenyra.

“As I am you.”

The sisters parted, mounting their dragons as they prepared to make the destined flight to King’s Landing. Syrax’s wings brushed Grey Ghost’s as the Targaryen sisters departed Dragonstone, together for a little while longer.

Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump--

Her heart was a caged beast throwing itself again the bars of her ribs. Shivers plagued her hands. Grey Ghost shared her nerves; as King’s Landing rose on the horizon — the Red Keep atop Aegon’s Hill first, then the Dragonpit on the Hill of Rhaenys, a sprawl of buildings and brothels and taverns and crooked keeps stacked on top of each other in between — the grey dragon trilled mournfully, shying away from the city. She soothed him, murmuring in High Valyrian, all while battling her own nerves.

This was it. She was finally going to marry Aegon.

They would share each other’s bed and be expected to sire new Targaryen princes and princesses to fill the Red Keep's halls. Heat rushed to her face. As children, Aegon and Daenerys shared clumsy kisses, fumbling hands hidden from her septa. Once they were married there would be more need for secrecy. He would take her to bed and claim her maidenhead, this stranger prince who bore her brother’s name.

Grey Ghost dismounted in the Dragonpit in between Syrax and Caraxes. As the Dragonkeepers led them away, Rhaenyra squeezed her hand, both of them following Daemon as he climbed into the ornate carriage escorting them from the Dragonpit to the Red Keep.

Aegon.

His name was a litany in her mind. As the carriage crawled across cobblestone streets, Daenerys tried to think of something else, anything else, but it was impossible. Her stomach churned. She caught Daemon’s eye and the rogue prince chuckled, amused by her distress. Rhaenyra looked at him reproachfully, squeezing Daenerys’ hand once more. She held onto it, grateful for her sister’s comfort, eager to drink up all of it before she was married and bound to the Red Keep while Rhaenyra returned to Dragonstone.

She remembered the Red Keep well. But it looked different; more somber, the tapestries of House Targaryen replaced with various religious heraldry honoring the Faith of the Seven, and an air of mourning clinging to the castle like maudlin perfume.

Do not let them see you frightened. You are the blood of the dragon. A dragon does not cower. A herald announced their coming as Daenerys and her family entered the gates to the main hall and approached the Iron Throne. Father. He smiled, frail and gaunt on his seat of swords. At the foot of the throne stood Queen Alicent, resplendent in a green gown, and the Hand, Ser Otto Hightower.

Flanking them were three silver-haired strangers.

Aemond was easily distinguished by his eye patch. He has changed. He is taller, more dangerous. He stood protectively next to Helaena, clad in a cloth-of-gold dress with her eyes elsewhere, the only one of Alicent’s brood not wearing green.

And then there was the comely silver-haired youth watching her with an intensity that made the dragon within Daenerys purr.

Time had been kind to Aegon. The boy she knew had grown into his features, hair shorter than she remembered. He is beautiful. His violet eyes were fixed on her. The weight of their history crushed her; every moment together in this castle... The moments soon to follow... The wedding... The bedding...

Daenerys trembled, suddenly flushed with new fire.

Aegon had waited for this moment for so very long.

Ever since Rhaenyra had taken his Nerys from him, he had waited, yearning, for the day she would finally come back to him. She had to. Aegon could not let her leave him forever. His Nerys. His she-dragon. The only person in his accursed family who truly meant a damn to him, his sweet sister with her large lavender eyes and kind words and soft lips.

He hated her.

She was his only good thing, and she had left him, absconding to Dragonstone with Rhaenyra after Lucerys took Aemond's eye on Driftmark. How could she leave him? Didn’t she know how much he needed her, craved her? Had he not told her every fucking day? Everyday without her felt excruciating. Aegon drowned himself in wine and whores and slowly lost parts of himself, chipped away by Mother and Father and their endless disappointment in him. Nothing he did was ever good enough.

And now the moment was here. He had imagined it a thousand ways, a thousand possibilities. What did she look like now? She’d always been a beauty, the pinnacle of Valyrian radiance with her silver curls and haunting lavender eyes. Aegon remembered the child she had been, but now she was a maiden grown. His soon-to-be wife. Seven Hells, don’t let her be ugly, he thought selfishly.

Rhaenyra entered first. His half-sister’s cool gaze passed over him like he wasn’t there. Smug bitch. Mother’s words chimed in his head; “You are the challenge, Aegon! Simply by living and breathing!”

It wasn’t enough for Rhaenyra to be their father’s favorite child, to flaunt her transgressions blatantly by masquerading those bastards of hers as true Targaryens. She had to steal Nerys from him too. They had always played a silent game of tug when it came to their sister; Aegon would pries Daenerys away from Rhaenyra, and Rhaenyra would snatch her back. He seethed silently. Today you lose, sister. Even you could not prevent this marriage.

Daemon entered alongside Rhaenyra, his uncle’s countenance imposing as ever. Aegon felt Aemond watching him with something akin to admiration. Rhaenyra’s brood of bastards came next, along with the rogue prince’s twin daughters sired on Laena Velaryon.

Aegon saw none of them truly. He was transfixed by the exquisite creature clad in ivory gliding towards him, lavender eyes already searching.

She was taller, leaner. Years of dragon-riding had honed her figure; she looked somewhat like her dragon, the wild Grey Ghost, with her ivory riding coat. With a jolt, he recognized that familiar mane of silver curls, remembered burying his nose in them and inhaling her scent. His eyes roved every curve hungrily; the swell of her hips, larger than they had been last time they were together, the curve of her breasts, her plush lips...

She was a woman now. His woman.

Aegon thrashed internally as he fought the urge to cross the hall and claim her in front of every lord in the court.

Her lavender eyes were hard to read. He recalled their power vividly, those wide, beseeching eyes, impossible and inescapable. She was inspecting him, too. Did he disappoint her? Bone-deep insecurities gnawed at him. His hands shook in want of a drink.

Aegon barely heard their father’s words.

“ … an honor to finally unite the two branches of my family, and to strengthen the dynasty of House Targaryen for another hundred years … “

A firm jab of Mother's elbow roused Aegon from his lustful thoughts. At her urging, he stepped forward; Daenerys did the same.

Aegon took her hand, as was custom, while King Viserys decreed, “Let the royal festivities commence! Prince Aegon and Princess Daenerys will be wed in three moons. May the gods bless the royal couple!”

Cheers erupted in the court.

Her skin burned in his. He felt the trembling of her hand, sensed her distress.

I love you. You left me. I need you. You are mine.

Aegon squeezed her hand tightly, pressing his lips to her skin, desperate to taste her, to consume.

The feast held in the Red Keep that night was more splendid an affair than any Daenerys had ever attended, a grand celebration fit for a royal couple. Bards sang ballads of Targaryen greatness, from Aegon the Conqueror's war for Westeros to her uncle Daemon's deeds in the Stepstones, while nobles devoured course after course of food. The Red Keep was a cacophony of sound. She was seated beside Aegon, of course. After their initial meeting, Daenerys had gladly been given leave to bathe and prepare for the approaching festivities. It felt strange, returning to the bedchambers of her youth. Had it always been so droll? Dragonstone was dank and draughty, true, but there was a familiarity to it that felt like home, the Dragonmont flushing the castle with heat like blood in a brick and mortar body.

The castle had changed. As the handmaidens scrubbed the scent of dragon from her skin in a copper tub filled with steaming water and scented oils, untangling the snares in her silver curls, the princess pondered the changes made to the castle, from the religious decor to the somber ghosts haunting the halls. Poor Father. He looks so ill.

And Aegon…

Thoughts of her betrothed made Daenerys dizzy as the handmaidens smoothed her dry and dressed her in a dazzling gown of silver silk embellished with opal and obsidian, her shoulders bare and anointed with perfumed oils beneath sweeping sleeves of Myrish lace. He is angry with me. No, not angry. Aegon never felt any emotion with anything less than its most intense potential; when he was joyful he lit up a castle, and his fury could scorch kingdoms to the ground. She felt his fury now.

He believes I abandoned him. Does he not see that I was always certain to return? Could he not grant me a few more years of freedom before the Hightowers ensured I was wed and bred to their would-be king?

No. Of course he did not understand. Aegon was a man, ignorant to the fears every woman faced in the birthing bed.

Men knew lust, however, and Daenerys had seen the lust in Aegon’s eyes. He wanted her. He hated her, but he wanted her. She’d been a fool to expect a less hostile welcome. He was no longer her sweet prince, the brother she loved and cherished, her partner in play. He was … different.

What if Rhaenyra was right? What if Aegon's heart had become as blackened as the towers of Harrenhal, a cruel drunkard replacing the precious boy she'd known?

And so the princess sat beside Aegon on the raised dais in the seat of high honor, steadfastly ignoring her betrothed as her hands silently shook beneath the table. Father retired early, too weary to endure the celebration, leaving Queen Alicent and Ser Otto to steer the pompous speeches plaguing the night. Daenerys poked at her food, wishing she' could talk to Rhaenyra and Daemon, sat on the far end of the table away from Alicent's children, and helped herself to wine. Aegon did the same. As she finished her first cup, her hands moved to signal one of the servants, only for Aegon to beat her to it. He filled her cup himself, eyes never meeting hers. She glanced at him, then away. She could scarcely look at him for shivering anew with nerves. What was happening to her?

Steel your nerves. You are the blood of the dragon.

Tyland Lannister disturbed the tension, thankfully, as he approached the dais.

“My prince,” he addressed Aegon first, “my princess. Please accept my sincere well wishes for your union. I am sure it will be fruitful.” He grinned. “You are truly a lucky man, my prince. To have such a beauty by your side.”

Aegon’s hand suddenly cupped her thigh possessively. She froze as he leaned forward.

“You are most kind, Lord Tyland. I assure you, nobody shall enjoy my beautiful wife quite like I.”

Lord Tyland laughed. “A babe in her belly within the year!”

Daenerys tensed. Aegon’s laugh grated her. Her own fury flamed beneath her skin, boiling her blood.

“That is most generous, Lord Lannister,” she drawled in a sickly sweet tone. “Perhaps you would join me in a dance to celebrate this joyful occasion? I fear my betrothed has neither the taste nor talent.”

Dancing with Tyland Lannister was not a welcome prospect, but making Aegon jealous was. Twice the buffonish lord trod on her feet. She bore it as long as she could, smiling sweetly and accepting his ludicrous comments about her nuptials to Aegon with courtesy fit for a princess. As the tempo of the music urged more people to dance, she took advantage of the opportunity to twirl away from Lord Tyland into Daemon's arms, who chuckled at her fortune. She glanced at the dais. Aegon was gone.

Daenerys excused herself, seeking refuge in the only place she truly enjoyed in the Red Keep -- the godswood. The weirwood tree was as beautiful as she remembered, it's bone branches illuminated by the full moon.

“I knew I would find you here. Your fascination with this tree remains bewildering.”

Aegon. He appeared as if from the wind, standing closer to her than courtesy deemed appropriate.

“I enjoy its peace." She turned to face him. "Peace is hard to come by in this place.”

“Would you have rather remained at Dragonstone?”

“My freedom was mine own at Dragonstone. Here we dance to the rhythm beat for us, pulled by invisible strings.”

“You sound like Helaena.”

“Helaena is smarter than you know. You should listen to her.”

He scoffed. “What would you know?” His fingers found her arms, digging into her. The heat of his breath tickled her face. “You chose to flaunt about Dragonstone at Rhaenyra’s side when we needed you most. You left us. I waited for you, Nerys. I waited and waited for you to come back to me, all while you hid beneath our sister’s skirts on that godsforsaken island. You abandoned me!”

Suddenly he shoved her into the weirwood tree, rough bark biting through her silver gown. His hands grasped her face hard enough to bruise. Fear gripped her … and something else, something that had lain dormant until Aegon roused it, a monster of fire and blood thrashing against its chains, demanding desire, passion, Aegon’s hands holding her tighter, tighter…

The blood of the dragon.

“Still all you think about is yourself,” she hissed, “your own welfare, how much you must suffer. Have you considered my choice to leave King’s Landing did not involve you?”

“It fucking should have,” he growled. “You were mine. You still are. I fucking needed you. Does that please you to hear? I needed you, Nerys. I always needed you, you know that. Father abhors me, and my mother…” Tears glistened his eyes. “Nothing I do shall ever be enough for her. You were all I had. And you fucking left me.”

The bloody leaves of the weirwood tree shielded them from view. Daenerys wondered hazily if she should scream. A guard might hear and come to her aid. Of course, there was no surety a royal guard would dare to touch Aegon, a prince of the realm, but they might alert Alicent or Rhaenyra…

The scream would not come. “I did not want to leave you.”

Aegon scoffed, unkind. “You are a liar.”

“By the gods, Aegon, must you be so dense? Did you ever listen to my words? I confided in you all those times how I feared I was doomed to meet my mother's fate. She was locked in a castle and forced to bear heirs for the crown until it killed her. Our father did that to her. The man who claimed to love her, to the detriment of his wife and family. I was … I am scared. You know there are those in this castle who believe to be Father’s true heir. Those same people will inflict on me what our father did to my mother. They would use me as a broodmare for your heirs. Even if it kills me.”

Aegon frowned, somewhat diminished. “I do not understand.”

“How could you? You are a man. Your life is your own.”

“Do not be so sure,” he snapped. “You are not the only one beholden to the expectations of others.”

Daenerys held his stare for a long time. “I have missed you,” she whispered.

His eyes devoured her. Hungry, he tugged at her silver curls as his lips captured hers.

Daenerys resisted, pushing against him, but Aegon was unyielding, warm and firm and familiar, and so perfect, hot and solid, silver locks entwining her fingers as she growled and scratched at his scalp, suddenly filled with his hunger… The dragon inside her thrashing, gouging, needing more more more…

It was not how she envisioned her first real kiss with Aegon. Their stolen, forbidden kisses of childhood had been chaste, unsure. There was nothing unsure about this. Their tongues met in a battle of dragonfire, hands clawing and pulling and pawing.

Aegon’s thigh slotted between her legs. A moan left her, swallowed by the star-filled night.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Let your betrothed take care of you. That’s my good girl.”

“We cannot…”

“I don’t care.” His hand gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You are mine. I will never let you leave me again. If I must, I shall chain to my bed and collar you like an animal, so nobody can steal you ever again. Would you like that, darling? To warm my bed and drain my cock whenever I fancy?”

His words repulsed her. So why was she soaking wet and throbbing where his thigh pressed against her? This was wrong, she was a princess, not a common whore to be despoiled before her wedding night… And Aegon… His passion terrified her. It thrilled her.

“You frighten me.” Her voice was small, barely a hush.

Aegon pressed his forehead to hers. “Good. Perhaps if I frighten you enough, you will know not to desert me again.”

She trembled.

“I can make you happy,” he said hastily. “I do not know how but I … I want to make you happy, Nerys. I love you.”

Burying his face in her curls, he kissed and nipped at her throat, eliciting breathy gasps and moans from her, the liquid pressure in her lower stomach growing and growing.

“Aegon… I don’t… I don’t know…”

“Shhh, sweet sister. I have you. Let go for me.”

And she did, a thousand stars swimming in her head, lost to pleasure and all thoughts of Aegon, Aegon, Aegon...

A/N: So I decided to rewrite my Aegon x OC fanfic. Enjoy, I'm very tired.

[queen--kenobi]

OC: Tymon Lannister

(Art by @sleazyjanet)

GENERAL

Name: Tymon Lannister

Age: 19

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Straight

Faceclaim: Brandon Sklenar

BASICS

House: Lannister

Other names: N/A

Family: Jason and Tyland Lannister (Brothers), Regina Lannister (Wife)

Tag for additional info about Tymon is “OC: Tymon Lannister”

I would also recommend reading Elayna Reyne's page as well since their stories are so intertwined.

(Also, want a fun AU? Check out the Western AU I’ve started)

HISTORY

Tymon Lannister, the third son of Ceira Lannister, was born in 110 AC on the 3rd day of the 8th moon. He is much younger than his older brothers, twins Jason and Tyland Lannister.

In 121 AC, Tymon met Elayna Reyne when she was Warded to the Lannisters. He was instantly smitten with her. Over the course of three years, Tymon attempted to court Elayna. At first his efforts were successful but due to unknown reasons, they stopped working. However, this did not deter Tymon, who was convinced he was going to marry Elayna.

In 123, Tymon begged for his older brother, Jason, to write Alon Reyne, Elayna's father, and convince him to betroth him and Elayna. Alon refused the betrothal, much to Jason and Tymon's surprise. No one knows what was said between Jason and Alon. Tymon, angry at being denied what he wanted, began a campaign of convincing Elayna he was her only option and that no one else would love her like he did. This psychological warfare lasted over a year until Elayna was called back to Castamere to be with Alon in his presumed final days.

When Alon recovered, instead of sending Elayna back to Casterly Rock, Alon sent Elayna to the Red Keep to be one of Princess Helaena Targaryen's ladies-in-waiting. Tymon was not informed of this until Elayna had completed the trip to the Red Keep. His older brother Tyland, the then Master of Ships, sent word back to Tymon. It is said in his rage, Tymon made all sorts of threats to House Reyne. It was only when Jason read aloud the final words of Tyland's letter, which encouraged Tymon to come to Court, that Tymon began to calm down.

Tymon Lannister arrived at the Red Keep three months after Elayna. Many noted that Elayna had an air of nervousness about her as soon as Tymon arrived. The nerves only seemed to disappear when she was with Prince Aemond.

Tymon managed to charm most of the people at Court. Most did not believe the rumors of his cruelty to Elayna. It must be noted Tymon often found himself in disagreements with those he deemed to close to Elayna. He even accused his own brother, Tyland, of attempting to seduce Elayna and take her as his own bride. While many dismiss these as Tymon's protective, perhaps obsessive, nature, several accounts do seem to suggest Tymon may not have been wrong.

In 126, Tymon received word from Jason Alon had fallen ill once more. Tymon went back to Casterly Rock with a plan. He would wait until Alon died then ride to Castamere to comfort Elayna. While there, he would ask Seban to betroth him to Elayna. Seban was a good friend of Jason's so he would not think ill of Tymon.

A fortnight after Alon died, Tymon and Elayna were betrothed. Two days after the betrothal, Elayna disappeared. Tymon insisted that Elayna accompany them back to Casterly Rock. While at Casterly Rock, Elayna attempted to escape and get back to the Red Keep. This caused Tymon to move the wedding date up.

On the 12th day of the 6th moon in 126 AC, three days before Tymon and Elayna were to be wed, Prince Aemond arrived at Casterly Rock. Tymon was clearly displeased. He made multiple attempts to find out who told Aemond. Before Princs Aemond left to see Elayna, he informed Tymon that Tyland was the one who him of the upcoming wedding.

The same night, Prince Aemond and Elayna flew from Casterly Rock to the Red Keep where they eloped. Tymon did not need the letter from his brother to figure out what happened. In the field where Vhagar had waited, Tymon found a hair comb made of gold with rubies and pearls on it, a traditional Westerland gift given to brides when they accepted a courtship or betrothal. It was the clip he had given Elayna.

In 127 AC, Tymon attended the wedding festivities of Prince Aemond and Princess Elayna. He took part in the tournament in their honor. Tymon made it to the final round of the tournament where he faced Prince Daemon Targaryen. During the joust, the Rogue Prince not only knocked Tymon Lannister off of his horse, he stabbed Tymon in the shoulder, missing his neck by an inch. Thoroughly embarrassed, Tymon retreated to Casterly Rock until 130 AC

In 128 AC, Tymon married Regina Reyne, Seban Reyne's daughter and Elayna's Targaryen's niece. While it was never acknowledged, it was understood Tymon only married Regina due to her resemblance to Elayna. Many suspect this also played a role in her death. In 130 AC, after the news of Prince Aemond's death reached Casterly Rock, Regina Lannister was found dead in a burnt field. This same field was the one in which Aemond and Elayna left on Vhagar and rumored to be the field they shared their first kiss.

Tymon made his way back to the Red Keep in 130 AC, two months after Regina's death. It is believed he left due to the rumors surrounding his former wife's death. When Tymon reached the Red Keep, King Aegon II and Queen Elayna were there. Tymon was just in time to celebrate the coronation of Queen Elayna and the celebration of their wedding, despite it happening on Dragonston a mere month prior.

Tymon stayed at the Red Keep. After the death of Aegon II, Lord Lannister became more antagonistic of the Dowager Queen Elayna. She would not stay alone with him in a room, often using the new Lord Hand, Tyland Lannister, as a buffer. This did nothing to dissuade the rumors that Tyland had wished to marry Elayna.

In 133 AC, a hired sword attempted to take the eye of Prince Reynard Targaryen. Dowager Queen Elayna blinded the man instead and had him tortured and killed. While she never outright stated it, everyone knew she suspected Tymon of hiring the man.

As the years went on, Lord Tymon Lannister began to sew doubt into people's minds. Oftentimes he used the Dowager Queen's now open history of violence and the actions of her first husband, namely his burning of the Riverlands, to turn people against her. Many stayed loyal to Elayna, but the rumors could not be quelled. Some even accused Elayna of killing Witch Queen Alys Rivers, a supposed mistress of Aemond Targaryen.

In 141 AC, after an argument in the Throne Room, Tymon Lannister stabbed Queen Elayna to death. He stabbed her three times in the gut in rapid succession. Queen Elayna placed her hand upon the wound. She covered her hand in blood and placed it upon his face. She is rumored to have said "Thank you. For proving me right."

After the death of Queen Elayna, Lord Lannister was forced to go into hiding. His family was able to use their gold and influence to hide him. They also attempted to turn the tides against Elayna, even after her death. The common folk were swayed, but many of the lesser and Greater Houses remember both their names.

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Six: Salt and Blood

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: Alright, everyone. This is the last time you'll see baby Aemond and the reader, so let's cherish it. In the next chapter, we will start where the show did with the characters aged up in Ep. 8. I'm very excited to write for adult MC. I'm not going to lie; I'm a bit worried about writing Aemond's inner dialogue, as I've never written for a male character who isn't obsessed with the reader, but I'm sure I'll do fine. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter Warnings: Alicent being delulu, parentified sibling trauma, and watch me make you feel even worse about Driftmark.

As you journeyed from the gloomy corridors of the Red Keep to the sulfuric atmosphere of Dragonstone and now to the sandy shores and scattered shells of Driftmark, an air of sadness seemed to cling to you wherever you went. You stood at the edge of a cliff, gazing down at the tranquil sea, overlooking the stone coffin that cradled your late Aunt Laena. Two deaths, each carrying its weight of sorrow, yet only one mourned.

You wondered what it would be like to die choked in flames like Ser Harwin and Lyonel Strong did. Would it be the same as suffering dragon fire like your Aunt? Most likely not. Hers was a swift burning of flesh from bones, while theirs was hours of agony and suffocation. 

Despite what your family claimed, the idea of dying to your own dragon’s flames wasn’t an appealing end to you. It didn’t seem noble like how stories explained it to be. It was horrifying to have your skin torched from your body, to feel the power of a thousand suns on your flesh. It would be excruciatingly painful, and you wished it upon no one, not even those you despised most. You would much rather meet the Stranger in your sleep. 

You barely settled into your new home on Dragonstone before your mother received the two ravens. One bringing news of Ser Harwin and the other of Laena, containing death in the ink. You consoled your mother and father as best you could, hugging and kissing and telling them that you loved them and were sorry. It was an impossible task to do, but you couldn’t help yourself. You hated seeing them so distraught and wanted to make them feel better. 

At night, you cried into your pillows in your now isolated bedroom until Jace and Luke entered, watery eyes matching yours. As the eldest, it was your job to hold your family together when your parents couldn’t, and it left you no time to properly grieve the loss of an Aunt and a father figure.

You felt terrible for your cousins Baela and Rhaena. To go to bed one night and wake up the next without a mother was a depth of grief you couldn’t imagine. You didn’t think you could live a life without your mother; you would die with her, and the ability of your cousins to continue without her was admirable as you observed their sullen faces streaked with tears. 

Your Great Uncle Vaemond spoke his sermon in High Valyrian, which was too fast and practiced for you to understand. You could decipher some words here and there, but ultimately, you were lost listening to a man you rarely met. You felt your mother straighten her stance from behind, her arms coming to circle the three of you in a protective embrace.

Vaemond’s eyes were on yours, Luke’s, and Jace’s, but everyone else was focused on him—on the coffin with Lady Laena’s face carved into it.

As your eyes wandered to the other people surrounding the funeral procession, fear struck you as you caught your eldest uncle’s eye. It wasn’t very comforting to see Aegon so soon. You had set it in your mind that you wouldn’t have to see him for many years, and yet, here you were, dressed in an obsidian and red-sleeved gown, pearls adorning the collar and your veiled headpiece. Quickly, you turned away, instinctually taking Jace’s hand in yours.

An air of stiffness surrounded your family that you weren’t blind to. It was always there, but now, more than before, you felt it. You thought it was childish to be so locked into familial drama when someone lay dead inside a casket. Though you didn’t remember much of the times you met your Aunt Laena, she still deserved the respect of putting these grievances aside. You knew you were part of it, but more important things were happening than what you suffered. 

The cries of your father sent waves of sadness into your heart, and with the sudden urge to get him to stop, you left the safety of your brother and clung to your father’s waist. He lifted you into his sea-worn arms and clung to your frail body as if it was the only thing that kept him from sinking into his grief. You rested your temple onto his shoulder, tears of empathy falling from your eyes as he pressed your head closer. 

Afraid of what would become of your father if you let go, you allowed him to crush you in his embrace for as long as he needed it as a scornful laugh broke through the tense atmosphere. You peeked from your position to see Great Uncle Daemon chuckling to himself with a shake of his head at what Vaemond said. You felt annoyance bubble inside you, solidifying your distaste for the man as the Velaryon guards clad in silver armor and blue seahorse sigils lifted the ropes and lowered your Aunt into the roaring sea. 

You didn’t leave your father’s side for the remainder of the day, not even when he slowly lowered himself into the sea with his sister as the cold, salty breeze swept through the evening. You wanted to speak with Aemond, if just for a small moment, but your family came first. They always came before anyone else, a fact that your mother instilled into the very fabric of your being.

Sitting atop one of the rock ledges near your father, you dipped your feet into the saltwater, dragging your toes to watch the water ripple and allow time to pass. It didn’t feel right to leave him alone. The image of him falling into the ocean as your Aunt played repeatedly in your mind’s eye. You were afraid in his grief, he would follow her. Only when your father’s squire, Ser Qarl, took your father from his place with his sister did you leave, joining the rest of the goers for the wake late in the evening.

Searching through the crowd of people for your mother and your brothers, you couldn’t find them. Alone with none of your family for protection, you felt fear pull at your chest. Your hands began to scratch at your arms and scalp, attempting to quell the insatiable itch. The fabric prevented you from doing so, and tears of fright soon began to collect at your lashes. 

From across the balcony, you saw a flash of green, a color that had never offered you comfort until now. Yet as quickly as you saw it, it vanished, leaving only a head of white promptly running down the stairs. You felt your heart drop into your feet as you watched Aemond run across the sandy dunes like he was running from you. 

The call of a dragon you never heard before screeched through the gray skies. It was mournful as if it were calling for a lost pet or child. In this case, it was a rider. As you looked up, you could see the vast shadow of Vhagar’s silhouette soaring through the clouds, flying in the same direction your uncle went. You felt your eyes grow wide with worry at the realization, wanting to chase after Aemond and warn him.

“Let’s get you to bed,” a tender, feminine voice came from behind you as you jolted in surprise. The tall figure of Queen Alicent stood before you, curly auburn hair pinned back into a magnificent updo and clad in her usual green and gold as she put a hand on your back. “Your mother already sent your brothers.” 

“Where is she?” you hastily asked. Aemond was no longer on your mind.

“I’m uncertain. Your father is off drowning his sorrow in his cups with his squire,” she answered in the same velvet voice you remembered her having, bitterness you didn’t understand laced in the undertone.

You felt offended by how the Queen spoke about your father. He was grieving. He was allowed to spend time with whomever he wished, doing what he wanted.

Alicent lifted her arm, wrapping it around your petite frame, and led you inside Hightide. It was not as cold or formidable as Dragonstone; its dark magic melted into the walls, yet it didn’t hold the warmth of the Red Keep. Still, you felt unwelcomed here, either by the place or its people. The pale stone walls were filled with bits and pieces of shells from clams, mollusks, and other long-dead shell creatures mixed into the mortar to make it stand the test of salty air. 

The Hall of the Nine, where you passed as Queen Alicent, led you to the guest chambers, where you held the Driftwood throne where your grandfather Corlys reigned. You recalled when you visited this place many years ago and how he went on about the many treasures from his sieges and conquests that decorated the room in all its glory. He and his wife, Rhaenys, sat in a heated discussion in front of the hearth.

Once you reached the door to your shared bed chambers with your brothers, Alicent turned to you. It was the first time you had seen her since what Aegon had done to you, and you felt tension. It seemed as if she wanted to speak, to say everything that had been bottled up since the revelation of her son’s transgressions, but she was unable to do so as tears choked her. Instead, the only words that came out were those she couldn’t say to her children. 

“I hope you can find the time to visit the Keep. Helaena asked when you would be returning, and it broke my heart to tell her you wouldn’t be,” she confided, stroking the thin black fabric covering your dark hair. “Aemond has turned inwards since you left, and Aegon has become crueler to him. It makes me wonder if he’s always been this way and that my love for him has blinded me from his transgressions.” 

You said nothing. The mention of Aegon’s name still felt like a blow to the stomach. “I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive my son for what he did to you and that we may yet be the family we were always meant to be.” Your tongue felt like lead as your breathing began to race, your chest rising and falling at a rapid pace as Alicent kneeled before you, a sad smile on her supple lips as she tenderly swiped your tear-stained cheeks with her smooth thumbs. 

“I love you, my shining light, my dream.” 

Leaning in, she took your small frame by your shoulders, kissing your forehead as one would do to their babe. You felt sick, nausea churning in your stomach as you quickly opened the bedroom door, hastily shutting it behind you in fright. 

It was all too much—Lady Laena’s death, Ser Harwin’s, seeing your father in shambles, and Queen Alicent’s steadfast belief that you should become a part of her family no matter what happened to you. The Queen desired to wed you and Aegon despite the horrors he committed. The realization that she genuinely didn’t see what your eldest uncle did to you as something that would permanently bar you from joining the union pierced your heart. You would much rather marry Aemond or Helaena, but having no ties to her seemed better.

Your brothers peered at you curiously from their beds as you clutched your chest, looking as if you ran the entire way here. They didn’t ask any questions, and you didn’t move to speak, loosening the ties of your gown and shrugging it off until you were only in your smock. You didn’t feel like changing into your nightdress in front of your brothers, deciding to climb into bed and shove your face into the pillows, refusing to cry in front of Jace and Luke as you fell into a dreamless sleep.

When Aemond learned of Lady Laena’s death, he knew it was a sign from the Gods that his time had come. The Seven had deemed this the moment to prove himself to everyone who doubted him and thought him useless without a dragon. 

Vhagar. 

The largest, oldest, and strongest dragon in the world was riderless. 

Aemond believed that once he gained the only thing he lacked, life would finally be what it should have been. He would make his father proud, shove all the taunts and jests from Aegon and his nephews back into their faces, and finally become a man you deemed worthy—your Mors Martell. 

As Aemond fled from the wake when the candles had long melted, he thought only of the ichor coursing through his veins. Dusk was upon the island, and the night’s wind blew harshly, strands of his silver-blonde hair covering his face as he climbed over the dunes. Vhagar was further from the castle than he initially thought.

“Fuck.” Aemond released a sigh of exasperation and scrambled across the uneven ground. 

When he came upon the dragon, he was in awe. Vhagar was as frightening as she was enormous—a giant, green-scaled, moving mountain that shook the ground and blew sand with every movement and breath from her powerful lungs. 

Taking advantage of Vhagar’s resting state, Aemond crept along the sparse grass, feeling each gust of air she created with her wide nostrils, blowing the sand into his face and ears. Anxiety was present in his gut, feeling a slight tremble in his limbs as he closed the distance, wrapping his hand around one of the many ropes draped across Vhagar’s scales. Suddenly, he felt the ground underneath him quake, and the head of the dragon lifted with a low rumble.

Vhagar observed Aemond with tired yet calculating amber orbs, double eyelids blinking. She grumbled as she bore her teeth to him. They were the size of a fully grown adult, sending a shiver down his spine. As if it were an act of divine intervention, Vhagar laid her enormous head back down, seeming disinterested in the young boy before her. 

If Lady Laena’s death wasn’t proof enough Aemond was fated by the Gods to claim a dragon, the most powerful beast in the world, laying its head in acquiescence certainly was. Blinded by his small victory, nerves still in his mind, he reached for the rope ladder again, only for Vhagar to raise her head and growl, low and deep. A snarl formed on her great maw as Aemond stumbled back in shock and saw the light of orange flames gather at the back of her throat. 

“Dohaerās!” (Serve!) he shouted instinctively, recalling the many lessons he observed in the Dragonpit as he felt the heat of fire on his countenance. “Dohaerās, Vagus! Lykirī!” (Serve, Vhagar! Be calm!)

With Aemond’s commands, the she-dragon relaxed, recalling her flames and closing her mouth. She purred to him like a cat, a sign that she approved his merit while standing in the face of death. Vhagar would allow the Prince an attempt to claim her, but he must prove himself before the eyes of the Gods, before the eyes of a dragon. 

Aemond took the ropes and climbed atop the mighty Vhagar’s back, positioning himself in the saddle and grabbing the reigns. 

“Sōvēs!” (Fly!) Aemond ordered, and Vhagar rumbled, raising her legs and shaking the sand from her scales. “Sōvēs!”

She obeyed, taking a few giant steps and flapping her great wings, pushing off from the ground and leaving a sandstorm in her wake. Though Aemond told Vhagar to fly, he still had yet to control her as she took to the night sky in a near-vertical position, catching him unaware. The force knocked him from the leather saddle, leaving him dangling in the air with just the reigns for purchase. Aemond screamed with fear, feeling as if his stomach lurched out of his body as he struggled against the whipping wind to regain control. 

She tested him as he grabbed the pommel, sat upright, and pulled the ropes to balance her. He felt like he was on a bucking horse, loosening, tightening, twisting, and turning to the left and right to steer her safely. Vhagar ignored Aemond’s movements and continued to fly like he wasn’t there, diving into the dunes of Driftmark before he reared her upwards, dragging her claws across the sand. He squealed in terror, blocking the debris that scratched his face as she soared over the sea.

Aemond knew he needed to prove himself to her, to show the war-hardened dragon that he deserved to ride her. Her chirps and groans from the day earlier called to him like nothing before, singing to the Prince in her dragon song of forlornness and isolation. Perhaps that was why he felt compelled to claim her. They both shared that feeling of loneliness deep within their souls, that same oddness in their families. The dragoness was too large to be held within any structure, leaving her in forced solitude, her only companions being her rider. Aemond was the only one, despite his Valyrian features, not to have a dragon. 

That would no longer be his story.

Aemond fortified his mind and will, putting his soul into his movements as he lifted Vhagar higher in the sky. He could feel the blood of Old Valyria coursing through his veins as the mighty dragon obeyed, leveling out her vast wings and soaring over Spicetown and back to Driftmark. He screamed with fear and joy as she flew with him in the skies, a bright smile he was sure you could see in Lannisport. 

Aemond had proven himself. He had shown himself and all who doubted and bullied him for not having a dragon that he was capable, that he was worthy. 

Everything was as it should be.

Perhaps you would allow him to kiss you again and spend the night in his embrace. Aemond had no doubt you would be proud of him as he listened to your assurances that he was brave, a dragon knight who you could trust with your secrets and protect you from enemies, and that he deserved your heart. 

Aemond landed Vhagar with a grace he hadn’t possessed before, climbing down the rope ladder on her side with windburnt cheeks. As soon as his feet touched the sand, he ran straight to the underground caverns of High Tide to wake you and explain everything.

“Jace!” 

You faintly heard a voice calling, sounding distant in your dream state. Ignoring it with a groan, you rolled over, trying to return to sleep.

“Jace, wake up! Someone stole Vhagar!”

This woke you from your sleep. You sat up to see Baela and Rhaena hovering over your brother’s bed. 

“We need to stop them!”

Jace and Luke quickly threw the covers off and stuck their feet into their slippers as you observed them curiously. Rubbing the sleep from your face, you yawned, begrudgingly following them. 

“You cannot steal a dragon,” you countered after a long silence in the pale stone halls, your voice laced with sleep. It felt like you had hardly gotten a wink. 

“She is my mother’s dragon! I was supposed to claim her,” Rhaena countered, tears collecting in her dark eyes. 

Yawning again as you followed a few paces behind your siblings and cousins, you rolled your eyes, wanting to bite with the remark, “Why didn’t you?” But you didn’t say it. The reason was apparent why she didn’t, and Rhaena didn’t need any more reason to be distraught.

They led you to the caverns of High Tide, stumbling in your sleepless state. They led to the beaches lit only by dim torchlight, your movements groggy and slightly annoyed. On the other end of the tunnel, Aemond appeared before you with a proud grin and windswept hair. You couldn’t help but mirror his expression, a contagious self-satisfaction that spread to you. 

He needn’t say it aloud. You could tell by how he carried himself, shoulders back, chin high, and a slight lift to his cheeks, that your uncle claimed a dragon—the mightiest one in the world, Vhagar. 

“It’s him!” Rhaena exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Aemond.

It didn’t deter him, countering with his head high, violet eyes flicking from you to your cousin. “It’s me.”

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!” she yelled, hurt as if this reasoning would change Vhagar’s fate. As you moved to Aemond, Jace grabbed your hand, stopping you with an anxious yet demanding look on his face. 

“Your mother is dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now,” your uncle replied, and you felt your brows raise in shock. You knew better than most of the cruelty he could commit, but after spending time with Aemond and seeing the softer, gentler, and kinder side of him, it took you off guard. 

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena argued, charging toward him in a challenge. Your skin began to itch, and your breath quickened. 

The hatred felt at the funeral carried over into your brothers and cousins. Tension in the air crackled like a fire in a hearth, watching the yellow and orange flames slowly dwindle into embers until someone threw tinder to spark it.

“Then you should’ve claimed her! Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride,” Aemond sneered. “It would suit you.”

Your lips parted in empathetic offense as you looked from your uncle to Rhaena, tears of guilt and shame pricking at your eyes. You apologized about the pig, and you thought Aemond forgave you, but it seems he couldn’t let go of the hurt no matter how close you were. The feeling of joy for your uncle’s feat was as brief as your friendship.

With a surge of rage, Rhaena charged forward, attempting to push Aemond, but he swiftly countered, and she fell to the ground. You jumped back in shock as you covered your mouth, Luke standing beside you. Baela screamed, protecting her sister as she punched him across his face and Aemond yelped in pain. Without thinking, you went toward your uncle, fearful for his well-being in your heart, but he swiftly stood before you could reach him, returning the same swing to Baela. You gasped in horror and moved to the side, narrowly missing your cousin’s body from colliding with yours. 

“Come at me again, and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond snarled at the twins, and without warning, Jace ran to him with a shout, shoving your uncle in offended anger and smacking him across the cheek.

You screamed for them to stop as you watched Luke try to join the fray, but you held him back, scared that he would get caught in the crossfire. He was the youngest and the littlest, most likely to get hurt. You needed to protect what family you could. Aemond brought this upon himself with his words of arrogance, but that didn’t stop you from wanting to defend him, too.

The scene before you was violent, a flurry of white, black, and red running atop Aemond as Luke slipped from your grasp, all pummeling, kicking, and screaming at him as you cried for them to stop. He was helpless as he suffered blow after blow, and you felt your heart splinter. This wasn’t a fair fight. Without worrying for yourself, you jumped on top of Jace, pulling him back from your uncle and giving him a chance to defend himself. You felt like a betrayer, turning against your twin to save your uncle. Your brother grunted as you both fell to the ground, his body on top of you as you struggled to keep him from fighting. 

You and your siblings had fought before, but nothing like this. It was so vicious, filled with violence and want for pain, as Jace whipped his head back into yours, causing it to slam against one of the many jagged rocks across the ground, having you see stars. He went back into the brawl with no worry for your safety as you heard the unsheathing of a knife, your eyes blurry as you struggled to see the scene before you. 

“You will die screaming in flames just as your father did!” Aemond yelled, suddenly holding Luke by his neck with a rock in his hand.

“My father is alive!” Luke gasped in protest, flinging his arms and blood running down his face.

You needed to get up to protect Luke from physical harm and the threat of discovering your lineage. You didn’t believe Aemond would kill Luke. He was capable of violence, but he wasn’t a murderer. As you tried to move, your skull felt filled with sand, pulling you back down to the ground as you felt the warm trickle of liquid run down your neck. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your sight and mind. 

Aemond spoke again to Jace, seeming to forget your existence and holding a sense of superiority. “He doesn’t know, does he, Lord Strong?” 

You forgot how cruel Aemond could be. Your stolen moments of reading and kisses in the night had closed your eyes to it.

“Aemond, don’t,” you mumbled, skull pounding as the excruciating sounds of your brothers and uncle’s shouts pierced your ears like needles. 

You blinked your eyes into focus, seeing Jace wildly swinging a knife at Aemond as you managed to kneel. Your brothers didn’t realize how dangerous what they were doing was, that a knife wasn’t something to use against someone who was armed with only a stone in hand. While Aemond was bigger and had more combat experience, a dagger would kill him. Being upset because someone claimed a dragon wasn’t worth murdering over. 

Reaching your arm out with a soft grunt, you grabbed Jace’s ankle as Aemond pushed him over, holding the same rock above his head as he did for Luke. You thought Aemond knew better than this. You gave him the perfect opportunity to run and get help now that Baela and Rhaena huddled into a scared, crying mess, but he was too far gone into his anger to see reason, blinded by it. 

“Aemond! No!” you shouted hoarsely, trying to stand but failing as your head pounded like a drumbeat.

He turned to you then, lowering the rock to his side as he stared at you with the sudden realization of what he had done. Your uncle was filled with a surge of superiority inside him. He couldn’t think straight, and when he happened upon the five of you, people he was always told that he was above, something inside him that lay dormant finally broke free. He knew he was always capable of violence, but felt remorse when he saw your bruised nose, tear-streaked cheeks, and blood dripping down your throat. 

Did he do that to you? 

Suddenly, Aemond was blinded, sand thrown into his eyes as he stumbled back and heard the yell of Luke, unimaginable pain soon following. You watched in horror as your brother savagely sliced into your uncle’s left eye, blood pouring and splattering across the ground. 

Aemond couldn’t remember if you were amid his attackers. He surveyed the bruised and battered bodies before him and realized what he had done as his stomach fell to his feet.

He hurt people, just like Aegon. You would never entrust your secrets to him. His hands committed violence, but his heart desired to tell a different story—one of a strong and noble prince who went through many trials and tribulations to prove himself worthy of the princess's heart.

All you could hear were screams. Screams from you, screams from Aemond as you crawled towards him, sobbing. 

“Aemond!” you cried as he doubled over, falling into your body as he screeched in pain. 

“It hurts!” he wailed into your chest, his free hand clawing into your back. “It hurts! Help me!” 

You trembled, arms struggling to keep yourself upright against his weight as the flurry of guards rumbled inside your skull like thunder. Unable to make out their words as they moved, it seemed like you were watching the world from outside your body, from the lenses of another, as Ser Harrold pried Aemond from your embrace.

It hurt. Everything hurt—your heart, stomach, muscles, and head. You weren’t sure who led you, Baela, Rhaena, Luke, and Jace to the Hall of the Nine as a flurry of people gathered, pushing and shoving as you clutched your skull. The room was so bright, so loud, as you heard your uncle’s screams. You felt sturdy arms grab you by your shoulders, roughly moving you as if you were nothing more than a doll, as it felt like your eyes were about to burst. Steel blue fabric blocked your eyes as you saw the hazy image of a seahorse stitched into the fabric.

“Father?” You reached out, small digits feeling along the fine silk until the texture of scruff scratched at your skin. Blinking, you saw the aged face of your grandfather, Lord Corlys, as he gathered you and your brothers behind him. 

Where was he, and where was your mother? 

You felt sick as people scattered around you like seagulls when they discovered a bloated whale carcass, all trying to see the injured Prince, who cried until the Maester poured Milk of the Poppy down his throat. It felt like when you accidentally drank the water from Blackwater Bay, like a cold, nauseous sensation that sent beads of sweat rolling down your spine. 

“I don’t feel good,” you whispered to Jace as you leaned into his side, clutching your head and gut. He paid you no mind, peering behind your grandfather to see your other one appear, bearing total weight upon his dragon-head cane. 

“How could you let such a thing happen?” Viserys questioned Ser Harrold, examining Aemond as you heard the sickening squelch of flesh and rattle of metal tools. “I will have answers!”

Despite it undoubtedly being a harrowing sight, you wanted to be by your uncle, to hold his hand through it, to feel his pain with him, but you couldn’t. You needed to be with your brothers. What they saw and experienced would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Luke had taken Aemond’s eye. 

“The princess and princes were supposed to be abed, my king,” the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard explained, shame woven in his words. 

Viserys wouldn’t allow his knights to show such carelessness, surveying each of them with critical eyes. “Who had the watch?”

“The young prince was attacked by his cousins, your grace,” Ser Cristion nonchalantly replied. His words angered you for reasons unknown, and you felt a lump rise in your throat. 

Viserys turned to the room, looking between the two Kingsguards on opposite sides of the family as he hobbled on his cane. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” he boomed in a way you hadn’t seen before. You were afraid he would direct his anger at you, Jace, and Luke, wrapping your arms around them like you were in any state to protect your brothers. 

“I’m very sorry, your grace,” Ser Westerling said, head hung low in unimaginable disgrace. You felt bad for him. There was no way he could have stopped this. He was doing his duty and serving his King. It was Ser Criston who should be blamed.

“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes before, your grace-”

“That is no answer!” your grandfather yelled at Ser Criston, causing a clap of pain to thunder inside your skull. 

You wanted to go to bed, sleep for eternity, and be awake to everything as it was yesterday. Your brothers and cousins unbloodied and Aemond dragonless and with an eye. 

“Where’s mother?” you noiselessly questioned Jace, leaning into his ear and almost losing your footing. You needed to stay strong for them. 

“It will heal, will it not? Maester?” Queen Alicent asked, velveteen voice quivering with pain for her poor son. Maester Kelvyn finished stitching Aemond’s skin, throwing the needle and thread into a bowl with your uncle’s fleshy, viscous eye. 

“The flesh will heal. The eye is lost, your grace,” his nasal voice replied matter-of-factly.

You were going to be ill. 

Quickly, you ran through the multitude of people, pushing past Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, who tried to stop you before you vomited all the contents of your stomach onto a person’s unsuspecting shoes. The crowd gasped in revolt, those not close to you jumping back and clutching their chests in shock. You found yourself before the fireplace, basking in its comforting warmth as you leaned onto the hearth and looked at the unlucky soul you retched on. 

Perhaps the Gods had a twisted sense of justice as you saw the disgusted face of Aegon before you. You didn’t hide your amused smirk.

“Tend to the Princess!” the King shouted to the Maester, seeming to forget about his injured son and throwing his cane in your direction. 

A flurry of green came before pale gray, tenderly cradling your visage in her palms as if you were her child, inspecting it. You grabbed the Queen’s wrists and attempted to push her away as if her touch burned, but she resisted, struggling against your childish strength until she grabbed your shoulders. Her touch reminded you of Aegon as you burst into tears, muscles going limp and at Queen Alicent’s mercy. She turned your head in her grasp, examining you with the utmost care that made another wave of nausea through you. 

The crowd observed in anxious silence as Aemond turned to watch his mother treat you with the affection he wished to receive. Familiar hatred bloomed inside his heart, swallowing his dry mouth as he thought resentfully. He would still have his eye if he hadn’t been so concerned with you. 

“I want my mother.” you whimpered, lips quivering in fear as the Queen lovingly wiped the blood from your neck. 

The Queen released you from her grip as if you had struck her, chest heaving and wide brown eyes watering as she turned to her eldest son. Your mother was here; you didn’t realize it.

“Where were you?” she interrogated Aegon, smacking him upside down before he could answer. 

“Ow! What was that for?” he questioned, incredulously rubbing at the afflicted area grimly. You held no sympathy for him as you hugged your sides. 

“That was nothing compared to the abuse your siblings suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” she whispered heatedly so only he could hear, shaking his gangly body in rage. You looked at the Queen with confusion, thinking she had gone mad with grief when she said “siblings.”

As the grand Hall doors creaked open, a shaft of golden light spilled into the room, casting long shadows on the marble floor. With an air of elegance, your mother swept into the room, her silk gown trailing behind her. Following closely was Uncle Daemon, his formidable presence filling the space. Amidst the whispers and murmurs, your name and that of your brothers floated through the air, drawing your attention. Without a second thought, you moved toward her, the sensation of fingertips brushing your bicep as if a ghostly hand had tried to hold you back, sending shivers down your spine.

“Show me, show me!” your mother ordered you and Luke, softly running her digits across your body as you sobbed with relief. “Who did this?”

“They attacked me!” Aemond yelled before you could get a word out, leaning from behind his chair. 

You saw his wound on full display. An ugly crisscrossed row of stitches lined up his eye socket and onto his forehead, the flesh puckered and pink as it fought the infection. Your mother moved your face before you could stare any longer as a chorus of accusations from your brothers and cousins sang. You couldn’t get the image of his gash out of your head. 

“He was going to kill Jace! I didn’t do anything!” Luke loudly shouted as you scrunched your eyes with a painful wince.

“Enough!” you heard your grandfather yell, and you looked at him with helpless, watery eyes, but no one listened. 

“It should be my son telling the tale!” the Queen protested, fist pounding against her chest with conviction over the voices.

You continued to look at your grandfather in anguish, the King of The Seven Kingdoms, whom everyone ignored except you. “Silence!” he yelled, voice rattling inside his hollow chest as flem flew from his decaying mouth. 

The Hall went silent, quieter than the Stranger himself, as everyone looked at one another, stunned at the turn of events. People came here to mourn the loss of a daughter, an aunt, a niece, a wife, and a sister. Viserys looked at you and then at his son, his ivory staff sounding with every movement as you swallowed, the taste of bile strong. 

“He called us bastards.” you silently whispered to your mother, wiping the tears and snot from your face.

“Aemond, I will have the truth of what happened.” The King approached your uncle as he slumped into the armchair, stepping swiftly and with a newfound curiosity. “Now.”

“What else is there to hear?” Alicent questioned, clutching at her neck as tears threatened to spill. “Your son has been maimed, and her son is responsible.”

“Twas a regrettable accident,” your mother countered, moving her body to shadow the three of you from the onlookers.

“Accident?” the Queen repeated, astonished. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush! He meant to kill my son!” 

You realized the truth didn’t matter now. All that did was what people perceived it to be. 

“Twas my children who were attacked and forced to defend themselves!” your mother argued as she placed a comforting hand onto Luke’s shoulders. “Vile insults were levied against them!” 

Your grandfather turned from his son to the four of you as you inhaled a shuddering breath. “What insults?” he questioned, a dangerous lilt to his tone that you had never heard before as the Hall went silent. It raised the hairs on your arms. 

“The legitimacy of my children’s birth was put loudly to question,” your mother replied, her chin high yet holding a nervous waver to her voice. 

As she turned towards you, your mother’s eyes conveyed a silent but insistent demand to verbalize what you previously whispered. She wished everyone to hear these words from you—the compassionate and considerate eldest daughter known as The Gods’ Light among the common folk. With tears streaming down your cheeks and your chest heaving with emotion, you gazed at Aemond with a sense of guilt. You knew the words you were about to utter would carry an extraordinary weight. Both sides sought someone to bear responsibility for the turmoil, but you recognized the unspoken truth. 

At that moment, honesty seemed inconsequential. Aemond had suffered the loss of his eye due to Luke’s actions, and you keenly felt your failure to shield your brothers from harm. You would never fault at your duty again. 

“He called us bastards,” you confessed, lacking the anger and conviction of your siblings as you sniffled, refusing to look at Aemond. 

You watched as the Queen’s auburn tresses bounced with the slight affirming nod of her head, a look of disbelief and recognition crossing her face. At that moment, it became clear that she had informed Aemond about the deception, hardening your heart with betrayal. You had believed that she was different and loved you like family, and it stung to realize that she didn’t hesitate to spread lies that would hurt you.

“My children are to inherit the Iron Throne, your grace. This is the highest of treasons,” your mother reasoned, stepping forward to her slouched father as you attempted to reach for her hand to keep you hidden. “Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such awful slanders.”

As you gazed at your mother, her expression eerily mirroring that of Alicent’s, your lips began to quiver with unease. Was your mother implying that he should be subjected to torture? It seemed unfathomable. She couldn’t possibly be serious.

“Over an insult?” the Queen asked, shaking her head in disbelief. You knew she was trying to protect herself as you glared at the woman you once thought held the moon. “My son has lost an eye!”

“Tell me, boy. Where did you hear such lies?” the King seethed, face a hairsbreadth from Aemond as you whimpered.

“The insult was training yard bluster,” Alicent swiftly reasoned, eyes flicking desperately from her son to her husband. “The lot of boys. ‘Twas nothing-”

“Aemond,” your grandfather interrupted, ignoring his wife’s explanation. “I asked you a question.” 

Your uncle sat in solemn silence, his lone violet eye unwaveringly fixed on the ground while his father awaited his reply. Before he could utter a word, the Queen unexpectedly interjected. 

“Where is Ser Laenor, the children’s father? Perhaps he would have something to say on the matter,” she jeered.

Your grandfather turned, sparse brows scrunching together as he turned to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. “Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?”

“I do not know, your grace. I… could not find sleep and decided to take a walk,” your mother answered for them, smooth palms wiping across her crimson skirt.

The Queen let out a derisive laugh, her disbelief evident as she shook her head at her old friend. It was impossible to ignore the precise timing of Daemon’s arrival into the Hall of the Nine, trailing just moments behind Rhaenyra with her tousled strands of golden hair. Alicent bore the knowledge of her friend’s calculated machinations, even as Rhaenyra’s children stealthily slipped out of their beds to perpetrate the heinous act of maiming her son. She couldn’t dismiss the nagging suspicion that Ser Laenor was likely engaged in equally treacherous activities.

“Entertaining his young squires, I presume,” Queen Alicent sneered like before, making you feel the same deep-seated ire. 

As no one dared to voice their opposition to her words, a glint of silver caught your eye from the corner, revealing Ser Criston Cole’s silent laughter. Like Ser Harwin, you felt the urge to wipe that smug grin off his tanned face, even though you knew it was impossible.

“Aemond, look at me. Your King demands an answer,” your grandfather began, staggering before your uncle. “Who spoke the lies to you?”

Everything went silent; the roaring of the fire and the crashing of the waves in the darkness were all that could be heard in the Hall. You understood that whoever Aemond implicated might not live til the next morn. You felt your throat grow tight and struggled to breathe, clutching at your throat as you swallowed the acrid taste in your mouth. Queen Alicent told him as you recalled the time in Helaena’s room. It confused you at first why she would spread such gossip as she seemed to hold a tenderness for you. Claiming your brothers were bastards went without saying you were, but you realized that whatever contempt she had within her heart weighed far more significant than any affection for you. 

Some of you wished to shout that it was her, but you realized that was something Alicent would do without a second thought if the roles were reversed, and you did not want to be like her. She was wicked and cruel, just like her eldest.

“It was Aegon. He told Aemond to call us that,” you answered as every pair of eyes flocked to you. You didn’t like how close your grandfather was to him, afraid that he might strike him for the consequences of his mother. You felt your heart lurch into your throat as you gained the courage to speak the words aloud of all the bad things he did to you. “And he… he”

Before you could finish, your mother tucked you into her waist, kneeling and pushing your face into her shoulder. You tried to pull away from her when his hand rested on your head, the welt sensitive to touch. 

“Don’t,” she whispered into your hair, disguising it as a kiss. They deserved to know. Everyone needed to know what awful Aegon did to you. You wanted to move against her, but your mind was foggy and muscles weak.

“Me?” Aegon exclaimed with shock, wide amethyst orbs looking at you with a broken expression. 

“And you, boy,” your grandfather crept towards him, the rhythmic tapping of his cane piercing your skull like an ice pick. “Where did you hear such calumnies?” Your uncle refused to answer him as his gaze bore holes into your being. There was no remorse in your heart for him. “Aegon, tell me the truth of it!” Viserys shouted, causing you to flinch and cover your ears. 

“We know, father,” Aegon replied fearlessly, refusing to remove his stare from your quivering form. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Feeling the stares from the guests, you admired your uncle for not implicating his mother like a coward, removing your body from your mother, wiping the snot from your lip. Let them look, you thought, inhaling a deep breath as you felt your mother bring you closer. They would stare at you for the rest of your days. It was best if you grew accustomed to it now.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” the King declared, banging his walking stick off the pale stone floor. “All of you! We are family! Now, make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it.” 

You grimaced at his words, and though you loved your grandfather, having been his favorite granddaughter, you disagreed with him. You refused to apologize for your family trying to defend themselves, and the Queen couldn’t help but agree more. 

“That is insufficient,” Alicent said, gesturing to her son. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, my King. Goodwill cannot make him whole.” 

Aemond’s fingers dug into the wooden framing of the armchair, and your chin quivered at the thought of what he might be feeling. 

“I know, Alicent,” Viserys sighed, “but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it’s been taken,” she sobbed, clutching at her chest, flicking her hair back in a manner that reminded you of Aegon. “There is a debt to be paid. I shall have the hand of her eldest to one of my sons. To mend the rift and unite the House of the Dragon once more.”

“Alicent,” your grandfather breathed in a warning, yet still turned to his daughter, having a hint of hope in his violet eyes.

You looked at your mother, shock overcoming any sadness you felt as she shoved you behind her skirts like a hen would do to her chick, too stunned to speak. “I refuse.” 

The Queen shook her head, a sneer curling her plump lips and wet cheeks. Rhaenyra was a selfish, wicked woman with no inclination of decency. Why couldn’t she see this would be solved if she returned Alicent’s rightful daughter to her? The Queen steeled herself to the belief that she would have to fight for her right to have you. She knew deep in her bones that you would one day be by her side.

“Then I shall have one of her sons’ eyes in return. The Princess is innocent,” the Queen declared with a desperate wave of tears. 

Aemond looked to his mother, face impassive, and senses dulled from Milk of the Poppy. He didn’t recall telling her about what you did for him, though it was very little. It felt like he was becoming a second thought to his mother, who seemed only to be scheming on how to insert his niece into their lives. Aemond realized then that he would always be second in his mother’s heart to you, and he felt hollow at the thought, the love that once filled it for his niece ceasing to exist.

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment,” your grandfather warned Queen Alicent. She said nothing as her chest heaved, brown orbs flicking between her husband and old friend.

Believing the matter finished, the King backed away, but Alicent wouldn’t allow this to be the end. She looked to her sworn protector, an apathetic expression on her visage. 

“If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.” Ser Criston looked to the Queen with a startled expression as Luke cried for your mother. “He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son.”

“You will do no such thing,” your mother steadfastly declared, ensuring the three of you were behind her.

“Stay your hand,” the King commanded as the Queen shook with rage, desperately looking between her husband and sworn protector. She reminded you of a deer cornered in a vast forest, listening to the distant howls of wolves closing in for the hunt.

“No, you are sworn to me!” she yelled, finger pointing to her chest indignantly. All waited for the knight to respond, the Lord Commander slowly bringing his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Protect your brother,” your mother whispered, never straying her eyes from the Queen. Without further instruction, you stood before Luke, gradually backing him away from the group of people unnoticed. You understood Alicent would not hurt you, as did your mother. 

“As your protector, my Queen,” Ser Criston replied with a wary head tilt.

“Alicent, this matter is finished. Do you understand?” your grandfather declared, seething, his face centimeters away from his wife before he addressed the room. “And let it be known that if anyone’s tongue dares to question, the birth of Rhaenyra’s children should have it removed.” 

Breathing a sigh of relief, you let go of Luke, coming to take your place beside your mother as she thanked the King. The unsheathing of a blade cut through the room as the form of Queen Alicent charged toward your family, startling you, the King’s ancestral dagger in her grasp. Luke screamed as she reached the four of you, but your mother stepped in her path before Alicent could enact her rage. 

Suddenly, a person shoved into you, disregarding your existence as you found yourself on the floor. You noticed how the stone seemed to ebb and wave like the flow of the tide. Lord Corlys appeared beside you, lifting you into his arms, securely bound around your torso as he took you into the circle of your cousins and brothers, your mother struggling against the Queen. 

“You’ve gone too far!” your mother admonished the Queen as tears burned her eyes. She pushed against Alicent, and she jerked against her, trying to get to your brother.

“I?” Queen Alicent exclaimed, voice thick with anguish as you attempted to push out of your grandfather’s arms, kicking your legs into his side. “What have I done, but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, and the law while you flout to do as you please?”

“Alicent, let her go!”

The Queen still poised the dagger to strike, its new path being that of the heir to the Iron Throne as your mother looked helplessly to the onlookers. No one made to separate the two as they all stared in shock, the fire illuminating their faces like wraiths of death. Landing a hard smack to Lord Corlys’s neck, he dropped you as you shoved through the onlookers toward your mother. She put her life for yours and your brothers, but who would put hers before theirs? 

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? My happiness and dreams? It’s templed under your pretty foot again!” the Queen sobbed, her form trembling with hurt and rage, everything that she bottled inside her for years. 

“Release the blade, Alicent,” Lord Otto commanded, a man you hadn’t met until this morn, but she paid him no mind, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she pushed against her old friend. 

“Wasn’t taking her, my only light, enough for you? And now you take my son’s eye, and to that, you feel entitled,” she confessed, tears making the Queen’s mouth thick with wetness as you shouldered your way to the inner circle of people. 

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness,” your mother interrogated, a bitter grimace on her sharp lips. “But now they see you as you are.”

Alicent stared at your mother with an enraged offense that wrinkled her brows as she felt fire surge through her, and with a loud cry, she unthinkingly swung your family’s ancestral dagger. You screamed, running to your mother as you pulled her back, seeing a gash on her inner arm that gushed with blood. 

“Mama,” you wept, tenderly holding her limb as if it would break. 

Dropping the dagger, Alicent took an instinctual step toward you, a blanched, horror-stricken expression across her round face. She longed to go to you, to dry your tears and stroke your head against her bosom like your true mother would, but she could not. The terror and fear in your wide brown eyes that resembled her own sliced through her chest and laid her heart and soul bare as she felt a small hand slide into hers. The Queen hoped to see you standing beside her and thought herself mad before she securely took her son’s fist.

Much like you, Aemond knew his parent needed him. “Do not mourn me, mother. ‘Twas a fair exchange,” he expressed with a maturity beyond his years. He turned to you, a violet gaze once filled with joy now devoid, hollow, and one less eye. “I may have lost an eye but gained a dragon.”

You wished Aemond hadn’t claimed one this way and felt a hiccup wrack your lungs as you cried into your mother, Jace, and Luke coming beside you. You sadly realized this was the end of the fleeting companionship you cultivated with your uncle. All the stolen moments of reading, ideas, philosophies, and aspirations you shared under the cover of privacy were nothing more than air the moment he ran across the dunes. You would have still cared for him without a dragon, as before, but his pride wouldn’t allow it, and now he stared at you with an eye that you knew far too well. 

Aemond hated you. He loathed you and your brothers with a fire that would never cease. This was your fault. He lost an eye because of you—because he cared about his bastard niece and had the foolish dream of becoming the man you loved. You did not deserve it. You were nothing more than a common girl born from sin, undeserving of your station. He would despise you for the rest of his days no matter how his heart screamed to have you by his side when darkness fell and all that was left was the ghost of your touch. 

Masterlist of Series

Spotify Playlist

Happiness never lasts in ASOIAF. I'm going to miss writing for baby Aemond and reader. They were so cute! From now on it's going to be messed up young adults with severe mommy uses and mental illness. I'm not going to say who has which XD. Thank y'all so much for reading and I hope to see y'all in the next chapter!

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp, @britt-mf, @marvelescvpe, @haikyuusboringassmanager, @discofairysworld, @lottiemsgf , @nessjo , @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist , @p45510n4f4shi0n, @theendlessvoidofdarkest , @readerselegance , @gothamgurl2024 , @aleemendoza2425-blog , @vaylint

[littlemissmoodswings]

hotd modern fic idea based off hbo's succession (i say as if a modern au wouldn't automatically have succession vibes)

four kids (rhaenyra, aegon, aemond, and daemon [yes he's getting looped in with the "kids" for purposes of the example]) who are trying to beat each other (sometimes proverbially, sometimes physically) for the spot as successor to the targaryen business and fortune and along the way learn tough lessons. like, you can't depend on anyone but yourself, sometimes to do good you have to do bad, and family can be so overrated. who learns what? who's to say?

aka – two adults fight two people who think they are adults for the sake of money, power, and viserys' love.

this au would be worth it for no other reason than for me to change "L to the OG" to "V to the IP" i've been laughing at that thought alone for a solid minute. aegon doing the song maybe?

fans of both succession and hotd RISE UP!!

edit: adding on the fact that i fear aegon and kendall roy may just an a teeny tiny bit in common

[alavestineneas]

King’s will

pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x OFC

summary: In the game of chess, the queen has more freedom on the chessboard. In that sense, the queen is the most powerful piece. On the other hand, the king has more value. Because if you lose the king, you lose the game. 

warnings: arranged marriage, medieval violence, slow burn

chapter 1 -> chapter 2 -> chapter 3 -> chapter 4 -> chapter 5

Spring of the year 111 AC, 

Highgarden

Otto took a sip out of the goblet, feeling a pleasant taste of Abor gold travel to his throat. It is how Gods intended the drink to be taken—slowly, under the warm rays of the morning sun. It was easy to forget oneself in those beautiful Highgarden gardens, surrounded by the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the gentle hum of bees. It was broadly different to King's Landing. The Westeros' cloak was nothing but dirt compared to those glorious hills. Even now, two years after his time as a King's Hand has ended, Otto felt the foul smell on his palms. 

''Enjoying our wine, Otto?'' 

 A brawny, strong figure appeared from the cool shadows of the trees. The small, prominent wrinkles covered the man's tan face, and his dark beard bore a few strands of grey. Although age and grief seemed to make a mark in his gaze, his brown, almost black eyes shone with a somewhat youthful, mischievous glimpse. 

 ''Fillis Tyrell in his full glory!'' Hightower smiled, standing up from the comfort of his chair to embrace the man in a hug. ''Beware, I may empty your cellar by the end of my stay.''

 ''You are more than welcome to, and you know it. I apologize for not greeting you earlier.'' 

 ''Don't, don't.'' Otto waved around, dismissing Tyrell like an annoying fly. ''I know how hard it is to manage without a wife.''

The man chuckled, ''Well, I'm doing my best. But I must say, it's not easy with two daughters.''

They stood in silence for a moment before Tyrell spoke up again. ''So, what do we owe the pleasure?''

"I decided to visit my friend in his magnificent castle and look at his mountains of gold myself.'' Otto raised his eyebrows, gesturing at the man's attire—black mourning cloth embroidered with golden threads. Heavy, shining jewels covered the large, noble hands and wrapped around the neck, hidden under the velvet collar. 

 ''Don't try to fool me, old fox.'' The man sat, taking a piece of fruit from the golden plate. ''The trading goes well; it always did. You are not here because of that.''

Otto raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. ''You know me too well.'' He took a sip of wine before continuing. ''I am to ask for your support.'' 

Tyrell leaned in, his eyes narrowing with interest. ''Go on.'' 

''The Realm stands at peace, but we are preparing for war, my friend.''

The man sat back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ''You are asking a lot of me, Otto. Going against the King's will is the highest treason.'' 

 ''The King's will doesn't take away the birthright of the firstborn son.'' Otto followed the man's gaze. Two young children played near the fountain, with a maid struggling to keep them away from the water. 

 ''I have two daughters growing. Gods know how long I am yet to live and rule here before they are alone. They can't even hold a sword, and you want me to put them at war without any protection?''

It was not just his father's love that spoke; it was the lack of gain for his house that Tyrell voiced. Not even a life-long friendship could change the man's prudent nature; although sometimes wearying, it served him well.

''What do you want in return, Fillis?'' 

 Tyrell looked at him, a playful glimpse long gone. ''Wed them. Take my daughter to Oldtown, raise her in your traditions, and make her Aegon's wife.'' 

 Otto shook his head ''I can't do that. The prince is only four; your daughter is seven.'' 

 ''I have two. Elize is an heir. She will be the Lady Paramount of the Mander, first to support your grandson's claim when the time comes. Marcella is five.'' 

 Otto looked at his friend, entertaining the proposal. The price for Tyrell's support is immense; marrying his grandson to a pig in a poke was treacherous. However, the army and gold of the Reach could hold a deadly advantage if used by an enemy. Aegon had to marry sooner or later; no other noble house would agree to send their daughter to Oldtown to be raised as his wife. Tyrells were always trusted allies of Hightowers, sharing similar goals and values. A marriage alliance with them would not only secure Hightower's position in court but also strengthen Aegon's claim to the Iron Throne. ''It is a decision we can't rush.'' He finally answered. 

 ''I am not rushing you, Otto. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.'' Tyrell raised his hand, waving. ''Marcella, come!''

A shorter girl in a blue dress turned around. She was plump, with healthy fat on her cheeks and legs. Her hair, plaited in two heavy braids, jumped when she ran over to her father, a wide smile on her face. ''Father, who is this guest?'' she asked, looking up at him with curious eyes.

 ''Ser Otto Hightower, darling.'' 

The child curtsied rather clumsily, trying her best not to fall. Fillis chuckled, ruffling her hair affectionately.

''Tell me, Marcella, do you want to be a princess?" Hightower asked, his careful eyes studying the girl as if she were some rare bird. The child looked at her father, who also watched her, and thought for a moment. 

 ''No.'' She shook her head. ''I want to be the Queen.'' 

 Of course, the girl assumed it was a new game her father came up with; she was too young to understand the weight those words held. The men were silent for a moment until Tyrell spoke. 

 ''I'll be your brave knight then.'' He scooped Marcella up in his arms and spun her around, causing her to giggle with delight.

Otto watched them for a while, his thoughts far from the happy laughter. He will think about the offer later, careful not to make a mistake. For now, he can put it aside and finally speak to Fillis as a trusted friend, not as a strategic recourse. 

-

Otto stayed at the Highgarden for two more weeks, wandering through the gardens and walls of the city. He spent a lot of restless nights in the guest room, thinking about the proposal. It was not the girl that concerned him; the child was clever and vibrant, running around the castle, much to the dismay of the hoard of maids that followed her around. What kept him up at night was the possibility of a better deal that could come later. 

Tyrell was a patient man, although every patience has its limit, so as soon as the decision was made, Otto knocked at the door of his friend's chambers. Fillis was not alone, as usual; his daughters sat near the window, writing as he worked.

''Ser Otto!'' The older girl, Elize, stood up from her seat and nudged the younger one to move. Marcella waved a piece of paper with smudged ink all over it at him. 

 ''We are writing, Ser Otto," she chirped, an accusing intonation evident, as if Otto had disrupted them from a very important task. 

''I see.'' He tried to catch a glimpse of the words on the page, but the ink was too smudged to make out anything coherent.

 ''Girls, we will dine together later. Now run along, my dear. We have important matters to discuss with Ser Otto.'' 

 The older girl nodded obediently and scampered off, grabbing her sister and leaving the two men alone in the quiet room. Otto cleared his throat. 

 ''We accept your offer. Aegon will marry your younger daughter once they are of age.'' 

 ''Good.'' Fillis nodded, a wrinkle on his forehead disappearing. ''What about the King?'' 

 ''Alicent has her ways.'' Otto paused. ''The girl will study in Oldtown from the age of eleven. She will eat and live as my house's guest and receive the best education the Citadel can offer. I already sent a letter home.'' 

 Fillis nodded again. ''It seems like a definite plan,'' he said. ''When will we make an announcement?'' 

 ''No need to hurry with that; the children are still young. We have time.'' 

 The two men delved into a deep discussion about politics and economics, their voices hushed as they strategized for the future of the Realm. Hours passed before they finally emerged from the room, tired but satisfied with their progress. By the time they parted ways, Otto felt confident that he had made the right decision. He couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over him as he made his way back to his chambers. 

 -

Summer of the year 118 AC, 

Highgarden

The castle's residents all stood in the courtyard, ready to say their goodbyes to the second daughter of Lord Fillis. Horses huffed under the burning sun, stablemen manoeuvring around them with buckles of water. What seemed like dozens of chests filled a few carriages. Everything seemed familiar, except for one man. With his finer armour and the confidence of a skilled fighter, he stood out the most. 

 Ser Ywain was one of the Fillis's most trusted knights, serving House Tyrell for more than ten years. He had swarthy, rough skin and thick black braids with golden rings braided in them. A massive scar was evident on his neck, and he wore it like a glorious prize. House Ambrose was small but was famous for its deadly fighters; their motto ''Never Resting'' was not an exaggeration; Ywain trained more than anyone here did, despite not needing to. For now, the man resorted to giving occasional orders to soldiers around him, his voice calm but laced with authority.

The man of the house found himself once again growing impatient. Was it from worry or the hot sun above his head? The whole thing started to get on his nerves. Fillis didn't want to lose sight of his children even for a minute since his wife's death, let alone send one to a city he held no control over. But Tyrells weren't the one to break their agreements. ''For the love of Gods, where's your sister?'' he asked his older daughter, who was waiting beside him. 

Elize shrugged her shoulders, unsure of where her younger sister had gone. ''She said she was almost ready to leave.'' She, too, was getting tired of waiting. 

 Fillis sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Just as he wanted to fetch someone to find his child, she came running.

 ''I'm here, I'm here!'' Marcella shouted, her voice breathy. ''I'm ready now.'' 

 ''You better be," her sister scoffed. 

''Darling, it's time we say our goodbyes.'' Fillis started, the irritation in his voice long gone. His daughter's eyes reminded him so much of his childhood. The same curiosity and spirit sparkled in them. While her sister, Elize, took a lot after him, Marcella looked like her mother. Tyrell could only hope they shared only good qualities. ''Be good. You will bring great honour to our house. And remember - I and Elize will wait for your letters here. Okay?''

Marcella nodded, tears streaming down her face. Fillis wiped them away gently, his heart heavy with the weight of their impending departure. 

''Come here,'' Elize mumbled, tears staining her face as well. As much as she didn't want to admit it, she did love her younger sister.

''I read your letters to that Tully. Gross.'' Marcella whispered to her sister before running to the carriage with a speed only an eleven-year-old could possess. 

 ''Marcella!'' Elize shouted, her sentiments long forgotten. The younger girl only laughed. 

As Elize watched her sister disappear into the carriage, she couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. Marcella was always so carefree and full of life. It was as if nothing could ever bring her down. Elize, on the other hand, felt weighed down by the responsibilities that came with being the eldest. Despite being the one to inherit the Highgarden, she always lost the race for her father's love. 

 As the procession started to move, she felt her father's heavy arm on her shoulder. 

 ''I guess it's just two of us from now on, darling. So, tell me about that Tully.''

 Elize felt her cheeks redden. It's going to be a long day. 

-

To the Lord of Highgarden and his daughter, Lady Elize Tyrell, greetings and deepest love.

The oldest city greeted me well. Lord Ormund Hightower and his family are the kindest of people. Their hospitality has been unmatched, and I am grateful for their warm welcome. The grand feast was held in honour of our house upon my arrival. 

Politics and economics fascinate me, but I also enjoy more lighthearted pursuits, such as dancing and horse riding. There is something so freeing about moving your body to music or feeling the wind in your hair as you ride through the countryside. And yet, despite all of these activities, I always make time for writing. So when I write to you, know that it comes from a place of deep sincerity and affection.

To my pity, I haven't been able to see much of the city yet, but one building caught my eye. If I am not mistaken, it is a new Sept. I hope to visit it one day, for I am sure it is even more stunning from the inside. 

These things, about which I write to you, are only a few of the many that I have done here. May the Seven watch over you, and may your lands prosper and your people thrive under your wise leadership.

Written in the summer of the year 118 AC

Your loving sister and daughter, 

Lady Marcella of Noble House Tyrell 

[lya-dustin]

All is bliss

Chapter 3

Cw:mentions of std, description of syphilis, medieval punishments

Gif by @merlinaddams

Taglist: @mercedesdecorazon @darylandbethfanforever9 @aemondx

The Aemma that comes back is jubilant.

Not because of love, but because she is free of him.

Alicent recognizes that look in her because she once had it herself.

After that one last time that resulted in Daeron, the disease had eaten away at Viserys’ desire and his once mighty dragon had become a most pathetic worm.

Until the maesters say he is cured, Aegon is to abstain from all carnal acts.

A whore in the Riverlands had given him the pox and when they find her, her cunt will be scrubbed with lye soap and she will be put to death for spreading such a deadly disease to the future king of the realm.

The only issue, there had been too many given he had ---thank the gods--- a row with his bride and decided not to visit her bed.

“There is a problem, your grace.” The Maester begins and she knows it is bad news. Only bad news has been given to her these days.

“What sort of problem, Grand Maester?” she asks knowing he will have to repeat it to the Small Council soon enough.

“If the treatments work, Prince Aegon may become impotent. Lord Frey has not had a child since he recovered and neither has your lord uncle, Lord Ormund.”

Oh, do the gods love their japes.

They would need a Harwin Strong to sire and heir. A man to cuckold Aegon with in order to secure the succession.

A bastard will be king after all.

“Mention this to no one, do you hear me, Orwyle.” She ordered with a hiss.

No one can know Aegon’s sins have caught up to him.

Aemma is laughing on the swings she and Helaena loved as children.

“Aegon’s glory will die with him.” Helaena said beside her with a chuckle.

She spoke in riddles just as she did when they were children, on occasion Aemma understood her.

This time Aemma knows she is free of Aegon. Who will die with no legitimate issue.

The cures for this pox always leave the man unable to perform, or so her Septa had gleaned off the young acolyte that flusters when she speaks to him.

She may even become a widow, what joy!

“And how wonderful is that!” Aemma giggles trying not to be so loud.

She must play the loving wife, or at least tolerant wife in public.

But as long as he does not get into her bed ever again, she will be the devoted wife with a heart full of love.

Especially when she visits him in his sickroom while her goodmother, grandsire by marriage and other people who are allowed to know about his condition are there.

His illness has been kept a secret, well, the true nature of it anyways.

It is not chicken pox that he caught at an inn they stayed in.

It is syphilis, the Great Pox, the Lyseni Disease.

Not many survive it without losing their noses, or being disfigured, but Orwyle claims his colleague can cure him without such side effects.

“Are you with child?” he asks, remembering it has been nearly three moons since they wed.

“No.” her monthlies had come last week, and she had never been so excited to bleed.

“Shame. I suppose once I am cured, I can get back to sowing.” He said with a wink, trying to keep himself optimistic.

The look on the Maesters and the Queen says it all.

He will have no real heirs.

Aegon’s Glory will die with him.

Gods bless Alys Rivers and her magical cunt.

It takes another moon for Aegon to be cured.

Every day he was given strange teas, given a strange metallic ointment and made to sweat so the disease would not advance and destroy his face, genitals and drive him to madness.

Eventually, it went away, and he resumed his visits.

Visits she no longer cares for because she knows her belly will never swell with this seed.

She even smiles and pretends to enjoy it.

And the moment it is over she calls for a bath and goes back to her business.

Court did not lack for entertainment nor spiritual resources, but there were no topics beyond fashion, housekeeping, gossip and the gods here.

Even the card games became dull when all there was to talk about was things with little substance.

Some ladies did not read novels because their parents or husbands prohibited them.

Some don’t read histories because it wasn’t their place to learn anything beyond the basics.

Said it filled their heads with nonsense and all they needed to know was how to be dutiful wives and daughters.

Some ladies were not told about current events nor asked their opinions on such topics because it was unladylike.

“Have you finished reading Hardhome yet?” Aemond asked laying on the couch with his legs hanging over the edge.

Once they used fit there with knees bent and one on one end and the other on the other end.

Now she sits almost six feet away as it was proper.

No one here reads as much as they do.

Helaena could match them, but Daemion Velaryon never returned from his voyage and now Old Castle Driftmark passed to Daeron.

Besides people where whispering such horrible things now that she was with child again.

“Couldn’t put it down, if Maester Wyllis hadn’t run back to the lands beyond the Wall, I think I would have invited him here to ask him personally about his time there.” Aemma answers.

One of the great powers they had was that no one could refuse an invitation.

And if an author or a poet or inventor intrigued them, they could always summon them to learn first hand from them.

Just before she left Dragonstone, mother had the man who invented the printing press come and give a demonstration.

The first book made with it was a compilation of the few remaining pages of Signs and Portents, a book of prophecies hand written by Daenys the Dreamer herself.

Of course, then someone used the machine to write how Aemma’s brothers were bastards and mother a whore so she had Syrax burn it while Daemon cut the man’s tongue out for slander.

“You look happier now than you have been in days, has Aegon improved on acquaintance?” Aemond pretends his own question doesn’t bother him.

They got along like a house on fire despite the occasional butting of heads.

If only this were as easy as that with Aegon.

“Oh no, he is much worse. Orwyle should have humbled him a little by letting some of it scar.” Should she tell him?

He wouldn’t tell, he is not like that. Or so she thinks.

“Then what has you in such a good mood these days, you glow with joy so much I don’t think you need candles during the evening.” He is rather poetic in private, the woman he marries will be very lucky.

“Can you keep a secret?” she asks with a voice barely above a whisper and he swings his legs off the edge and sits on his couch.

Aemma almost leaps over the low table and takes up the space beside him. She is so excited to share this news she is practically on his lap.

“Aegon’s been left infertile.” She says with a squeal. Says it with as much joy a pregnant woman or soon-to-be bride has with their good news.

[whereismymindnow]

I won't tell you where my head is currently... but I will give you a hint with a crappy attempt at photoshop!

I have a Targaryen!OC. I've named her Aemyra. She is Rhaenyra's (+ Daemon's, but shhhh!) daughter. Her hair is as bright as the stars at night and her eyes are a cool lavender that pierce directly into your soul. ...she also has quite a big problem. Her uncles want to ruin her. Aemond, because he wants no one else to have her in the end. Aegon, because she is resilient and her tears taste exquisite.

I have no idea if anything will come of all of my thoughts. Potentially some dark one-shots? Who knows!

[emilykaldwen]

Pentos is not a dream. It is vision made flesh with sweat and tears and frantic nerves. They are both dead and alive; they died the night the King did. They were born come the dawn on the sands of Essos amidst a victorious dragon shriek and relieved laughter. Where exhaustion and adrenaline gave way to something sacred in the surf that yes, yes we made it we've made it, Avy jorrāelan… ñuha jehikagrī qēlos (i love you, my bright star). Or Aegon and Abrogail escape King's Landing the night the King dies.

rating: explicit warnings: exhibitionism, public sex, fluff and smut, alternate universe, escape to pentos au un-beta'd

tag list: @starcrossedjedis , @fyeahhotdocs, @stannisfactions, @fragilestorm, @darkwolf76, @arrthurpendragon, @dopedaegus, @hiddenqveendom, @mantillon, @lightofthearrow, @songsonacliffside, @acrossthesestars ; @insabecs

If you'd like to be on the tag list, please DM me!

Reblogs are love! Reblog to keep a post alive!

[sunnysideaeggs]

aaaaaaaa such perfect ending! i knew it was going to be good when the tittle is Aphrodite, the goddess of love herself! Maggie, you’ve outdone yourself with this story, and it’s a recommended read for everyone who likes aegon, us 1950s history, analysis of a woman’s life or the feeling of bubbling love. 1000/10 would love to be able to read it all for the first time! 💕💕✨🫶🏻

1968 [Chapter 12: Aphrodite, Goddess Of Love] [Series Finale]

A/N: Surprise!!! A new chapter from Maggie?? On a Thursday?? I was just too excited to wait! Please enjoy the final installment of 1968 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6k

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The sun is rising, and all the guests have dissipated like morning stars. You and Aegon are sitting across from each other at the table in the kitchenette of your suite, cool grey morning light slanting into the silence, confetti on the floor, broken glass, crumbs from the catered appetizers—gyros, hummus, pita, mini spanakopitas, baklava—stomped into the carpet, spots that are soggy with spilled champagne. The Plaza might have to replace it. Outside, rain falls in a mist. Your makeup is smudged; your hair is falling out of its clips and pins. Aemond is waiting, standing with his back to the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, blonde hair slicked back, blue suit, prosthetic eye filling the void in his skull. You know what happens next, but you can’t bring yourself to rise, to speak, to set it into motion. You stare down at the lines in the palm of your uninjured hand and think of the ropes of a sailboat, the invisible strings of gravity that enchain the universe.

Aegon swipes at his eyes: bloodshot, vacant, continuously streaming tears. “I’m gonna go back to Yuma.” 

You look up at him, startled. “Right now?”

“Right now,” Aemond agrees from the wall.

Aegon begs you in a hoarse whisper, eyes dark and glistening like the Atlantic at night: “Come with me.”

Your hands shaking, your voice splintering. “I can’t, Aegon. I can’t.”

He drums his knuckles on the table, gets up from his chair, rushes to you before Aemond can stop him. He’s holding you, his lips to your forehead, the salt of his tears on your cheeks and your lips, like the ocean is bleeding out of him, like he’ll drown you. “I’m sorry,” he says, breath catching in his throat, his pores hemorrhaging smoke, horror, rum, ruin. 

Once you pushed Aegon away, hated him, stained him with your husband’s blood. Now your fingernails hook like claws into his army jacket and cling there, frantic and childlike. “Not yet, please, Aegon, don’t go, please don’t go.”

“I have to, I’m sorry.”

“Aegon, no–”

“I’m so fucking sorry.” He’s sobbing, he’s trembling, he’s gone. The doorway is empty like an unfinished sentence, like a myth no one remembers. The silence floods back into the rain-grey November air. The room is cold like a mausoleum. You touch your own face: tears Aegon left there, muscles and nerves dead beneath your skin, disbelief you sink through like the sea, waiting to hit the floor deep with the silt of rocks and wreckage and bones.

He’s gone? He’s really gone?

Aemond stalks over to the table, smirking, radiant, his hands in the pockets of his suit; he takes his time, he savors it. He’s never been higher. He was right all along. He can’t be killed, he is destined to be the president. It is God’s will. “Get ready,” Aemond says. “I have a victory speech to make.”

~~~~~~~~~~

He heads west on Route 70, billboards and drive-thrus, toll booths and reflective green mile markers, the kids fighting over who gets to pick the radio station from the back of the Dodge A-100 that Otto had hastily procured, handing over the keys as Aegon rolled his suitcase out of the Plaza Hotel. That first night they stop in Wheeling, Ohio, and the kids have startlingly little resistance to this upheaval. They can’t find much to complain about. A road trip with Dad and only Dad, no journalists badgering them for photos or quotes, no orders barked from Otto or Aemond, no exacting campaign itinerary, no scripted propriety, Mountain Dew spills on the carpet, Pizza Hut boxes on cheap springy motel mattresses.

“What do you think about all this?” Aegon asks Orion when the younger ones have dozed off: Cosmo and Thaddeus on one bed, Violeta in another, Spiro lounging across the threadbare sofa with a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring resting open on his chest.

Orion shrugs, that adolescent aversion to vulnerability, like the whole world is out to shake you down for evidence of the defections you’re so convinced define you. “It’s cool, I guess. It’s like an adventure. And we’ll get to see you a lot more.”

“Yeah you will,” Aegon promises. He feels sick: no booze, no pills, the grease of pepperoni churning in his belly. “And I’m never gonna be the way I was before.”

The bathroom is tiny and spartan, white porcelain, black specks of mildew. When he’s done showering, Aegon wipes the fog off the mirror with his fist. In Ancient Greece, a shaved head was the mark of a slave; it was meant to strip the man of his past, to make him brand new. He remembers Aemond saying this one afternoon as they were all out sailing at Asteria, Aegon sprawled on his back and drinking rum from the bottle as beams of sunlight refracted through the glass, Aemond leafing through one of his history books, Helaena throwing bits of pita to the seagulls, Daeron peering through his telescope for glimpses of dolphins, sharks, bobbing treasure from shipwrecks, imagined enemy vessels. Aegon thinks as he studies his reflection under the harsh fluorescent lights—crinkles by his eyes, skin ravaged by years of careless sunburn—that he wouldn’t mind not having a past. He opens his shaving kit and takes out the straight razor he never uses, shears off his tangled, windswept locks of blonde hair, smiles when the kids laugh and call him Yul Brynner the next morning over breakfast at the diner beside the motel, blueberry pancakes and toast wet with egg yolks. He’s not brand new; it’s impossible to be. But he’s getting closer.

The Fort Yuma Indian Reservation has grown during the Kennedy and Johnson years. The tribe now enjoys a steady income from numerous projects, including the leasing of farmland, a convenience store, a casino and resort, and an RV park. The school has been rebuilt—bigger, more modern, air conditioning, hallelujah—since Aegon was first exiled here twenty years ago, but several of the employees have familiar faces, and the current principal was once an English teacher assigned to be his mentor, a different lifetime, an ancient myth.

“You look good,” Artie says as he descends the concrete front steps on an afternoon in mid-November, 75 degrees, bright cerulean sky, no clouds. He takes Aegon’s outstretched hand and shakes it. “Kind of fat, but good. You still play guitar?”

“I do, yeah. I have one in the back of my van right now.”

Artie glances at the giggling, waving children behind the glass windows. “Jesus Pleasus, how many kids you got?”

Aegon chuckles. “Five, I think.”

“Five! Well, they’re welcome to attend here, if you want them to be where you are.”

“That’s a very generous offer. They’ve never gone to a real school before. They had private tutors in New Jersey.”

“What a great way to raise jackasses, if you ask me.” Artie gives him a stern look over, wrinkled brow, narrowed brown eyes. “You sober?”

“No pills, no drinking, occasional weed.”

“Goddamn, that’s a lot better than I expected.”

“Hey Artie?”

“Uh huh.”

“Would you happen to need a math teacher?”

Artie studies him thoughtfully. “I mean, we’re always looking for qualified math and science people. They leave the quickest, those aerospace and electronics companies over in California pay too much. Why? You know someone?”

“I used to,” Aegon says, then motions for his kids to get out of the van. Artie lets them eat ice cream in the cafeteria while Aegon signs his contract.

He’s in Yuma for three weeks before he meets a girl. Her name is Rachel, and she’s a dream that walked out of the Summer Of Love: hair down to her waist, boots to her knees, handknit vests, chipped nail polish and teasing smiles, a taste for sun and smoking. At night they sit under the stars behind Aegon’s bungalow out in the desert, roasting marshmallows and hotdogs with the kids, Aegon strumming his guitar, Rachel playing her harmonica, a few homely adopted mutts loping around instead of purebred Alopekis. She likes him, this boyish sunbeam of a man who always seems just a little lost, a little sad. She might even love him.

And yet there are ghosts, beasts, threads the fates have not yet severed. One night in January after the kids have gone to sleep, Aegon is flipping through television channels as Rachel returns to the couch with a bowl full of Jiffy Pop, plops down onto the cushions, curls up against him. Aegon stumbles upon CBS Evening News, a clip from the inauguration, and his words vanish mid-sentence, his eyes—an opaque, stormy, melancholic sort of blue—growing wide. He doesn’t change the channel. He doesn’t move at all.

“What?” Rachel asks. On the screen is a clip of President Targaryen being sworn in, his wife at his side and cradling the Bible in her hands. She’s wearing Oscar de la Renta—a powder blue wool coat that matches her husband’s tie—and a stately new hairstyle that is very distinctly inspired by Jackie Kennedy. Her smile is serene and dignified, if perhaps a bit remote. She could be a marble statue in a garden or a museum. It must be a lot of pressure for her, Rachel thinks. To live up to being the partner of a man that remarkable. “Aegon? Baby, are you okay?”

After a long time Aegon says, very softly, like it’s only to himself: “He made her cut her hair.”

Rachel stares mystified at the television and then turns back to Aegon. “What happened with her?” Something must have. He looks staggered, he looks haunted, he looks like someone Medusa turned to stone. Rachel knows about who Aegon is, of course, everyone does; but he never wants to talk about it. When people mention his family, Aegon smiles politely and then changes the subject. When they ask about his sister-in-law, he says he needs a cigarette and walks out of the room. She sent him a beautiful, shimmering gold acoustic Gibson guitar for Christmas; the first lady’s name was on the return address. To Rachel’s knowledge, Aegon never thanked her.

Aegon shakes his head, and Rachel can’t tell if that means the story is too long or too short, unrealized potential, loose kaleidoscopic strands of stardust, infinitesimal moments that wouldn’t have meaning to anyone else. “Nothing.” Then he resumes switching channels: I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, the Newlywed Game.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your parents fly north for the inauguration, so proud, so effusive, interviewed by every major news network. Business is booming at the Spongeorama Sponge Factory back in Tarpon Springs. They are seated between Alicent and Ludwika’s mother Elzbieta, newly arrived from Poland. LBJ and Lady Bird are cordial but uncharacteristically understated, retreating back to their home state of Texas like kicked dogs. All the defeated adversaries of the campaign trail attend to show their support, to wordlessly plead for a long-awaited national reconciliation. George Wallace won’t meet your eyes. Richard Nixon whispers through your hair as he clasps your scarred hand: “Aemond could never have done this without you.”

Jackie Kennedy’s chosen cause as first lady was the restoration of the White House, Lady Bird’s was environmental protection. You want to visit schools and help teach math to little kids, but Aemond decides it would be more politically expedient for you to be seen tending to wounded veterans of Vietnam; so you spend many of your days in hospitals, inhaling charred flesh and Lysol and dying flowers and blood. The Japanese ambassador bows lower to you than he does to Aemond. The prime minister of France tries (unsuccessfully) to flirt with you. Athenagoras I of Constantinople, the Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church, brings you a komboskini he has blessed. Reprieves come in slivers like a disappearing moon: lunches with Fosco–carpaccio, caprese, bolognese, polenta–and drinks with Ludwika, always something with rum, something that tastes like Aegon. You dream of incubators and arterial spray, stitches and scars and crimson bandages, the flash of blades, the thunder of bullets; but the would-be assassins go to prison and no one else ever tries. You are Persephone in the Underworld. You are Io in the wilderness.

You are just beginning to panic about what you’ll do when your tiny pink birth control pills run out when Fosco shows up to one of your lunches with a paper bag full of familiar circular packets. “I have been informed that I am to be your dealer,” he says, grinning. “I will be back with more in six months. I told the doctor they were for my mistress. I don’t even have a mistress! Isn’t this exciting? I am like a secret agent. I am the Italian James Bond. The name’s Viviani, Fosco Viviani.”

“Aegon asked you to do this?”

“Well, he did not ask, exactly. I do not think I was allowed to say no.”

You hide the paper bag in the Louis Vuitton purse Ludwika bought you, so thankful you don’t have words for it, missing Aegon like Orpheus missed Eurydice, searching through the shade-haunted grey haze of the Underworld for her.

“It was odd,” Fosco says quietly, delicately. “He did not want to know anything about you. He asked if you needed anything else that I was aware of, I said no, and then he hung up when I started to tell him about Christmas dinner.”

You remember Aegon’s words, ghosts from where Long Beach Island meets the Atlantic Ocean: Mimi wasn’t as strong as you. Maybe what Aegon didn’t say is that he isn’t either. You imagine the fates snipping threads, the memoryless oblivion offered by the River Lethe, moons becoming greater and lesser. He has to try to forget you. You have to let him.

On Valentine’s Day weekend, Daeron comes home. He and John McCain are the last two men freed from the prisoner of war camp known as the Hanoi Hilton. When he steps off the plane, Daeron is carrying with him, of all things, a single white rat in a wire cage. The first question he asks, after being engulfed in embraces from Alicent, Criston, and Fosco, is: “Where’s Aegon?” And he knows from the stilted, piecemeal explanations he receives that something has happened. You take Daeron to breakfast the next morning, and you don’t tell him everything, but you tell him enough. He spends a month recuperating at Asteria, then follows Zephyr, the god of the west wind, across the country to Arizona.

Aegon didn’t send you anything for Christmas, and he didn’t respond to the guitar you gifted him with Ludwika’s assistance. But on July 13th, a green envelope arrives in your mail basket with no return address. You open it to find a greeting card with an exuberant cow on the front. Inside, the original message—You’re mooooooving on up in the world! Happy retirement!—has been crossed out with black ink. You laugh, your first real laugh in weeks, and then read what Aegon has written in his chaotic, scribbling penmanship:

I thought this was blank :)

Hope you’re doing okay. You look great on tv.

Then there is an expanse of open white space, like a weighty hesitation. There’s no signature, but there is one final note like a postscript.

Thank you for the guitar, but please don’t send anything else. It fucks me up, you know?

Yes, you do know. Aegon never calls you, but Cosmo does. Once or twice a week he dials your private line at the White House–Aegon must have asked Fosco for it–and tells you all about his new life in Yuma, his school, his friends, the dogs, the desert. Aegon’s met someone named Rachel; Cosmo mentions her intermittently yet with unmistakable fondness: “Rachel makes the best s’mores,” “Rachel told me about seeing Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock,” “Rachel took us to pick pumpkins for Halloween.” You’re glad Cosmo calls, and you’re glad he’s happy; but afterwards you always feel so indescribably, irredeemably sad.

You sneak your pills and avoid Aemond as much as you can, something that becomes easier as he spends long hours reviewing briefs in the Oval Office, preparing speeches, meeting foreign dignitaries, strategizing with his cabinet, and scheming against his conservative foes across the nation, a faction soon led by California governor Ronald Reagan. You stand perfectly still as designers alter Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy to fit you like woolen armor. You strike up a chaste, harmless flirtation with a Secret Service agent from Atlanta named Nathaniel, not because he reminds you of Aegon—Nate is 6’4, 250 pounds, and a former Navy SEAL—but because he listens, because he is kind. He gives you riveting summaries of films and books that are considered too scandalous for you to be seen enjoying. He makes fun of your matronly skirt suits. He takes you to get lemon-lime Mr. Mistys at Dairy Queen. He massages your scarred hand with rose oil.

In May of 1969, Aemond voices support for university students across the nation protesting in favor of increased Black faculty and Africana Studies courses. In July, the Apollo 11 mission lands the first men on the moon, effectively ending the Space Race with an American victory. In September, Lieutenant William Calley receives a sentence of life in prison for his role in the My Lai Massacre the previous year. In November, the Rolling Stones release a new album entitled Let It Bleed. Ludwika gives you the record for Christmas along with an array of perfumes and lipsticks, all extravagantly packaged in a pink Gucci gift box. Your favorite song is Gimme Shelter. You listen to it at dusk in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, your chair facing west, taking slow drags off Lucky Strike cigarettes that Nate buys for you, embers glowing as the sun disappears.

“What’s out there?” Nate asks you one night with a slinky half-grin, and then when you don’t immediately answer: “You’re always looking that way. What are you looking for?”

You don’t know what to tell him. Nothing. Everything. Something that almost happened. And slowly, under a lavender twilight peppered with the remote glimmers of constellations—stars that cannot be changed, disasters predestined since before you were born—Nate’s smile dies, and he never asks again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three time zones away, Aegon’s hair grows out and he gets his ears re-pierced, tiny gold hoops that make him think of wedding rings. Rachel pretends she doesn’t want to get married. Aegon doesn’t offer. Once in a while after the kids have gone to bed, he climbs into the hammock in the backyard and smokes a joint, staring absently into the east as the new Rolling Stones album spins on the record player. Aegon’s favorite song is You Can’t Always Get What You Want. Rachel stands at the telescope they set up for the kids—Cosmo’s idea—and stargazes, making her way down a checklist of visible celestial objects.

One night Aegon asks as she’s squinting through the eyepiece: “Where’s Jupiter?”

Rachel glances over at him, then points up at the indigo sky. “It’s that one, the really bright spot near Perseus. Why?”

Aegon shrugs, exhaling smoke. “No reason,” he says; but he’s still looking at Jupiter, wounded, stoned wonder floating on the surface of his watery eyes.

Daeron settles down in Yuma and buys a ranch. He does some work at the VA Hospital a few hours away in Tucson, some white water rafting on the Colorado River, some hiking in the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, a whole lot of roughhousing with his niece and nephews. John McCain, now a war hero and national celebrity, is always calling to see if Daeron has decided to run for office yet. A few times a year, they receive visitors from the East Coast: Alicent, Criston, Ludwika, Helaena, Fosco, and their three children. The president and first lady are not mentioned unless by accident. The kids adore their grandmother, and she loves them back, although Alicent never learns to appreciate Tessarion the rat and refuses to hold her. In 1970, Helaena and Fosco have one last baby, a daughter they name Marina after Mimi. Life goes on, but the ghosts remain.

On a chilly evening in January of 1972, Aegon is flipping through television channels when he lands on an NBC segment about First Lady Targaryen touring the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. “That’s so fucked up,” Aegon murmurs as she calmly soothes the suffering of mutilated men, and his voice is dark with scorching, clandestine fury. He gestures to the screen with the remote control. “She hates hospitals. He makes her do things that hurt her. He does it just to prove he can.”

Rachel says as she stands in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, a question she has finally worked up the courage to ask: “No one is ever going to be able to compare to her, right?”

Aegon opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it again. And something washes over him like waves of the ocean, sun on sand, poison in the blood and the lungs, myths that carve themselves into your bones so deep you can see the red of the marrow underneath. He replies truthfully, his eyes still on the screen: “Right.”

Rachel packs her bags. Aegon gets up to help her. He feels it’s the least he can do.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you and Aemond return to Asteria for summer vacations, the seaside Targaryen compound is full of ghosts. You catch glimpses of Mimi stumbling up staircases, Cosmo trotting after you as you turn corners, Aegon smoking a joint under the statue of Zeus in Helaena’s garden. You open cabinets and bottles of his pills fall out. You see Sunfyre bobbing abandoned in the boathouse. The basement is just as Aegon left it. Sometimes you go down there and stand on the green shag carpet in the hushed, cool, damp emptiness, not knowing what you’re waiting for, staring at the wall until someone comes to look for you.

“What’s in these?” Nate asks one afternoon, snatching a notebook off the shelf. “Oh wow, look!” He shows you messy sketches in black ink, cartoon versions of the stories of Greek gods and goddesses, myths reimagined. “Who do you think drew them?”

“Maybe Daeron,” you reply, but it wasn’t him. You’d know Aegon’s handwriting anywhere. Nate leafs through a bunch of the notebooks, booming laughter—he especially enjoys that Poseidon has been characterized as a sexually insatiable dolphin—and reading his favorite parts out loud to you. One notebook is only half-full; the last few pages are covered with drawings of tiny cows, telephones with long spiral cords, the moon in all its phases. You tear these out to keep.

On each July 13th, there is a card with no return address waiting in your mail basket at the White House, always featuring a jovial cow, always making you smile. You entrust Nate with the task of hiding the notebook pages and greeting cards away somewhere safe, an arrangement he honors like an oath.

Every so often, when you feel lethal bitterness kindling, you are struck by the inspiration to find Aemond’s Ouija board. It must be here in the White House someplace, but you can’t figure out where. You search the bedrooms, rummage through closets, climb into the oak cabinets beneath bathroom sinks; you scrabble around like a rodent under the cover of darkness while Aemond is away on state visits and campaign rallies for fellow Democrats. Maybe he makes secret stops in Tacoma or Seattle. If he does, you don’t care. You’d rather Aemond be there than here.

In the spring of 1972, you find the Ouija board in a drawer of the Resolute desk, where Aemond conducts official business in the Oval Office. “Oh, that is insane,” you say to yourself as you slide it out. You mean to burn it in your bedroom fireplace, then think again. On the back of the board, the inscription has faded, as if traced by Aemond’s fingertips again and again.

If I destroy this, what will he do to Aegon and his children? What will he do to me?

You place the Ouija board back where you found it, slide the drawer shut, and crawl into bed, besieged by dreams of smoke and rum and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch.

Aemond’s national approval rating hovers between 55-70%—far about the historical average, although he never stops pining for an heir and proper first family to maximize his allure—until May of 1972, when the tide begins to turn. The treaty formally ending U.S. involvement in the war was signed back in early 1969, but the hasty troop withdrawal left capitalist South Vietnam vulnerable, and now it is being invaded by the communists backed by China and Russia. The Fall of Saigon is immortalized in the evening news, printed on the covers of newspapers; people who once collaborated with the Americans are shot dead in the streets. Refugees flee west to Laos and Cambodia and Thailand, east on makeshift rafts into the ocean. The few that Aemond manages to hurriedly admit into the U.S. inspire racism and xenophobia from suburbanites. Many of the hippies have grown up, had children, gotten jobs, settled down with credit cards and mortgages. Protestors march with signs out on Pennsylvania Avenue: America abandons her allies! Our global reputation is in peril! Will the communists invade here next? What did my son die for?

“They wanted me to end it,” Aemond marvels as he gazes out the White House windows. “They begged for me to end it, and now look at them. Ungrateful imbecile bastards.”

And you give him a rare piece of advice that he listens to: “You should call LBJ.”

On his ranch fifty miles outside of Austin, Texas, Lyndon Baines Johnson is dying of heart failure. Still, he smokes more or less constantly, and refuses to adhere to the diet Lady Bird fretfully lectures their chefs about. He has grown his grey hair long and sits for as many interviews as he can, desperate to salvage his legacy and remind people of the things he did right: civil rights legislation, the War On Poverty, rising from a poor farming family to the Oval Office. He knows exactly what it feels like to be hated for having no good options. He says gruffly through the phone: “The Vietnam War needed to end, Aemond. It had to happen. But someone has to pay for it, too. That’s your job now. Take the fall, and the country survives. Plenty of people still love you. And I’m proud of you, son. I know it ain’t easy, believe me. But I’m real proud.”

Still, Aemond fights. He can’t help it. It’s all he’s ever known.

He campaigns at a murderous pace, and you have to follow him across the nation. Perhaps intentionally, there are no campaign stops in Arizona. Aemond does very well, but Ronald Reagan does better; he’s quick and he’s cutting, but he’s also funny, and grandfatherly, and warm, and God knows the American people could use some of that after the past decade. He characterizes Aemond’s policy regarding Vietnam as “peace without honor.” He calls Aemond short-sighted about a dozen times, a jab his supporters guffaw at. He says the United States has surrendered its rightful place as the leader of the free world. His wife Nancy—his second wife—is vehemently opposed to recreational drugs and other supposed moral crimes including abortion and premarital sex. You hate her, and she hates you right back, though in a perfectly pleasant, ever-smiling, mid-century housewife sort of way. Reagan’s disciples call you a whore. Aemond gets the newspapers still loyal to him to publish scathing denials. You aren’t exactly sure why he does this; no comment at all would almost certainly be wiser politically, as Otto advises. But Aemond does it anyway, with deep trenches of violent determination knit into his scarred brow.

The 1972 presidential election is held on Tuesday, November 7th. It is not until the early hours of the morning on Wednesday the 8th that Aemond learns he has narrowly lost. It couldn’t possibly be construed as your fault; he wins Florida by a greater margin than he had in 1968. As the sun rises in a bright, cloudless sky, Aemond’s entourage clears out of the Lincoln Sitting Room, leaving the two of you alone with the droning television. Aemond is sipping an Old Fashioned on one end of the couch. You light yourself a Lucky Strike cigarette on the other. For once, Aemond doesn’t seem to mind.

“You know,” Aemond muses after a while. “Ronald Reagan is divorced.”

Your heart is racing; you aren’t sure what he’s offering. You’re petrified to say the wrong thing and change his mind. “Yeah, he is.”

Aemond nods, twirling his Old Fashioned so the ice cubes clink against the misty glass, not looking at you. “I think I’ll marry Alys and adopt the boy.”

And that’s how you learn that what Aegon said in the doorway of a hospital room four and half years ago was true, no impassioned declarations, no gratitude, only grudges that have grown quiet and cold and dormant. At last, Aemond is done with you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Otto, glowering spitefully, getaway car procurement extraordinaire, hands you the keys to a green Chevy Nova. On the front steps of the White House, you say goodbye to a palpably heartbroken Nate. He gives you the notebook pages and greetings cards. You give him a kiss on the cheek, a parting stain of red lipstick. But instead of blood, the color makes you think of cherry-flavored Mr. Mistys, the Lucky Strike logo, roses, sunburn, firelight, the rust-hued earth of the desert. You duck into the Nova and start driving.

The East Coast unfolds into the Midwest and then turns jagged as you hit the Rocky Mountains. At a gas station in Albuquerque, New Mexico, you toss your remaining birth control pills—still squirreled away in a box of hollowed-out tampons—into a trash bin. At a McDonald’s in Asher, Arizona, just forty minutes outside of Yuma, you stop to get a large Coca-Cola and touch up your makeup in the bathroom mirror: black eyeliner, gold shadow, both as heavy as you want them to be. You stroll back to your Nova under a radiant November sky that feels like summer, smiling to yourself. The hem of your roomy, floral skirt billows around your brown leather boots in the desert wind. Your earrings are small, glinting gold hoops. Your white tank top is simple and hand-crocheted, found at a yard sale in Amarillo, Texas; but your sunglasses are Bugatti, a gift from Ludwika.

You park outside the only school on the Fort Yuma Indian Reservation and go inside to the front office. The secretary says distractedly: “Can I help you, ma’am?” Then she does a double take. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, do I…do I know you from somewhere…?”

“You might,” you say, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair. It’s only shoulder-length now, but growing, and wild from the wind. “I was hoping to find Mr. Targaryen, does he still work here?”

“He sure does, but he doesn’t like anyone calling him that.”

Of course he wouldn’t. “Just Aegon then. Which classroom is…?”

But before you can finish your question, and before she can answer, you hear echoing through the labyrinthian hallways the start of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Bad Moon Rising, not just an acoustic guitar but bass and drums too.

“I see the bad moon a-risin’

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin’

I see bad times today

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

The secretary laughs, keeping rhythm with taps of her pencil on her desk. “I guess you can find him on your own, can’t ya?”

Yes, you can. You follow the music through long empty corridors, wondering where all the students are. You drag your fingertips—black polish, chipped around the edges—along grooves in the cinder block walls that have been painted over with vibrant murals. The song is getting louder, and now you hear other noises too, an ocean of energetic voices and squealing chairs.

“I hear hurricanes a-blowin’

I know the end is comin’ soon

I fear rivers over flowin’

I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise, alright!”

You step into the cafeteria, raucous with students swapping pudding cups and bags of chips. Many of them are watching the stage, clapping along, playing their own imaginary guitars. Aegon is there strumming the sparkling gold guitar you sent him for Christmas back in 1968. He hasn’t seen you yet; he’s grinning at the kids up on the stage with him—his fellow bandmates, his fledgling rockstars—and leaning back from the mic to give them pointers. But Cosmo has. He flies out of his seat and crashes into you, now nearly ten years old, long blonde hair, a Rolling Stones t-shirt.

“You’re back!” he bellows over the music as you hug him. Teachers chatting amongst themselves by the wall give you curious glances.

“Yeah, kiddo. I am.”

“For a visit?”

“Maybe for a little longer than that.”

“Yay!” he shouts, jumping up and down.

You look back to Aegon, and now his eyes catch on yours: instantaneous recognition, disbelief, amazement. He’s just like you remember him; he’s just like he is in your dreams. You raise an eyebrow and wave tentatively. His own words surface in your skull like swimming up through cool, sunlit water: What are we gonna do about it? And Aegon smiles, the god of light, music, healing, truth.

Now his tiny bandmates are yelling at him, irate. He’s still plucking at his guitar on autopilot, but he’s missed his cue to sing the last verse. He shakes off his astonishment and continues, beaming, watching you.

“Hope you got your things together

Hope you are quite prepared to die

Looks like we’re in for nasty weather

One eye is taken for an eye

Well don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Cosmo sprints back to his lunch to stop a friend from seizing his unguarded Ding Dongs.

“Don’t come around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Aegon gives his guitar a final few strums as the cafeteria erupts into cheers and applause. His bandmates bow to their audience as Aegon takes off his guitar, leaps down from the stage, runs to you as children twist in their seats to stare. He’s wearing khaki shorts, tan moccasins, a half-unbuttoned white shirt that actually fits him, dog tags with Daeron’s name on them. He’s so afraid to ask the question; he’s terrified you won’t say the right answer. “Io…what the hell are you doing here?”

You shrug, casual, teasing. “Didn’t like where I was. Thought I’d try someplace new.”

He touches your face to make sure you’re real, marveling at you, his voice going hushed. “We’ve lost so much time.”

“Don’t worry. Your life’s only half over.”

Aegon laughs, eyes shining. “I’m really, really looking forward to the rest of it.”

You can feel the smile on his lips as he kisses you; you can hear a quiet, kind melody that fills the universe, the sound of all the chains of gravity breaking and moons drifting free from their planets.

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Redamancy ⭑

Masterlist

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Sister!reader

A/N: Based of scene in Domina if ykyk, also don't know if I like this one yet because it was written in the middle of the night :)

Warning: NSFW, 18+ mdni, making out, catching aegon getting sucked, oral (f receiving), vaginal and creampie (ofc).

Summary: During a brief walk at night you catch your eldest brother in a comprimising position with one of the servants. He obviously has to be a good brother and show you what that pleasure feels like.

Word count: 2K

It was a cold, breezy summer night. The temperature finally had dropped after such a scorching day. You twisted and turned in your bed, sleep didn’t come easily to you lately and it was affecting your daily duties. After a while you gave up, throwing the sheets of your body, your long silvery hair fell down your side. Your feet touched the cold stone floor beneath you and you walked over to your chaise, where your robe was draped over.

Maybe a walk would clear your mind. Now clad in your thin white nightgown and robe you slipped in some shoes and opened the door of your chamber. Your personal guard Ser Arryck immediately stood straight and asked where you were heading off to at such a late hour. You explained your insomnia and told him you’d go for a walk around the Red Keep. Nothing to worry about, you wouldn't go out or leave without guards. So you started your walk, shivering slightly at every breeze that flowed through the hallways. 

Deep in thought you didn’t notice you had wandered close to your eldest brother’s quarters, your mind on if you should perhaps alert the maesters of your troubles. But you quickly snapped back to reality when you noticed there were no guards around. How could they possibly leave Aegon’s chambers unguarded at night? Maybe you should check up on him, usually he is quite the night owl and you often went to him when you couldn’t find sleep, sharing some wine and a laugh with him.

You always had a good relationship with your brother, you were the youngest daughter of the King and Queen and one year older than Aemond. He always told you you were his favourite despite his sister-wife Helaena. But you knew Helaena didn’t have much interest in Aegon either. But what you didn’t know was how much Aegon liked you. He always knew he shouldn’t act on his desires, instead taking them out on servant girls and whores at brothels but every time he finished with them it was your name he muttered as he came.Your name he moaned and whined as he fisted his cock at night. 

Tonight was no different, it seemed his desire for you was worse in the summer, when you wore thinner, more exposing dresses to fight off the heat. As you approached his door with your fist raised, ready to knock you stopped at the sounds of soft moaning coming from his chamber. It didn’t sound like he was in trouble or pain but he was clearly awake. Curiosity took hold of you and you opened the door as silently as possible, you didn’t want him to know you were here just yet. Peeking inside you could see Aegon lying on his bed with a servant girl between his legs.

You could hear his soft moaning and groaning as well as the sucking noises of the servant girl. Clearly she was pleasing him, you could feel the jealousy as his panting became more frequent. You don’t know what came over you but you silently opened the door to fully reveal yourself. Aegon's eyes snapped to your barely clothed frame and made eye contact with you. Sitting up straighter his hand held the servant girl in place. The erotic sight of him, getting pleased while looking at you made you pant along with him. Your breath shortening as his mouth opened to speak, but he didn’t. 

Only moans left his pretty lips and they grew louder the longer he looked at you. Your chest heaving as you could feel the pleasure yourself. Thighs becoming wet, pressing them together for relief. Never had you felt this way. Aegon started to almost choke on air as he gave out some final groans. Then stammered out your name as he finished inside the girl’s mouth.

You finally realised what was happening and turned on your heels to run back to your chamber. The amount of times your mother had warned you about the sins of pleasure whirling through your mind. When you had reached your chamber Ser Arryck bid you goodnight as you went to sleep that night with an ache between your thighs. 

The next couple of days were filled with tension and shame. You felt like everyone knew what happened, what you had witnessed. Of course this wasn’t true but you were terrified of what Aegon was thinking. It also didn’t help that your mind uncontrollably went back to that night. The sounds he was making sounded so heavenly. And you couldn’t help but picture yourself in the servant's place.

Four days later it was another cool summer night. You were reading in bed with some candles still lit so you could make out what was written on the pages. You stopped mid sentence as you could hear chattering outside your door. Oh no, Aegon…and? Ser Arryk? This couldn’t go well. Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of some soft knocks on your door. “Come in.” You softly called out. 

Aegon stepped inside your chamber, a chalice of wine in one hand and two cups in his other with of course a big grin on his face. Like he always had when wine was nearby. “What did you say to Ser Arryk?” You were too curious not to ask. “Nothing to worry about sister, just if he could leave us a private moment. For some well needed…sibling time.” Aegon smiled as he put the cups down on your side table and immediately filled them. 

A content sigh leaving his lips as he brought a cup over to you. Grabbing his own as well, he joined you on your bed. Of course your mind instantly had to go back to that night. “Aegon I-” He cut you off before you could say more. “Don’t.” He looked hungrily at your chest. “You know what you saw- and heard. And I know what I saw, I saw how you looked at me, how it turned you on.” He smiled and took a big chug of his wine. 

It encouraged you to drink some as well. Knowing that the alcohol would make this easier. It always seemed to be for Aegon. “However I would be willing to bet you don’t even know what that means. But you know what pleasure means, don't you sweet sister?” He put his cup on the side table and went to sit closer to you. Putting your wine cup aside yourself, you also closed the book laying in your lap. “I guess I do. But it is a sin, mother said so. Septa Luelle said so.” 

You didn’t even look at him. Book now on the side table as well. “Did they now? And what would they know about us Targaryens? We don’t answer to gods nor men. We do whatever we want. So if we want to give each other pleasure, we will.” He pulled the covers of your legs and moved next to you. His hand grazing your lips as he made you look at him. Both of your breathing getting heavier.

Finally he gave in and forced his lips on yours. Both drunk on wine and desire. You tried to keep up with his movements but after a while you could feel his wet tongue sliding across your bottom lip. Not quite catching up on what he wanted, he caressed your breast through your thin nightgown. And as expected, you gasped which gave him a perfect excuse to entwine his tongue with yours.

With some time you got a better grip on how he wanted you to kiss him. How to mimic his movements and find your own rhythm. His hands were starting to wander more, getting more impatient by the minute. He parted his lips from yours, allowing the both of you to catch your breath. “Do you know how many times I had to pay extra to get a silver haired whore. Just so I could pretend I was fucking you? But now, you are finally mine to ruin.” He rasped.

He positioned you to lay down as he himself got on top of you. You could feel something hard poke your thighs. Aegon mouthed and nipped at your neck, desperate to touch every inch of you. “Let me show you exactly what it felt like, let me show you true pleasure.” He groaned in your neck, hands already busying themselves with hiking up your nightgown and removing your smallclothes.

Aegon's lips went down and as he got closer to your already slick cunt, the more you felt like you were about to explode. The effect this man had on you was beyond words. No man could ever make you feel this euphoric and he knew it too. He wasted no time in devouring your cunt, lapping and sucking at your core. Making you gasp in shock, this new sensation was so mind numbing and electric, that you couldn’t even think about who could hear you outside your door.

“Aeg- please- it feels so weird-” You panted out as Aegon had no intention of stopping. He flicked his tongue faster over your clit and you had to grip the sheets beneath you to feel some type of control. The only things coming out of your mouth now were chants of your brother's name and moans. 

Mere moments later, he added a finger inside you. Your tight cunt sucking him in deliciously, making him groan at the thought of putting his cock inside you. With his expert finger and tongue he had you screaming his name in a final plea and made you see the heavens themselves. 

You were trying to calm down, to process what just happened. But Aegon was ever impatient and removed his clothes as fast as he possibly could. When he had also removed his small clothes, you finally really laid your eyes upon him. His chest was a perfect mix of muscled with a little belly from all the wine. But what made your eyes widen was what hung between his legs- or rather stood. 

“That is my cock, my love. And it will make you and me both feel so much pleasure.” Aegon grinned as he saw your lips curl into a smile. It was thick and veiny, precum dribbling from the tip. “Please Aegon, take me. I can’t wait any longer.” He captured your lips with his as he held his cock by the base so he could guide it inside you.

His tip sliding through your folds to find your entrance. He groaned at the sensation, his tip entering your tight hole. You grimaced at the feeling, it wasn’t extremely painful but wasn’t pleasant either. “It will feel better in a moment, I promise. I would never hurt you.” He kissed your lips at that and slowly slid deeper inside you. Not being able to control his own moans. 

He stilled at the hilt and waited for your cunt to accustom to his thick size. He never stopped kissing and assuring you. For such a lust filled, drunken prince he was awfully kind to his favourite sister. Once he got the okay from you he started to slowly move, hissing at the feeling of your walls around him. He had never felt more blessed and happy in his life.

As your moans grew as well he started to lose composure, pounding into you faster and harder. Chanting your name while he buried his face in your neck. Your own arms wrapped around his back as your legs wrapped around his lower back and ass. Letting out stuttered moans and gasps yourself. “I’m not going to last long in your perfect cunt sister-” He groaned. The vibration of his voice against your neck adding to the sensation. 

And he was right, mere moments after his movements faltered and he filled you with his cum with one last moan of your name. The white spend filling you up. He gave two more soft thrusts to really empty himself and then rolled off of you. Letting out a content sigh, he looked at you. Your silver hair splayed out, still a fucked out expression on your face. And he never thought you more beautiful.