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emilykaldwen · 11 days ago

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | FINAL CHAPTER

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

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Author's Note: WE ARE FINALLY HERE HOLY HELL! So much love and thanks to my wonderful beta and co-pilot, @foxinthegodswood. I would not have gotten this far without you. Thank you to everyone whose joined us on this journey. Stay tuned for the sequel!

Summary: Something Borrowed, Something Blue, Something Red, Something Dead

Chapter Twenty-Five - The Second Great Council

The room still held the earthy fragrance from the High Septon’s thurible as he blessed her that morning and it blended with the lighter fragrances of rose and bergamot from her bath. Abby sat on the stool before her dressing table while Wylla and Lythene gently combed her hair, their fingers rubbing oil through the curls to tame the frizz the damper air of the Riverlands had caused. Wylla, being someone who had her own head of frustrating ringlets that needed tending to and understood the maintenance required, held a pair of fine scissors in her hand to trim Abby’s waist length hair before they would fashion it into something appropriate for the ceremony.

“Oh!” Lythene’s startled exclamation brought a flush to Abby’s cheeks as she watched the girl notice the bruise Aegon had left near her ear.

It certainly wasn’t the only one left upon her neck and collarbones but so far, Abby had kept them out of view, not wanting to deal with any fuss. It wasn’t like every member of the realm was going to inspect her and Abby had far surpassed her limit of caring. She’d be married in naught but a few hours. It didn’t matter.

“Is there a problem?” came Lady Lysa’s voice from the far side of the room where she was overseeing the preparations on the queen’s behalf.

Abby caught Lythene’s wide eyes in the mirror, smiling conspiratorially back. “Everything’s quite fine, Lady Lysa,” she called back. Wylla let out a small snort and the three of them descended into a flurry of giggles. Abby squirmed in her seat, fingers knotting and twisting into the dressing gown she wore. “I just want this to be all done already.”

“Such impatience,” Wylla teased, shaking out the section of hair she’d just finished with. “Isn’t that one of the virtues of your gods?”

“And one of yours too,” Abby reminded her. “Patience for the long winters would be the first rule, would it not?”

Wylla’s brows raised and grey eyes met her own in the mirror. “The winters and you spending yesterday bowlegged are two entirely different matters.” Lythene snorted and dropped the comb as she clapped her hands over her mouth, unable to help herself and, considering herself the winner of which virtues were which, Wylla went to fetch what they’d end up pinning into her hair.

The apartments had quieted at least a little from that morning, when the troop of women had burst in to bathe her and feed her, chattering around offering advice and their two cents on things. Great Aunt Mya could not make it up the stairs that morning, but Cassana had, distracting Cory with the most important task of assisting the queen in her own chambers, as well as realizing very quickly that Abby was overwhelmed by all the attention and the noise. The chattering group had been shooed into the solar; Rhea Royce and Sarra Frey had left with several others to oversee the wedding gifts and where they’d go and who had gifted them.

Meanwhile, Deidre was tucking wrapped bundles of herbs beneath her pillows and under the mattress, much to Lady Lysa’s consternation. The elder had decided it wasn’t a battle she needed to engage in, and was presently giving orders to Cassana about how the accompanying gaggle of attendants who would follow Abby into the hall should wear their hair.

Desma and Merei were in charge of her gown, the pair of them carefully laying out her fine silk stockings and the lake blue garters, the latter which had been painstakingly embroidered with dragons shimmering in gold thread and chasing rabbits of silver. Blue was the color of the rivers and brides were often clad in gowns meant to evoke the waters of their land, the life giver that fed the body and fed the forests and the animals, that housed the fish that graced their tables, grew the reeds and rushes that were woven into every aspect of their life.

But Abby had been denied her blue gown, so she would wear the garters instead. It didn’t mean that she disliked her gown. Far from it; Abby was enthralled by it, although they had denied her seeing her reflection during the last fittings so she could only glean the view looking down at herself. The gown itself was currently folded and wrapped in a protective cloth, hidden away until it was time to put it on. It wouldn’t do to have something so painstakingly and delicately made accidentally ruined.

Her mother’s earrings sat on the silk pillow of the jewelry box. Little round rubies were wrapped in silver and from them, ruby teardrops hung, the silver wrapping they were set in etched like miniature flower petals. There was a matching necklace inside; a large, oval cut ruby inlaid into an ornate silver casing that would rest at the hollow of her throat with silver filigree spreading out on either side before attaching to a robust silver chain. A ruby teardrop hung from the center ruby, the Castamere jewels on full display.

Her gaze moved to the warm glimmer of Sunfyre’s scales set in their new home, the ruby on that necklace smaller but no less exquisite. Aegon had wanted her to wear it today. Abby wanted to wear it today.

“My mother’s earrings,” she whispered and took the jewels out to rest next to the scaled choker. Guilt gnawed in the hollow space between her ribs and stilled her fingers where they hovered over the box. She curled them in to keep herself from snatching the earrings, looking up as delighted shrieks and laughter filtered in from the solar.

“Your mother’s earrings,” Wylla said, wrapping her hand around Abby’s curled fist. She nudged at Abby to move over so she could sit on the stool beside her, taking the held hand in both of her own. “And Aegon’s necklace, your family’s maiden cloak. You don’t have to choose and the rest is lost forever if you don’t pick to wear them today. They will be there on the morrow and the day after and the day after that.”

“I don’t have to choose,” Abby repeated with a long exhale, her shoulders sagging as the tension eased. She batted Wylla’s hand when she reached up to pinch her cheek. She was about to say more when movement at the door drew her gaze.

Helaena stood in the doorway, exquisite in layered, sapphire blue silk overlaid with intricate silver appliques along her bodice, a silver belt heavy around her waist. Her pale blonde hair was held back from her face in a decorative net of matching sapphires winking from the delicate wirework. Her large eyes took in the room, her plump mouth pressed thin.

“Heleana!” Abby’s voice pitched high with surprise and she jerked from the stool, bumping into the dressing table and setting everything wobbling from the force of it. There had been little time to spend with the princess since arriving at Harrenhal. Abby felt as if she was standing at the edge of a great chasm that had grown between them, Helaena a speck in the distance on the other side.

“May I have a few moments alone with my sister.” There was no question, no request for permission on Helaena’s tongue. It was simple and soft, the command a gentle one but a command all the same.

Wylla rose with a final squeeze of Abby’s hand, and the women left the room, Desma and Merei closing the doors behind them. Abby tugged her dressing gown more tightly around her, fiddling with the ties about her waist, wanting to reach for the other but she wound her belt around her hand instead. The fireplace crackled merrily behind the protective screen, illuminating the cut out shapes of Children of the Forest dancing among weirwood trees.

Helaena turned to face her, her own fingers twisting together at her waist. Her gaze lingered over Abby’s shoulder before flitting away, absent of the gentle command she had just possessed.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Abby blurted out, lips pressed together briefly. “I’ve missed you and you’ve been avoiding me since you arrived, since we’ve all arrived.”

“You’ve been preparing for your wedding,” Helaena murmured, reaching out to trace her fingers along the bedpost and toying with the blue brocade curtains. “It’s strange here. The air tastes…” She shook her head. “You’ll be gone. I’ve had to get used to being without you.”

The stool teetered over as Abby knocked into it in her haste to cross the distance and the crash of it froze her in place. “Being without one another? Helaena, we agreed months ago that it would be of no issue to visit, that it’s only a short ride away-”

“But you’ll be too busy with Aeg-”

“Of course I’ll want to spend time with my husband, Helaena!” Abby picked around the fallen stool to approach the taller girl, her frustration rising. “And you have been spending time with Jace, so don’t turn this into my soon to be married life getting in the way of things.” Her voice hitched and grew louder with each word, her cheeks flaming, skin prickling with the uncomfortable conversation. Guilt clawed in her once more, but irritation crept in so unexpectedly that it had caught her unawares. Could she not have this one thing to be selfish for and not have it held against her? That wasn’t like Helaena and there had been a time where they’d known one another so closely that this wouldn’t have happened. Things changed and Abby hated it. Feared it. “Why have you pushed me away? Was it you watching from the gallery during the rehearsal?”

Helaena didn’t answer either question, her gaze roving from her face to over her head. Abby clenched her hands against her waist to keep from reaching out to pull her back from wherever she had gone in her head. She knew that it wasn’t Aegon who had spurred Helaena’s distance, as she’d been supportive after the initial shock of it all. Abby swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I am sorry that I’ve neglected you these past months, Hel.” Quieter now. It wasn’t as if this had all happened overnight after all. “I’ve been so caught up in the wedding prepara-”

“Pink and red, might be dead.”

Helaena’s voice was harsh and whispered, a whistling wind through the cracks in the walls, the spirits come to speak of things that they shouldn’t be privy to. Her pale, lavender eyes bored into Abby’s and Helaena took her hands tight in her own, pulled her in closer, lower lip wobbling. “I don’t…”

‘A bride for Harrenhal. They leave quickly. Sickness. Water. Poison.’

“Who might be dead, Helaena?” she whispered, as if speaking any louder would shatter something delicate. She’d heard Helaena’s words before, so long ago, that day seared into her mind. Helaena had been staring out the window, refusing touch as Abby dressed her, before Otto came to tell her of her future. By the gods, it felt like years had passed since that day. The words remained, spinning in Abby’s mind with the prophetic warnings from the antlered priest in the godswood. “Helaena.” The princess still gripped her hands, fingernails pricking into Abby’s skin from the force of it. “Sister, please, tell me-”

Once more they were interrupted by the bedroom doors opening and Queen Alicent gliding in without invitation. She was beautiful in a gown of rich, deep green velvet, the square neckline trimmed with a wide, deeper green band embellished with pearls. Three heavy strands of matching pearls hung from shoulder to shoulder, pinned in the center at her breast with a brooch etched with the seven pointed star. A simple gold necklace with emerald tear drops adorned her throat. A five pointed reach-style hood studded with jewels adorned her head in place of a traditional crown, the finely made black veil hung from the back and covered the knot of auburn hair.

Abby wondered why she decided to wear green now rather than at Aegon’s nameday feast, and thought that perhaps it was her armor with Rhaenyra under the same roof.

The queen’s hands were clasped at her waist, color high in her cheeks from the long walk from her rooms to Abby’s chambers, and the amount of stairs she’d been forced to climb. The ever present tension lingered, but her smile was small, genuine.

“Your Grace,” Abby curtseyed a little awkwardly given that Helaena was still gripping her hands. Helaena looked down at the floor and pulled away after Abby rose, plucking at the cuffs of her deep sleeves, the cuffs folded and pinned back to keep her hands free.

“Helaena?” The queen’s attention immediately switched to her daughter, tone full of gentle concern. “Sweetheart, is everything alright?” Abby stepped back to give them space and allowed herself to breathe through the clawing sensation around her throat, as if Helaena’s prophecy had grown hands to wrap around her neck and wring the life from her itself. Gods above, this was meant to be a happy day. She was elated that in just a few hours, she would kiss Aegon and their hands would be bound and they could start their lives together.

“Why can’t this be simple?” she muttered, rubbing her fingertips against her temples.

She’d just have to make it simple. There was no getting around it. Abby poked her head into the solar where the gaggle of cousins and ladies had set themselves up in their preparations. “Please bring some tea,” she told Morya, who was closest. Her cousins’ wife looked up, startled at being addressed, and Abby immediately remembered she was kin to Lord Edmund. Not sister, but cousin perhaps? Abby smiled in what she hoped was a relaxed manner and the tension around Morya’s hazel eyes relaxed, returning the smile with a murmured, “As you’d like”, and went to retrieve the tea service. Tea would ease her nerves, would ease Helaena’s as well, she was sure.

She would not throw it in the queen’s face for forcing Cassandra Baratheon upon her. No, she’d bring that up later. It was her wedding day. Aegon was hers. No one was going to ruin that. Not meddling, mortal girls, nor the gods or demons of prophecy.

Was it too much to ask to simply have time to be happy and not have a force to do its best to ruin it?

Morya returned with the tea service, the scent of mint, ginger, and elderberry assaulting her nose and immediately easing the tension in her shoulders. Abby took it from her with a quiet thanks and returned to her room, setting the service down on the low table before the fire. Helaena sat on the edge of the couch beside her mother.

“You should not be doing this, Abrogail,” the queen said. “Where are those girls-”

“I sent them out, Your Grace,” Abby interrupted, handing the first cup of tea to her. “It was rather loud in here and if I could use the quiet, then certainly Helaena can as well.”

“Thank you,” Helaena said as she took the second cup of tea, finally meeting Abby’s eyes and the small smile that graced her face brought heat and tears to Abby’s eyes. “Your mother would not begrudge you a necklace, Abby. She is not that spiteful of a shade.”

“Oh.” Abby’s teeth clicked as she shut her mouth, busied herself with pouring her own cup of tea.

“What’s this about a necklace?”

“Abby was trying to decide if she should wear her mother’s necklace when she’d rather wear the one Aegon gave her.” Helaena sipped loudly and Abby hid her own smile behind the rim of her cup as Alicent winced ever so slightly at her daughter’s lack of manners but markedly said nothing. Instead, her large brown eyes found Abby’s, and instead of the judgement or wariness that Abby expected, there was a curious tilt to her head, gaze pensieve.

“The one you wore at dinner the other night.” When Abby nodded in confirmation, Alicent hummed. “Your mother…” Silence stole whatever the queen was about to say and filled the space between the three of them. Abby sat in a nearby chair and let the tea spread its warmth down her throat and through her limbs, focusing on the calming sensation it lent her, the subtle bite of the ginger root that tickled her tongue. “Your mother,” Alicent said, finding her words after her contemplation, “Would most certainly not begrudge you a gift from your husband to be. It would gladden her to know Aegon gave you such a token of his affection and that you have gladly received it.”

Relief made Abby’s heart stutter in her chest and she could only nod in acknowledgement of the queen’s kind words. She had made her decision, but the guilt had been acrid in her throat. There was an absolution in what Alicent said, and the fact that they reflected much of what her grandfather had told her all those moon’s ago about her mother wanting only her happiness, Abby felt that she could trust them.

“Helaena, darling, could you give us a moment? Are you feeling well enough to go to the solar?”

“If it’s too much for you, Morya could take you down to the gardens,” Abby offered. Helaena gently set her cup down upon the silver tray with a shake of her head.

“I’ll wait. I want to be here to help you dress. You’ve always helped me, and it’s my turn to return the favor.” Helaena rose and smoothed her hands over her skirts, gently maneuvering around the low table to drop a kiss on the top of Abby’s head.

The doors shut behind the princess, leaving Abby alone with the queen. Without being asked, she joined her on the couch and allowed Alicent to reach up to tenderly tuck a stray curl behind her ear. The queen was always affectionate with her when she was unable to be with her own children, but this time, Abby understood that the comfort was the intention, from the glossy sheen in Her Grace’s large, brown eyes.

Abby hadn’t just lost her mother. The queen had lost a dear friend. Things had changed when Celeste Reyne died, succumbing to years of illness not entirely dissimilar, from Abby’s understanding, to how Lady Alerie had been claimed by long illness as well. Her Grace had grown harsher, in little ways at first, until she became the anxious, fear and anger ridden woman she was now.

The Red Keep had twisted her. Abby knew that. The machinations, the politics, had wound like ivy around her limbs and her heart and trapped her in its confines. The same snarling vines had clung to Abby as well. She could feel it pulling and pulling until the stems had snapped when they’d gotten far enough away.

Abby was not a foolish girl, however. The vines still tangled around their feet, hers and Aegon’s, and would for as long as uncertainty reigned.

“Thank you for your kind words, Your Grace,” Abby said. “I know that she would not, but my heart is hesitant to agree. Your reassurance is a balm.”

“A bride needs such reassurances on her day. I was absent mine own mother on my wedding day.” Abby glanced down at the emerald ring the queen absently twisted on her finger, the spots of red along her cuticles. “I had my aunts and good sisters and cousins and… I had support, of course, gentle love and…” Her gaze grew distant as she stared into the fire, and Abby watched with alarm as tears pricked at her future goodmother’s eyes, her lower lip trembling before being pressed firmly to hold back the emotion. Abby said nothing and politely averted her gaze, allowing the queen her reflection on what was clearly a complicated memory.

“It was not the wedding to a knight of flowers and song that you had expected,” Abby whispered, recalling the words of attempted comfort Alicent had tried giving her, misplaced as it was. The queen scoffed and shook her head.

“It’s a great honor to be chosen to serve the realm, an honor that I didn’t expect but have done my best to fulfill.” She had provided the king his longed for sons, which was the first duty of the queen, and yet it had not gone how it was expected. Even if they had not been pressuring Aegon to prepare himself to be king someday, the insult done to House Hightower had been grave and still the king did not see. Everyone knew that.

It was all so very broken and it didn’t have to be. Now here she was, wading into the rising tempest. She would not let Aegon stand in it alone. She would not stand by while the rest of them tried to pull him under.

Abby only hoped they would be able to keep each other afloat.

“The king has granted you the title of princess in honor of marrying his eldest son,” Alicent continued, clearing her throat and smoothly removing herself from the emotion that had trapped her in memory. “You will, from now on, be referred to as Your Grace, as a princess of the realm and of House Targaryen. The expectation that comes with this title is more than simply being the lady of a house.”

“Yes, my queen.”

“You saw the concern that Lord Elmo and the other lords expressed with this marriage. However, Princess Rhaenyra has not raised any objections to the match, nor has the Small Council. That is all that matters. You will represent the crown with all the grace and wisdom that I have instilled in you. You will guide Aegon to break bread with the lords, and foster geniality and respect with House Tully. Lord Elmo will soon be Lord Paramount, and it is up to you to reassure him of the fealty owed to him.”

Fealty that would be fraught once her and Aegon took the seat of Harrenhal properly, years from now. Aegon was a prince of the blood, owed fealty himself, and yet would bow to a Lord Paramount. How was she to make that genial?

Lord Elmo had two sons.

Abby let out a long breath and smoothed her dressing gown over her knees. Not even a child quickened and already their future matches needed to be thought of.

“What if I cannot bear children, like my mother?” Her mother had struggled so much to bring her into this world, so much loss preceding Abby’s own tumultuous birth. It was quieter than she intended, more vulnerable than she wanted to reveal, but Alicent Hightower was the only mother she had now, known longer than the fuzzy memories of red hair and a wan, pale face tucked in bed. Alicent let out a soft sound and cupped Abby’s face. It took everything in Abby not to flinch and she gave in quickly to the gentle touch of a mother, gripping Alicent’s wrists for some connection.

“Abrogail, listen to me.” Voice gentle but firm, Abby’s eyes fixed on Alicent’s face, unblinking. “Maester Orwyle said you should have no issue. Your mother gave birth to you. You will not go through this alone. You are older than many mothers, older than I was, and you shall be safe. When you are with child, we will have the Grand Maester monitor you. I will send Septa Lyserra-”

“No.” Abby recoiled at that, pulled out of the queen’s touch with a sharp shake of her head. “That cruel woman will not stay under my roof, Your Grace. She has treated Helaena harshly, and myself. I will not have her around my children.” She could not deny Cassandra Baratheon now, but she would deny that awful woman. Abby didn’t know what recklessness had overtaken her to speak to her queen and good-mother in such a way, but she moved forward all the same, tempering her outburst to something more appropriate. “I appreciate the offer, Your Grace, and I do trust the wise council of the Grand Maester, but I will not have Septa Lyserra tend to me. I will speak with my aunt on such things should I feel it is needed.”

Abby should apologize but she kept quiet, running her tongue over her teeth behind her closed lips before she took another sip of her tea. Her mother had struggled to conceive her, to birth her, had died from her last miscarriage, it seemed, given that she had never recovered from it, growing more ill by the day. And of course, there were the whispered stories of how the last queen, Aemma, had suffered for decades to produce more than a single, living child.

Death was a bridal cloak around her shoulders, the shadow that followed her with each step, each breath, each blink of her eyes. It was not a legacy she wanted to pass down to her children. It was not a legacy she wanted at all.

“I did not know.” Abby looked at the quiet queen. Alicent was pensive, eyes downcast, focused on her hands, picking at her thumbnail. “You did not say anything.”

It was true, they had not. Abby didn’t know how to find the words to explain that they didn’t want to bother her with the treatment, and then eventually, didn’t think it would matter. She wanted to reassure her that it wasn’t her fault, that she didn’t know, but the words stuck in her throat.

“Aye, I didn’t,” Abby whispered. “But I am now. Helaena will not say anything, so I shall.”

The queen nodded. “I will send the septa back to Oldtown with the rest of my family when they leave. Thank you for saying something.” She sighed and smoothed her hands over her velvet skirts. “I do mean what I said, Abrogail. We will ensure you have the best of care when you become pregnant. You will not be neglected, and you shall be safe. It is the most important duty a lady has.”

Rhaenyra had five sons now. Would they be disappointed if all Abby managed to bear were daughters? Would Aegon be upset? The thought made her realize that they had never really talked about children, only that they had wanted many before falling into one another’s arms, less concerned with the sex of said children and focused on the taste of one another.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Abby said, forcing a smile onto her face, desperate to remove herself from this conversation and retreat to the giggling from earlier. Or, better yet, move past this to the giggling of kissing Aegon as they were brought to their bedding.

The bedroom doors burst open and both of them looked up to see Abby’s grandmother, Lady Dalla Swyft, having pushed the doors open with Aunt Mya at her shoulder.

“Alicent, why on earth are you keeping the girl from getting dressed?” Lady Dalla clapped her hands and bustled in, her movements slow with her age. She’d been unwell for such a long journey in the previous months, and Abby was grateful that her grandmother had been able to make the journey for the wedding.

The queen’s mouth gaped, her words momentarily caught before she rose with hunched shoulders, brows furrowed as she processed being addressed so casually. “I was speaking with my good-daughter on reassurances of her wedding, Aunt,” she defended herself. Grandmother’s curls were pulled back, the strawberry blonde long given way to grey and snowy white, her small mouth pursed in assessment. She reached up to gently pat the queen’s cheek.

“Well, there’s a dear.” She hummed and turned her green eyed gaze upon Abby, her left eye rheumy but the right sharp as ever. “Oh, cub, you look positively frightened! Whatever for?”

“Just feeling lightheaded,” Abby said, her words rushed as her grandmother pulled her into an immediate hug, the scent of medicinal cream mixing with the violet perfume she wore. It was not entirely unpleasant, but unexpected. The hug was warm and reassuring and Abby clung to it, nestling against the softness of her grandmother as if she were a little girl once more.

“None of that now, dear. Let us get you dressed. Where are your ladies?”

The room descended into a flurry after that and Abby was guided behind the partition that had been set before her mirror to protect her privacy. There was little time to be drawn into her thoughts when her dressing gown was being pulled from her body to leave her in her smallclothes. The silk shift rippled over her body like a breeze. She could barely feel it on her skin as Desma slipped it over her head and Abby was so afraid of tearing the delicate fabric that Desma had to nearly lift her onto the chair so that Merei could slip on the silk stockings over her feet and tie the dragon-and-rabbit garters. Low-heeled silver slippers were carefully slipped on and tied, glittering with the dozens, if not hundreds, of tiny pearls that Wylla had affixed with much complaint. Abby smiled down at them, lip caught in her teeth at the way they shone.

The gasp that came from behind her pulled Abby from her admiration to crane to look behind her at the women gathered around what must be her dress.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Helaena said, the traces of anxiety and prophecy faded in her voice to be replaced by a girlish excitement.

“Good,” came her grandmother’s voice, awed and full of approval. “You used the silver I sent.”

“The silver and gold, yes, aunt,” Alicent confirmed. “The embroidery is quite exquisite. I’ve had the girl working on new dresses for Helaena now that this one is done, as well as something for myself.” The sounds of approval and discussions of the successful seamstress that Abby had found in the Master’s Market those months ago was amusing, although Abby was miffed that she could not bring the girl with her. She would, of course, have better fortune having her work seen at court. Abby hoped that she could at least secure more gowns from her in the future, if the work she had done was so masterful.

Helaena came to her with a smile, holding her hands out to help Abby rise from the chair and she gently tapped the tip of her nose. “Now, you must not look, Abrogail. Back to the mirror.” She held Abby’s hand as she stepped onto the low stool, her back to the mirror as instructed. Fluttering butterflies burst in Abby’s belly as she closed her eyes, for it was only then that Helaena would allow Merei to approach with the gown. The approving whispers and giggles had Abby shifting her weight from foot to foot, rocking on her heels until Wylla put a hand to her back to keep her from toppling over when she wobbled.

Instruction followed of how she should raise or lower her arms and the whisper of heavier fabric slid cooly over her, more sounds of awestruck glee slightly muffled until her head was free. She blinked quickly to let her eyes adjust back from being shut and her mouth went dry as she saw the look on Merei and Wylla’s faces both, the rest of the group still on the other side of the partition to await the full reveal.

“Stay still,” Helaena said from behind her, hands tugging gently on the back of the gown. Merei hurried to join her and Abby could hear the gentle scratch of the cord as they slowly closed the back of the dress. Wylla closed the distance, teeth scraping across her lower lip as she deftly adjusted the neckline so it sat low. Her brow furrowed with thought as her fingers tapped just to the side of the mark Aegon had left, the skin freshly darkened with no place to hide with the dropped shoulders of her gown.

“Ridiculous, he couldn’t just wait?” Wylla muttered with a roll of her eyes.

Abby smiled innocently, full of tingling giddiness at the memory, relieved that neither the queen, her aunt, nor her grandmother could see the evidence at this moment. Not that there was much to be done with it, but Wylla came back with the powder and carefully began dabbing it along the bruises, painstakingly blending it so the entire realm did not witness how wanton the chaste bride had been. Her face was lightly powdered, coral paint dabbed on her lips, cheeks pinched and dabbed with another powder to make them rosy, and the dragonscale choker was affixed, the silk ribbon tied just tight enough to keep it properly in place.

Merei held her hand as she stepped down from the stool and still with her back to the mirror, she sat back down once more and deft fingers freed the abundance of copper curls from where they’d been pinned up, shaking them loose. Wylla and Merei went to work pinning the golden netted cap to the crown of her head and twisting thick coils around it, pinning it in place with decorative pins tipped with jeweled flowers.

Her wrists were lifted, her blended rose and currant perfume oil gently dabbed along the soft skin and behind her ears, mingling with the bergamot scent of her bath oils. The trio stepped back to look down at her, smiling down at her with the satisfaction of a job well done and the giddiness of a surprise to reveal.

“Am I allowed to look at myself now?” she asked and lifted her hands to be helped from the chair, keeping so still, as if she balanced books upon her head as she’d done in her lessons as a girl.

“If you do,” Helaena said, rubbing her thumb over the back of Abby’s left hand, “There is no going back. I don’t think there are any other dresses that will do for today.”

Abby hummed thoughtfully, giving Helaena’s statement the consideration it deserved. Then, she dropped her hands and turned to look at herself in the polished glass of the mirror.

The breath left her, the rushing in her ears muddled the sounds of the other’s folding away the partition so the aunts and the grandmothers and the rest of them could see her.

The gown was extraordinary to behold that she could not believe it was her standing in it. It would be, Abby was certain, the finest thing she would ever wear. It was silver, as was common for brides to wear. The underskirt was surprisingly simple: a heavier silk that brushed down to her shoes just enough to hide them but not enough to fully impede her movement. The overgown was an exquisite example of talent. The overskirt was split, a much lighter silver silk that glimmered in the light as silver threads were woven into it, giving it the illusion of shimmering like the Blue Fork glittering beneath the bright, noon sun. The trim down the center was exactly as she hoped: seed beads were sewn into the shape of gold dragon scales like hidden coins amidst the folds of the fabric. There was a tiny strand of pearls beneath her bust, and the dragon scale pattern continued up on either side of the deep v-neck. Layers of lace filled the open neckline, appliques of ruby red weirwood leaves a burst of color over her heart and decorating her sleeves, from which bunched layers of silk poked out at her elbows and the tops of the sleeves where they’d been opened to show off the fine and delicate chemise underneath.

Her hair had been twisted from her face and wound around the crown of her head before falling in a rope down her back, leaving her face open, blue eyes bright and lined with light tracings of kohl, her freckles pale beneath the light dusting of powder. Her mother’s gold and ruby teardrop earrings tinkled at her temples, and Aegon’s necklace was bright around her neck, the large, tear shaped ruby nestled at the hollow of her throat, the jewels matching the red of the leaves at her breast, the gold and seed pearls both glimmering.

Helaena came up behind her in the reflection, her hands gently cupping her shoulders, cheek pressed to hers. Abby met her sister’s eyes in that other world of the mirror, a trembling smile on her face as she lifted her hands to clasp Helaena’s, squeezing them as she had done for countless years.

“You’ll come visit?” she whispered, voice shaking.

Helaena nodded. “As long as you remind him that he must bring you to me as well. I was your first kiss, after all. He does not get to claim that.”

Uncle Simon looked down at her with a warm and gentle smile on his aged face, his white beard and hair neatly trimmed. He wore a rich, velvet coat of deep blue lined with black fur, his brocade tunic beneath a deep shade of green, his golden chain scattered with rubies as was the buckle on his belt. To Abby, he looked far more like the Lord of Harrenhal than her brother, and in the shadows and torch light of the antechamber, her heart ached for how she imagined her father would look like now.

“A leanbh,” he crooned with a soft laugh, reaching up with the cuff of his sleeve to dab at the tear that had rolled down her cheek. “This is a happy day and you are happy, aren’t you?”

“I am,” she sniffled, clutching the gathered bouquet of flowers in her hands, wincing as she felt a hidden thorn on one of the stems prick her finger. The scent of roses and freesia, wisteria and myrtle made her head spin as she sniffled once more. “I…”

Uncle Simon made a clucking sound, humming and nodding as he understood what she wasn’t able to put into words. “Your parents would not forgive me if I escorted you down this aisle full of grief. They are with us, with you, and they are most proud, Abrogail. Most proud. You are here, where you belong.” He smoothed his hands over her shoulders and adjusted the cloak. It was long and heavy from the length, made of brilliant white velvet with three stripes of brilliant, gem toned silk slashed down the middle of sapphire blue, scarlet red, and emerald green and held in place by a chain of gold, the links reminding her of her father’s, although much smaller.

There were so many people in the great hall. The Second Great Council, she’d heard the maids whisper that morning in the quiet dark before dawn when she was supposed to be asleep. Her eyes glanced over the crowd as they walked, a gentle and practiced smile on her face. There were no banners here to mark who belonged to which house, just the realm that parted to let her pass and at the end was Aegon.

If only she could see him, but the beacon of him was blocked by her ladies, the septons, and the acolytes in the procession before her. Wylla, Lythene, and Sarra walked before her, their hair bound in braids woven with white silk ribbons, each one in a gown of either red, blue, or green, veils of Myrish lace held in place by simple, silver circlets. Behind her, Rhea, Merei, and Desma were dressed the same but holding the hem of her long cloak so she would not be weighed down by it.

The acolytes were young, clad in deceptively simple robes of rich ivory samite glimmering with threads of gold. Thuribles heavily swung from thick chains, the heady incense meant to cleanse the bride’s way to meet her bridegroom. Before them, seven members of the Most Devout glided, clad in vestments of cloth-of-silver embroidered with the seven pointed star and crystal coronets that threw dancing rainbows across them when they passed through the long shafts of light.

From the gallery, hymns fell down upon them like leaves from the trees, praising the Father and Mother, asking for the Maiden’s blessing of the union, and the echo of their sweet voices washed over her, pushing away the melancholy thoughts of all that was absent. Butterflies fluttered furiously in her belly as giddy excitement washed over her the closer they came to the front of the hall. She could just see the canopy of black and red velvet over the heads of those in front of her but not King Viserys and Queen Alicent themselves where they sat overlooking the ceremony. Soon, and yet not soon enough, the faces on either side of the aisle became familiar and the crowd before her began to part as the Most Devout streamed on either side of the second dias, and then…

There was Aegon.

He stood beside the High Septon who dressed to draw all attention in his imposing, crystal and gold crown and cloth-of-gold vestments, but Abby could only look at Aegon and his bright, relieved smile, as if he wasn’t sure she would be there when the crowd parted. Her breath caught just as their eyes met and Aegon’s own widened, his features softening into something aching as he took her in.

Aegon was so handsome; not like some unknown and impossible knight from a song, but her love from her dreams both sleeping and awake. Utterly imperfect and entirely hers. For his selfishness and his devotion, for his kisses and his shadows, and she would have all of him. His pale hair gleamed warm beneath the shaft of light, curling softly around his face and just past his chin, a golden crown encircling his brow. His jerkin was grey to better show the scaled texture of it, edged in glittering gold piping. The shoulders tapered into thick black padding embroidered with gold thread, and the black leather sleeves were slashed along his biceps, allowing the rich, scarlet velvet of his shirtsleeves to poke through. His belt was black leather decorated with circles of stamped gold, the buckle a dragon curled in on itself in an ouroboros. His groom's cloak was affixed by a black strap embroidered with golden dragons affixed over one shoulder and stretched down across his chest, the black velvet lined beneath in more brilliant, scarlet silk. His trousers were a similar shade of grey as to his tunic, tucked in tall boots of gleaming black leather. Aegon’s hands were folded in front of him, his many gleaming, golden rings glittering on his fingers as he tapped his fingers against his wrist in a familiar manner. She could not tap her own in return, but she smiled more brightly to him in answer.

She meant to step closer, but the hold Uncle Simon still had on her reminded her to stop, and she stood still as the long maiden cloak was lifted from her shoulders. Immediately, Abby felt as if she grew two inches from the freedom of it, and her ladies carefully folded it away as her uncle brought her up the stairs to the dias before the High Septon.

Briefly, Abby looked over her shoulder to where Larys stood next to Aunt Mya, a coat of heavy, dark maroon velvet swamping his slim figure. He had made no move to greet her when she arrived, inserting himself into the crowd as another family member and not her guardian.

The disquiet she felt from her brother’s continued distance vanished like smoke as soon as her hand rested in Aegon’s, a smear of crimson streaking across his hand from her cut finger. She handed her bouquet off to Wylla, striking in her crimson gown. Abby held Aegon’s hand and her glittering silver skirt in the other as he helped her up the few stairs to the High Septon. As they came before the purple and mahogany kneelers, Abby looked at Aegon.

He looked at her; bewitched,the warmth in his lilac eyes blooming, the awe in his expression brightening as his gaze roamed over her. She noticed how the touch of his wonder settled at the dragonscales collared around her throat, the curve of her bare shoulders and the dips of her collarbones, the golden dragons so carefully, painstakingly embroidered along the trimming of her gown. Only once before had Abby felt as seen, as treasured and cherished by Aegon as she did now, here before the realm, before their families, before the old gods and the new.

She could count the pale freckles across the bridge of his nose, see the fine, golden hair that he had not shaved from the top of his lip, and the warmth of him, the scent of mint and lavender, intoxicated her through the incense of the thuribles. His mouth was red, inviting, so soft-

“Lords, ladies, noble bannermen!” boomed the High Septon, shattering the pull between them. Aegon’s gaze cut to the man, annoyance plain on his face while she straightened, tapping her fingers reassuringly against his wrist. “We are gathered here today beneath the grace of the Seven to stand witness to the joining of two great houses! The flames of Old Valyria join the steadfast strength of the rivers of Westeros! Aegon, Prince of House Targaryen, and Abrogail, of House Strong. Today, in this hall, we celebrate the union of fire and water, of sky and earth. We pray.”

Together they knelt upon the purple brocade pillows of the kneelers, heads bowed and hands clasped before them. The acolytes continued to swing their thuribles just to either side of them, the incense lending a haze as Abby looked down at the High Septon’s feet just poking out beneath the hem of his vestments.

The first prayer rang through the great hall, so loud that Abby flinched and from the corner of her eye, she saw Aegon do so as well. “Father Above! Hallowed be thy name…” The hall answered in a rumble louder than the dragons roosting on Dragonstone as the guests followed the intoned instruction, sending shivers down Abby’s spine from the vibration of it all. “Mother Above! Mercy and grace are thee…” and when the prayer was done, the High Septon traced the a line of the star upon their brows with strong smelling oil - steeped in the same incense, Abby surmised, before Aegon took her hand to help her rise and sing the hymn to the almighty power of the Father and Mother.

Then they kneeled once more for the Maiden and the Crone, for courage in her marriage, for wisdom for their future. Anointing oil. Rising. Another song. As they knelt again, Aegon did not let go of her hand and Abby smiled at him and he returned it while they shared their tender defiance. The prayer barely registered and the words were merely movements of her mouth, silent as she went through the motions of singing the final hymn.

They rose for the final time, Abby’s heart pounding in her chest and she watched Aemond mount the stairs, the black velvet bridal cloak, the tri-headed dragon of House Targaryen red as blood, held in his arms. She smiled at him as he held the cloak out. Aemond looked very handsome in his black velvet and leather waistcoat, the buttons gleaming gold, Valyrian braids in his long, silver hair. His mouth twitched in return as Aegon pulled the heavy cloak from his brother’s arms.

Heavy black velvet unfurled like a banner, the Targaryen Dragon glittering in red silk and chips of rubies. Like Aegon’s own cloak, it was lined in the same crimson silk, the chain that would hold it made of gold links. She turned and pulled her hair out of the way while Aegon closed the distance and she could feel the heat of him, wanting to lean back and let his arms wrap around her. Aegon lingered longer than he needed to and she didn’t mind, his arm reaching around her to clasp the chain so the cloak was secure before he stepped back and she could turn to face him once more. Aegon’s right hand held her left and the High Septon wound a long length of embroidered ribbon around them, the seven pointed star shining in golden thread.

“Let the Seven bear witness to this sacred bond!” The High Septon’s voice boomed through the hall as he wound the ribbon around their joined hands. “May the fire of House Targaryen always burn bright, and the strength of House Strong never falter. Let it be known that Abrogail of the Houses Strong and Reyne, and Aegon of the Houses Targaryen and Hightower are now one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

He tied the ribbon and raised his arms high. Abby met Aegon’s bright, lilac gaze, lips slightly parted, the heat of happy tears pricking her eyes.

Abby would swear that she thought Aegon’s voice trembled as he spoke, but it was as clear and loud as a song itself. “With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.”

She squeezed his hand in hers, voice cracking as she in turn answered, “With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”

With hands bound, Abby sighed in relief as their lips met, and although the hall echoed with cheers so loud it shook dust from the rafters, her world in that moment was only Aegon.

“Pity we aren’t sitting with the High Septon.” Aegon drank deeply from the heavy golden wedding chalice, its more delicate twin before her own setting. “I wonder if he’d blush easier than you.”

“Are you certain that the High Septon is such a wilting flower?” Abby asked as she nibbled on brown bread spread with a chicken and pork pate flavored with ginger. “Perhaps he would welcome such attempts from you.” Aegon laughed into his goblet and she watched her husband. Oh, how giddy it felt to now have it as truth, not simply just their hope for the eventual future.

He leaned in, hand braced on the back of her chair and his lips brushing the shell of her ear and Abby shivered. “Why, Princess,” he murmured, “Are you insinuating that the High Septon himself not only gives in to pleasures of the flesh but buggery as well?”

“Why, Prince,” she whispered, reaching for her goblet, eyes demurely downcast. “I would never start such gossip, especially when sitting next to the king himself.” Abby watched him over the rim of her goblet and sipped the fruity, white wine paired with the course before them. Aegon pressed a brief kiss to her temple before he occupied himself with some of his own buttery sliced mushrooms in their salad of leeks and onions.

Abby looked at the platter of haddock before them, the sauce vibrant and red from the dragon pepper and carrots, the scent of allspice mingling with it, mouthwatering in how delicious it looked.

Pink and red, might be dead.

Nausea curled in her gut and she watched as Princess Rhaenyra took a large bite of the flaky, white fish, humming in pleasure. Abby tried not to stare as the woman chewed, swallowed down and took a healthy gulp of her own wine before leaning over to speak to her husband in Valyrian. She did not turn pale or mottled red, did not clutch at her throat and keel over.

Abby drummed her fingers on her goblet, fingertips dancing over the embossed dragons over the cup. The stem was thick and knotwork similar to the Riverlands knot that she’d given Aegon for his favor wound around the stem, embedded with small rubies that also glowed in the eyes of the dragons. It was a heavy thing and her hand struggled to hold it, but it was beautiful to look at. She took another sip of her wine and finally plated some of the fish and hearty sauce onto her plate.

Excited applause echoed through this half of the hall as the entertainment for this course came out. The first course had the fools, Lolly and Butterbee, performing. Rhaenyra had brought Mushroom, who had left with her when she’d gone to Dragonstone, but the dwarf was nowhere to be seen. The king’s speech was a distant memory. Abrogail had been relieved he had not dwelled upon the absence of her parents and looked more to the future, and not the shadows and ghosts of the past.

Now, Pentoshi dancers rushed to the open floor beneath the dias, clad in long tunics of red with black belts, draped in chains of silver and gold with bells on their wrists. Strong men of the troop balanced the slighter figures on their shoulders, performing feats of tumbling that left Abby gasping and clapping in delight. They looked as if they were flying, bright red birds jangling with music of their own. Drum beats sounded from the gallery above as their own music accompanied them, a type of flute that Abby hadn’t heard before that held its own entrancing melody.

“In Pentos,” Rhaenyra said beside her, goblet clutched in her bejeweled hand. “They drape silks from the rafters and swing in them, roll themselves in the cloth and perform death-tempting feats.” She shrugged a shoulder, the purple and red silk of her gown sumptuous, her low neckline edged in gold and silver threads, her thick, silver hair a crown of braids woven with gems and pearls. Her ruby and obsidian tiara glittered in the candlelight. “It’s a pity they could not orchestrate such things in this hall.”

“That’s because the rafters are likely to give way,” Daemon yawned from the other side of his wife. He scraped his fork against his plate before stabbing a mushroom. “Though perhaps that would be considered a small mercy in putting an end to the evening.”

Abby’s neck and cheeks prickled uncomfortably with heat while Rhaenyra shot him a look. “We appreciate your part in our happy day in spite of your misgivings, Prince Daemon,” Abby said as Aegon shifted beside her. She leaned forward a little to look past Rhaenyra to the languid, bored visage of Daemon Targaryen. He watched her, pale, violet eyes unblinking and heavy lidded as she spoke, not quite a smile crossing his narrow face. She had the distinct sensation of being watched, the way that she had seen the slight Tessarion watch sheep be brought before she was given leave to consume.

“This hellish place is supposed to be cursed, is it not? Best to not tempt fate when such superstitions keep repairs from being made with any urgency. A death is not what most people find entertaining at a wedding.” His features animated then, a thoughtful downturn of his mouth, a cock of his head, silver braids like Aemond’s tinkling with Valyrian runic charms woven through the strands. “Although perhaps that would liven it up all the same.”

‘Then you can just go back on your dragon and leave’, Abby thought, leaning back as the servant cleared her plate. Aegon made a sound beside her and she reached down to palm at his thigh reassuringly, a little distractingly, both for him and herself. Mercifully, before further barbs could be exchanged, upfront and backhanded, the performers finished and the hall erupted into cheers. She gestured to one of the attendants who stood at attention, beckoning them closer.

“Please ensure that in addition to what they’ve been paid, another quarter of it for such joy. Also ensure their bellies are well filled.” The black garbed servant bowed with a soft, “Yes, Your Grace,” and hurried away to ensure her instructions were met. Soon, the next course was brought out. The wedding pie required four livery men to carry it in to much fanfare, and they rose to clap their approval.

“Ser Gwayne!” Aegon called to where his uncle sat nearby with the rest of the Hightowers. Gwayne rose smoothly, handsome in a tunic of deep green, finely embroidered with silver flames. His grin was broad as he basked beneath the attention, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“My prince!” he called back, tossing back his auburn hair and giving a bow. “Congratulations on your happiest wedding to you and our beautiful new princess!” Another wave of merry shouts and cheers filled the hall and Abby demurely inclined her head in thanks.

“In honor of my Riverlands bride, cut this magnificent pie! Your prince commands it!” He held up his goblet in toast as Gwayne gave a shout, drawing his gleaming steel and cutting into the great wedding pie. Doves burst forth in a flurry, another shout from the crowd at the spectacle.

“Let’s hope they don’t shit on our heads or in that damn pie,” Abby heard Daemon mutter loud enough that she knew it was on purpose. Privately, she hoped it would happen to him since he was so intent on wishing it into existence. The pie was cut, overflowing with all kinds of meat, carrots and leeks, sweet onions and the heady scent of cinnamon. The plates were piled with cuts from the stuffed boar, its tusks gilded with gold, and the spectacle it made brought much laughter. On its back was a cooked chicken clad in a little cloak of red with a tiny lance tucked beneath its wing and a shield in the other. Daeron shouted that he wanted the knight amidst the din, bickering soon ensuing between the younger boys.

The entertainment was much closer to home. A troupe of dancers merrily stomped their feet and spun around as the traditional music of the Riverlands played, the hurdy-gurdys, the fifes and the drums striking up a merry tune that had them both tapping their feet and the crowd clapping their hands in tune. Even Rhaenyra smiled, clapping her hands in time with the music.

The further the afternoon went, the less Helaena’s prophecy lingered in Abby’s mind. Perhaps not a prophecy as feared, but simply a bad dream. The venison in the wedding pie was magnificently tender, and the boar, with chestnuts and chicken meat, with fragrant cheese and ginger and dragon pepper, nearly melted in her mouth with each bite, the plum wine exquisite. The fresh peas with parsley and mint cut through the savory food and she was grateful for the plate her and Aegon shared.

“Your Graces.”

Abby looked up from her plate. Before the table stood the newly made Lord Blackwood, Willem. Abby smiled at him warmly, if a little confused. “Lord Willem, it is good to see you again. We hope you are enjoying the feast.”

He was not an overly tall man, his deep red cape pinned to his shoulders with iron raven pins, his grey doublet understated but fine. His beard was generous, so much so that Abby did not immediately see his mouth until he spoke once more.

“It is good to be here. House Blackwood thanks you for the welcome to your festivities. May your marriage be long and fruitful.” Another shallow bow. “Welcome to the Riverlands, Prince Aegon.”

“Willem Blackwood?” Rhaenyra asked, tapping her fingers against her cheek, an amused look on her face. “Why, when I last saw you was in Lord Boremond’s great hall with a blade in your hand.” Even with the amused look, her tone was neutral if cordial. Abby raised her eyebrows as she watched Lord Willem look bashful at the remembrance of pulling live steel in a Lord’s hall and killing another boy over an insult.

“Your remembrance of a young boy who steadfastly upholds your radiance honors me, Your Grace.”

“Aren’t I radiant too?” Aegon said softly, just loud enough for her to hear before taking a gulp of wine.

Abby hid her smile with a bite of the delicious boar. “You are most radiant, Prince Aegon,” she whispered and he preened into his goblet.

“Killing a man in our cousin’s hall over Princess Rhaenyra’s hand. Why, I do recall hearing this tale,” Daemon said, snapping his fingers. “I believe the princess was most amused at a young lad’s attempt at someone far out of his reach.” He smirked. “Right for the thigh. Well, you wouldn’t have been able to reach much higher. Such a mess. Because he called you - what was it again?”

Willem’s smile grew tight. “A cunt, Your Grace.”

“Thank you for coming to give us your well wishes, Lord Willem,” Rhaenyra interrupted Daemon, who was leaning forward with a gleam in his eyes, a cat who had found prey and could no longer wait. The lord gave another bow, more well wishes and departed with a dramatic swish of his red cape.

“Jacaerys wears his cape better,” Abby told Rhaenyra softly. The other woman snorted in amusement.

Abby was nearly too full for the next course, but there was no helping the cry of excitement as the food was brought out. A vegetable pottage of cabbage and carrots, small pies of beef and currant, delicious looking puddings with figs and dates and the centerpiece. A large, marchpane Sunfyre rose from the table, his wings spread, the almond and sugar dyed with saffron and red berries to bring the glow of gold and pink to the dragon’s form. Moreover, there was a sculpted maiden holding the dragon’s snout, her long hair dyed with red berries in an emulation of her own.

As they indulged in lighter fare, a bard took the audience, singing sweet songs of young love, of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne’s elopement in the face of their mother’s refusal, and a melodious poem about the Maiden and her falling in love with Galladon of Morne and gifting him his sword. They were all lovely, the singer’s voice clear as water and delicate, surprisingly robust in such a great hall.

The dancing commenced as the desserts were brought. A platter piled high with golden honey cakes glistening with syrup was set before them, their delicate crusts flaking. Abby immediately took one as a platter of roasted quinces were set, the flesh turned a deep, dark red from cooking and piled high with cream and red berries, the juices streaking the cream pink. Aegon tugged the platter closer, shoving his spoon excitedly into the dish, licking cream from his thumb as he dug in.

“Don’t eat too fast,” Abby laughed, biting into her cakes slower. “I don’t want you getting sick as we dance.”

“I have paced myself quite well, hunītsos ñuhu.” He waved her off and she contemplated the dessert he was so ravenously eating, popping some of the berries in his mouth and the juice staining his fingers, a smear of pink cream across his knuckle.

Abby didn’t think she could finish the honey cake after her third bite and she settled back in her chair with a groan, hand pressed to her middle. No, she should definitely stop. She gestured for the attendant to fill her goblet with lighter fair than the sweet drinks they’d had over the course of the feast, needing to cut the taste in her mouth with something else. “Aemond promised that he would not let them become too exuberant during the bedding, right Aegon?”

Aegon didn’t answer.

“Aegon?” He was leaning on his elbows at the table’s edge, his face flushed deeper than it had been before, his lips parted in quick breaths. Aegon wasn’t looking at her, he didn’t respond to the repetition of his name.

Her fingers went cold. It was such a strange thing to notice, but it’s what happened first. Louder, Abby cried, “Aegon!” rising from her seat and grabbing Aegon’s shoulders to look at her. For the first time that afternoon, she heard the king pay attention to them, asking what was the matter.

The voices of Rhaenyra and the queen both rose, “Aegon?”

Pink and red, might be dead.

He was trembling, gasping, his hands clenched and she tried to heave him from his chair but his heavier weight sent them tumbling back, his chair falling as they hit the floor. Aegon shook as if he were cold, sweat pouring down his temples, soaking his hair, the black of his pupils eating the color of his eyes. Abby gripped him, hauled him into her lap, pushed his hair from his face. There was another pair of hands, auburn hair.

“Orwyle!” She didn’t know who had yelled for the Maester.

“Aegon,” she breathed, shaking him, his gaze going to hers. Her arms felt cold, her heart beat pounding in her ears. “No… no no… Aegon…” Abby clutched him tighter and she could feel his arm fumble, his fingers clumsily trying to grip her forearm.

“Abs,” he gasped. “Ab-Ab.” But he couldn’t form her name, panting, his skin going from deep, flushed red to something bluer, his lips losing their color.

Hands gripped her shoulders but she leaned forward more, trying to see Aegon more clearly but for some reason, it was as if looking at him underwater, both of them drowning and trying to reach for one another. Heat coursed down her cheeks, and there was water splattering on his face. Where did it come from?

“Aegon… Aegon, no please, please you promised,” she cried, shaking him. “Aegon, no! No!”

What was happening, what was going on? He was fine. He was fine. They were going to dance.

Pink and red, might be dead.

Who might be dead, Helaena? Who?

“Aegon, please don’t do this. I love you, Aegon, you promised. Aegon, Aegon…”

They were married now. Everything would be better.

His eyes were rolling back, his body seizing in convulsion.

“Aegon!”

He was shuddering, his fingers gripping her sleeve so tight the delicate material tore.

“No no no, I love you, Aegon stay here stay with me you promised you wouldn’t leave me stay, Aegon, stay.”

The gasping stopped. He went still.

Abby screamed.

Aegon and Abrogail will return in The Princess and the Dragon Knight

And we made it! You all made it! And it's going to be okay! This is a Fix It Trilogy with a Happy Ever After but damn, it's gonna take our kids some work!

Thank you all for reading, for your encouraging comments, for your support, discussions, and investment in this story and journey with me. I treasure you all, silent or otherwise, but know that I would love to hear from you.

Keep a lookout later this year as I'll be doing a giveaway for a handbound copy of this first installment <3

Reblogs are how tumblr works! If you enjoyed this story, please reblog! I always read your tags and my askbox is open!

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emilykaldwen · 4 months ago

Text

High in the Halls

Ship: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (OC) Written for the @hotd-bigbang

Rating: Mature

Summary: Aegon Targaryen, the last true Valyrian Warlord, rattles at the machinations of his mother who tries to play Andal politics when he wants nothing more than to be left alone. A chance meeting of a maiden in distress in the Riverlands changes everything.

AKA the Old Valyria AU!

Notes: This is chapter one! Of what will probably be two chapters? I just didn't have the time to finish this, I'm so sorry.

Art by: @the-common-cowgirl / Beta: @vampire-exgirlfriend

Read on AO3

Author's Note: It's the old Valyria AU I've been hinting at for ages! It was a rough summer y'all, and this thing got finished while I was dying from Bronchitis (but before I got Covid) so I wasn't able to finish it. But this is absolutely a universe I want to have fun in and play with from time to time. I hope you enjoy it with me!

Sunfyre’s scream pierced the air, sending seagulls frantically fleeing from the battlements of Dragonstone, crying out as they took to the sky in an explosion of gray and white. The deep pink frills along the back of the dragon’s neck stood high, his head rearing back, snout vivid and wet with the blood of the sea beast he had dragged ashore for him and little Dreamfyre to feast on. His little sister’s dragon was twice the size of a horse, and the dead beast was at least two of her. The pair of them crouched around the great beast on the black sand beach, the waves crashing and little flits of multi-colored light caught in the air every time they broke against the rock of the harsh inlet.

Syrax hissed in response, her head rearing back in offense at being denied, but she eventually turned away, for Sunfyre was twice her size, and the smaller dragon was no match.

Aegon’s half-sister, on the other hand…

“Where is father?”

Aegon tilted his head, looking over his shoulder to where Rhaenyra, stood in the archway that led down to the stables. Her long, silver hair was tied back in a thick braid that fell to her waist, woven with charms that tinkled when she turned her head. The harshness of the style made her look more like Lord Viserys than her own mother, Lady Aemma, whose features were soft like his own mother.

He stayed silent, dragging his thumbnail along the near imperceptible groove of the stonework he leaned against. Did she think he was a servant? Did she think they were as close as their sire liked to pretend they were?

She arched her brows when he didn’t answer, her black boot tapping on the black stone. Before Aegon could open his mouth, there was movement behind Rhaenyra, heavily accented Valyrian answering for him.

“Helaena had another dream last night.” Lady Alicent met Rhaenyra’s eyes as she approached, silent maidens swathed in red following her. She was father’s second wife, taken in marriage when Lady Aemma could bear no more children. Even after all these years, she wore her long green gowns in the style of the continent: square necked and deep sleeved, a heavy, gold chain looped about her waist, her auburn curls held back a net of onyx and emeralds. Next to Rhaenyra in her dark gray riding leathers chased with crimson, Aegon thought his mother looked like a queen.

Rhaenyra ran her tongue over her teeth behind her lips, nodding curtly, and spun away with a swing of her long hair and vanished into the stronghold, vengeful and beautiful in the low light. Helaena’s dreams had changed fate for their family and Aegon did not know if it were better or worse. Some days, in the black of night, he wished he had gone down with the rest of their people in ash and flame. Others, he relished the freedom from politics that had plagued his earliest years. The fearful whispers of assassins, the way Uncle Daemon raged that they did not need to taint their blood to gain the Hightower gold—these things haunted him.

Mother pursed her lips, watching Lady Rhaenyra leave before her large, dark eyes met his.

“You cannot hide from me forever,” she told him in the common tongue. Aegon scoffed and looked back out at the rocky outcropping below where Sunfyre and Dreamfyre continued to devour the salt beast. He didn’t move as she approached, startling only a little when her hand combed through his shoulder length curls. “We must talk about this.”

“Must we?” he snipped, refusing to look at his mother. He kicked the toe of his boot against the stone and resisted crossing his arms to rest his head against them like a petulant child. Aegon was, in fact, acting a little like a petulant child, but he’d grown exhausted of the conversation that had circled for the past three years. “Go speak with Aemond about it. He’ll be more than glad to cross blades with Daemon and Rhaenyra- ow!”

His mother pinched and pulled at his ear to pull his face towards her and Aegon jerked from her grasp instinctively. Alicent Hightower’s lovely features were severe, delicate brows furrowed, pouty mouth pressed into a firm line.

“You are Viserys’ eldest son.”

“And Valyrian law dictates that Daemon inherits as his dragon is older-”

“Valyria is gone,” Alicent spat, her voice grating like the screech of kitlings or claws against stone. “If by chance you’d forgotten in your cups of strongwine, foolish boy. Valyria is gone, to fire and ash these past three years. Their laws of inheritance do not matter. The custom here, Aegon, is that of the eldest son. Sons before sisters, and all before uncles.”

“Then disown me,” Aegon snapped, pulling from his mother’s grasp before she could claw at him further. “Aemond will become your eldest and he shall eagerly fight with Helaena at his side. She could present it as a vision: Aemond inheriting Dragonstone with their children to carry his legacy on.” He clapped his hands together, smiling, although the gesture held no true joy. His smiles rarely did.

Aemond would relish at the opportunity to prove himself, to be more than what his position allowed him. Ever since their first son, Maelor, had been born, his younger brother had strutted about, speaking of his virility, dangling his son, and then soon after, their daughter, Daenys, in front of their father who so loved his grandchildren. Filling the hole that Rhaenyra left when her new family moved out of the fortress to the island of Driftmark, Viserys had indulged his grandchildren and Helaena was expecting her third soon.

The space between them grew as his mother drew back, her mouth pinched so tight that her lips had gone pale. Aegon loathed the way her gaze scraped at his insides and he resisted wrapping his arms around himself protectively, instead focusing on maintaining his languid, distant posture. To show weakness within the obsidian halls of Dragonstone was to be a death sentence. His mother was not of Old Valyria, but of these strange shores that he was more familiar with than the Freehold. She chafed at the ‘strange customs’, sick at the prospect of her children intermarrying with one another to keep their Valyrian blood pure. She misliked his lack of ambition, or how he preferred to spend his time in the brothel in the little fishing village while Lord Viserys lamented not being able to introduce him to the Ruby Palace and the most divine pleasure slaves the Freehold could have offered.

Lady Aemma misliked his father speaking so, although she was better at hiding her frustrations with her tender, tired smiles. His mother also did not care for the time Aegon spent in Lady Aemma’s solar, where they indulged in honey cakes together and she expected nothing from him, letting him lay his head in her lap while she combed her fingers through his hair when his mother’s anxieties turned her vicious.

If his own mother despised so much of him, then why was she so insistent to have him named heir?

“Aegon.”

He could not bear the anguish in his mother’s voice or on her soft features; the way it coalesced with the frustration like how the blood from the carcass on the beach turned the foaming ocean surf as pink as Sunfyre’s wings. Her shoulders that had bowed in on herself straightened, her breathing evening, and her delicate hands smoothed along the richness of her gown. “We will not indulge in such foolish things,” she said with an abrupt shake of her head. “You will be married at the end of the season.”

It felt like she’d punched him in the throat, the air rushing from him like a wheezing carcass. “I have no sisters to marry,” he rasped out, the blood rushing in his ears. Sunfyre’s call from below was a questioning one, and he saw his dragon lift his bloody face to peer up at him.

“One of the River Kings has need of a son in law,” she explained. “He is well known to our family, with only a daughter and the other river kings are circling. In exchange for you to protect his holding and claim his title upon his death, he will ensure that his armies are yours when the time comes.” She sniffed, twisting the ring on her right hand. “Which will be sooner, I think, than we all expect.”

Well known to their family? The Hightowers. The power that family held was ancient and worthy enough of Valyria, their origins a tightly guarded secret, but his father had said the Hightower blood was a special thing, and how lucky he’d been to snap up the daughter of so much power.

Aegon felt strangled and overheated, a pain coursing through his jaw as he clenched his teeth. “Does he know?” There was something guttural and full of warning running through Aegon’s words, and it vibrated through him. For a moment, he thought he tasted salt and metal, satiating and repugnant along his tongue, and he spat on the ground to rid himself of the taste of his dragon’s kill.

She sniffed again. “He has allowed me freedom to do with my other two children as I please, and Daeron is eager to become a Maester and not claim a dragon for himself. He will serve you well when his education is completed.”

Something cool and wet slapped against Aegon’s cheek and he blinked, tilting his head up as a fine rain began to fall. His mother hurried back inside, arms wrapped around herself, but Aegon ignored her insistent call to follow him. He stood there letting the rain hit his too hot, too tight skin, wondering if it would sizzle the way it sizzled against the dragons. A fine hiss of steam had surrounded Sunfyre as he continued to eat, Dreamfyre tucked beneath his wing, protecting her in the ways that Aegon was unable to protect Helaena himself.

Of course Daeron didn’t want a dragon. He knew nothing else but what he learned of on the ground.

“You’d barter me to some little king for the power of my dragon!” Aegon shouted, his voice heavy with rage, an anger that he’d rarely let loose coming to the forefront like the storm surge. The heat in his throat was a dragon’s flame - he’d spit fire if he could.

Rage was Aemond’s domain, was Rhaenyra’s, was Daemon’s. But Aegon was just as fearsome when he chose to be.

“Aegon-”

“You had no right!” His hands ached for something to throw, to bend and break and shoving over the brazier on his way inside would have to suffice. The coals hissed and bounced along the stone, the metal clanging loudly along the ground. Mother jerked away at the sound like something skittish, a doe perhaps, or a mourning dove, dark eyes wide at the display. Perhaps she did have reasons to mislike him. “You had no fucking right. Daeron, you can barter around, but I, in case you’ve forgotten, am a Warlord. My mount is not some overgrown horse, but fire incarnate, and should I ever so choose, I could turn your precious Oldtown to ash, and the rest of this land if the whim took me.” His nostrils flared as he breathed, wishing he could snag his mother and shake her until sense rattled in her head once more.

But she misliked him enough that he didn’t, the notion settling like a stone in his gut as he skirted her and followed the ghost of his elder sister. Mother shouted his name, but he ignored her, striding down the dim corridors that snaked through the fortress. Torchlight illuminated the slick walls and made the obsidian shine like some living, slimy thing.

Trilling, melodious and haunting, echoed down the corridor, but Aegon could hear the shifting in Sunfyre’s tone. ‘Bite? Attack?’ the sound seemed to question. The Dragonkeepers along the dock gripped their pikes, shouting for Sunfyre to settle, to calm, but the golden dragon would have none of it. He called, concerned, and it grated and echoed along the cave that housed the stable, boiling saliva and blood dripping from his maw and onto the black stone. Another cry shook dust from stone as Sunfyre made as if he were to scramble his bulk up onto the dock. The Dragonkeepers shouted once more, Keeper Arrax looking at him imploringly.

Aegon met his gaze briefly before approaching, tugging his riding gloves on from his pockets. “Lykirī!” he called up to him, but there was little command in the words. Sunfyre rumbled low in his throat, eyes flicking above Aegon and past him for whomever had caused such upset within his rider. It was only as Aegon lifted a hand to his bloody maw to scratch gently along his nostril, did Sunfyre relax, albeit with extreme annoyance at not having anything to attack.

The dragon snorted and settled, lowering himself enough that Aegon could make his way up the curve of his wing to the saddle. There were no words exchanged. None were needed. Him and Sunfyre were as one; the envy of the last Dragonlords.

The further west Aegon flew, the lighter the clouds became. There was something deeper within that, he was sure, and he could only imagine what poetic waxings his father would engage in had Aegon asked. Aemond would huff and let out the most annoyed of sighs and simply say, ‘Clouds move, you nitwit,’ and whatever obscure and esoteric insults from the books in their father’s library.

The breaking of the clouds revealed the lush green of what his mother’s people called the Riverlands. He’d flown over Crackclaw point and up the river that flowed into the Bay of Crabs, the great mountains of the Vale majestic and snow capped in the distance. The rolling green hills and dense forests were cut through with snaking slashes of blue and marked with weirwoods like drops of blood unfolded beneath him, a tapestry of a world he did not understand. His memories of the Freehold were fuzzy. The villa they’d lived in had been large, and he remembered the palanquin draped in the blacks and reds of their house as he made his way to the Dragonmont to claim Sunfyre. And then Helaena’s dreams had entranced their father and here they came.

Dragonstone was more home than Valyria had ever been, but even so, the obsidian fortress in the shadow of the mountain felt like a cage.

Out here above the Riverlands, Aegon breathed in the crisp air, the scent of the storm they’d passed through untainted by the smell of sulfur and salt that permeated the air of his home. These creatures of mud and root were meant to be subjugated. They were unworthy of the gift of flight, Aegon’s blood was a pure, magical thing, not something to be bartered to such a thing.

But his mother was of these people, and he loved his mother. Her blood flowed through him. She was just as fierce as his sister even if she lacked wings. His Uncle Daemon sneered and called him and his siblings half-breeds, shocked that they were able to claim dragons as they did.

Aegon shook his head, damp hair stuck across his forehead, and urged Sunfyre lower to better make out the land before him. Here, he could see the frightened sheep moving in a great herd as the shadow of the winged predator loomed over them. Sunfyre rumbled his desire and he tugged on the reins.

“You’ve had your fill,” he reminded the dragon, and the beast grumbled his annoyance. They swooped lower now, so Aegon could make out the details of the sheep and their startled herders, and hear the distant barking of the herding dogs that accompanied them. Aegon turned south, crossing over the Trident and soon they came upon Castle Derry nestled in the hills. His brow furrowed and he circled about it curiously. Was this where his bride resided? On the shores of the Ruby Ford?

Aegon flew further out still, towards the lush wood, settling his dragon down by a grove of bone white weirwoods, their crimson stained faces bearing witness to his sulking and self-pity. The forest floor was damp and gave beneath his boots as he approached the heart tree. The smell of petrichor clung in the air from the storms that had passed through; the scent of rich earth, of the pine scent of the evergreen trees that hugged the red grove a physical thing.

It was only the red sap that gave the look of bloody tears against the bark. That’s what the maester had said. Helaena, who received dreams from the gods, said they were the tears of those their visions could not help. Even though theirs were Valyrian gods - the fourteen flames that dragons like Syrax and Caraxes and even little Vhagar bore like badges of honor. Aegon had never felt close to the gods of his people, for they were angry beings that threw the Freehold into a melted, smoking husk and destroyed everything that they’d come from. The places in his hazy, childhood memory, the people who had visited, who had bustled in the forum below, were all gone, as were the multitude of dragons that had filled the sky from the other families, not to mention so many along the empire, and the many who had been unclaimed, roosting in the fissures of the volcanos.

Sunfyre rumbled behind him and Aegon waved a hand. “Go on,” he told him, Valyrian words feeling strange to speak in front of the tree. Sunfyre gave him a long look, as if assessing Aegon’s intent before his legs bunched up and he took off with a gust that nearly pushed Aegon from his feet. He ran his fingers through his hair before resting his hand on the pommel of his sword and looking around. Mayhaps he’d go for a swim. Climb a weirwood and fall asleep in the boughs. He could pilfer some clothes and dye his hair and vanish into the mists of the Riverlands, become something new and unseen. He could -

The scream that ripped through the forest was full of terror and anger, the words distant and shrill, but he could just make out the ‘NO!’ through the cacophony. Alarm took over and Aegon’s head whipped around trying to figure out what direction it came from. Another scream for help and he shifted direction, darting through the weirwood grove and bursting into the firs and evergreens of the rest of the forest.

‘Don’t stop screaming,’ he thought to himself, blood pumping in excitement for a fight. A dragonlord’s first weapon was fire and wing. His second was the blade, and Blackfyre hung reassuringly at his side - the gift his father had bestowed upon him on his twenty-second nameday. Next to fucking and drinking, he relished most the clang and scrape of metal against metal.Aemond could roll his eyes at his lack of finesse, but Aegon loved a good fight; blade, teeth, a punch to the face, all were ideal.

He slowed on approach, darting behind the thick trunk of a red oak large enough to seat his whole family for a meal. There were four men just past the trees by the stream, their horses lingering, pawing at the ground, perhaps from Sunfyre’s presence earlier. Three of them wore simple brown tunics and leggings, tabards of black and yellow with a sigil of eerie yellow eyes peering back at him. Aegon knew little of the houses of the area to know which this was. From the finer cut of cloth the fourth man wore, he was their liege. Tall, with dark blonde hair and broad shoulders, the leader of the group was clad in a tunic of black, his tabard half black, half yellow, edged with golden cording.

“Hush now, you’re safe,” he crooned to the hissing, spitting maiden clutched in his arms. She was a slight thing, her kirtle a deep, forest green, the skirt split over a pair of leggings, elegant embroidery visible across her gown. Aegon’s eyes darted around, looking for her horse, but none was to be found. A noble lady from the looks of it, but the oddity of her being alone in the forest was not his priority.

“Let me go!” she snarled, eyes wide and frightened, and she reached up to claw at the man’s face. Her little hand struck true, raking across his handsome features, and he yelled, striking her hard against the face in retaliation and sending her to the ground.

Sunfyre growled low in Aegon’s chest and before the man could reach for her again, he made himself known, unsheathing the Valyrian broadsword idly, clucking his tongue against his teeth.

“Is this how you Westerosi whelps treat your ladies?” he asked, brow furrowed in feigned confusion as his lilac gaze darted from man to man. “I confess, I’ve only been here for a little time, but from what I’ve been taught, there are laws among your people that frown on such things.” A lie of course; he could care less what laws Westeros had, but the woman was distressed, and he was doubtful any of these men owned her. Why he cared about her distress at all was something he would dissect later.

Aegon’s gaze raked over the men before lingering on the maiden still on the ground. The damp of the earth soaked into her skirts, her copper curls a frizz around her soft, tear streaked face. The ring her assailant wore had cut into her mouth, streaks of blood welling up and smeared across her chin. Her eyes met his in that singular moment, so vivid and bright, an endless blue. Aegon forgot to breathe at the sight of that frightened gaze that looked at him so full of terrified hope, his stomach twisting and pulling, wanting to drag him towards her.

How could he deny such a desperate plea? How could he deny her anything when she looked at him like that?

“Be gone with you, stranger,” the leader of this little band sneered, unbothered by the glint of Valyrian steel in the shafts of light that struggled to cut through the trees and clouds above. Aegon’s gaze met his and he smiled, lazy and unbothered. The creak of leather signaled the unsettled movements of his companions.

“Prince Ed,” one of them said, all nervous hesitation that pleased Aegon. “He’s one of them.” Fearful and othering, but he should fear him. Aegon was not some mortal clawed from mud. He was nearly a god himself, and the dragons were of the gods. Sunfyre purred deep in his chest, feeling Aegon’s amusement. He knew the dragon was approaching, and Aegon could buy himself some time and entertainment. Three against one wasn’t terrible odds. He’d been in brawls like that before, but rarely with a blade, and the swordmaster’s cautious words ran in the back of his mind to be cautious of how he picked his fights.

Sunfyre would be there before things got too out of hand.

The prince narrowed his eyes in Aegon’s direction and took in the languid stance and the Valyrian steel blade. There was a flicker of unease on his face before he set his jaw. “Are you sure?” he laughed, shaking his head. “I didn’t think they touched the ground, let alone come down from their mountain, too busy fucking their sisters and fathers and probably their dragons.”

There was a nervous titter of laughter from his group and Aegon joined in, his own manic giggling not quite reaching his eyes. He moved deliberately yet continued his easy stance before he stabbed forward, a flash of polished steel to slide across the arm of this prince of mud. Aegon smiled as they shouted and pulled their blades.

“She’s mine now. Be off with you. I would spare her from witnessing your rolling heads.”

The supposed prince spat at Aegon’s feet, drawing his inferior blade. “A daughter of the Riverlands will not be taken by an inbred Valyrian bastard,” he declared with all the mock chivalry and hot air that he’d been blowing. As if Aegon hadn’t just come upon them attacking the maiden. She’d been backing slowly away as Aegon had held their attention but she froze now as the man’s gaze shot at her. “Marvyn, grab her. I’ll slay this imp abandoned by his beast.”

He was brave. Aegon would give this so-called prince that much. Brave and exceedingly stupid, which often went hand in hand; Aegon would know, having been called such by his mother. The clang of steel against steel rang through the clearing and the shriek of the woman joined them as she lobbed a rock at Marvyn in her attempt to evade their reach. His opponent relied on strength, on the advance and powerful swings, and Aegon knew the type. He ducked low and got behind the oaf, kicking the man in the ass and sending him stumbling forward. With the space cleared, Aegon turned and shoved Blackfyre through the back of Martyn and removed the blade without catching any bone. Blood sprayed against the damp earth as he fell to his knees and Aegon spun the blood streaked blade, eyes on the third who had hold of the maiden’s arm, and back to the prince.

Aegon smiled brightly at him, all teeth and mirth and the feral edge of the dragon beneath his skin. “Shame about Martyn,” he said with a pitying shake of his head. “But at least it’s a first course.”

Above, a great, winged shadow appeared, blotting out the watercolor sun and casting them in momentary dim. The gust of wind from Sunfyre’s wings shook the tree, a few small branches falling to the ground from sudden and turbulent wind.

“Prince Edmund,” the other man’s voice cracked with fear, and his wide, sunken eyes focused upon the forest canopy, hand still clutching his sword and the other dropping from the maiden’s arm. Another shriek filled the sky and the trees filled with the frightened lowing of woodland animals fleeing, the birds shaking the remaining branches as they took off.

“Don’t be frightened,” Aegon laughed, shaking the damp curls back from his forehead. “Sunfyre is just having a little fun before he feasts. We’re both rather famished.” He opened his arms wide, the blood dripping from the dark steel of his blade. The clearing was quiet except for the low wheezing of Marvyn’s death rattles. He looked to the frightened man who was backing away before his gaze traveled back to this prince, taut and tense and gripping his useless sword with both hands. “What was it you were saying about inbred Valyrians abandoned by their beasts? There were four of you, weren’t there?” Aegon looked around again, and there was neither hide nor hair of the fourth companion, who seemed to be the only one with good judgment.

Sunfyre’s cry shook the forest once more. The horses had already fled in fear.

“Just leave,” the maiden said, finally finding her voice as she stumbled to her feet, her eyes like blue fire as she glared at the leader of her assailants. “Leave and take the gift of your life.”

She trembled with fear but her fists were curled into her skirt, her shoulders squared as she stared the man down. Her voice lilted, softly and strangely, neither melodic nor grating, but something altogether new to Aegon. The common tongue was not her mother tongue, and it gave a dulcet quality to her tone that those brutes lacked.

Aegon’s smile broadened, his teeth flashing as he looked at the prince. “Begone, you mud stricken thing.”

The two men fled, leaving the corpse of their friend behind, and Aegon watched their figures disappear into the trees. Sunfyre’s melodic trill echoed above and he chuckled, reaching down to wipe his tunic on the corpse of the man he’d stabbed. No need to stain his own clothes with such inferior blood. Sheathing his blade, Aegon Targaryen, eldest son of Viserys, the last Dragonlord of Valyria, straightened before the maiden he’d rescued. He knew she would be in awe of him, perhaps even frightened. That was certainly alright. He would reassure her, comfort her, and promise that he would bring no harm to her.

“My lady,” he said with the utmost courtesy. She stood there, several feet away, her arms wrapped around herself, her brilliant blue eyes wide and wild. There was a gentle, cracking sensation between his ribs as he took her in properly. She was a mess from head to toe, the skirts of her riding clothes soaked and stained. She was slight, shorter than he was, and fear had given her soft features a delicate quality that drew from how pale she was, how stark the blood and dirt looked across her face.

It took everything in him not to just reach for her and lick the blood away from her swollen mouth. To swallow her fearful cries away and replace them with precious little moans. She looked like she would make sweet sounds. The fight had his blood pumping with fever and the thrill of the win only increased the potency. He meant what he said: she was his now. He’d claimed her and sealed it through combat.

“Come,” he said, fingers wrapped around her wrist. Aegon was startled at how fragile the bones felt beneath his touch. He made sure he was gentle with it, not wanting to frighten her further. “We’ll fly back to Dragonstone and you’ll be given all that you desire.” The slap of her little hand against his cheek surprised Aegon more than it hurt, but still he reared back at the sting of it, looking down at the maiden with wide eyes. “I saved you!”

“From men who wanted to steal me to make me a bride against my will! You’re trying to do the same thing!” She yanked at the hold he had on her wrist, but he would not let her go, not now that he had found her.

“I’m not going to make you my bride,” he snapped, bewildered at the very thought of it. “You will be my concubine. Then if you prove yourself, I might wed you.” Bride? What a silly idea these Westerosi had. Not that the idea of tying this girl to him wasn’t appealing. To drag her at the foot of the Dragonmont, to sip wine and taste the blood on her mouth with the blood on his, it was an appealing vision. And it was his own choice, not one where he was sold for his precious dragon and his mother’s clawing attempts to change the succession. If Alicent Hightower wanted him to marry a Westerosi so much, Aegon had found his own choice.

From the furrow on her brow, to the flush that filled her lightly freckled cheeks, it was too late to realize those words would not entice her. A sharp pain radiated from his shin from where she kicked him.

“I will not be your concubine, you stupid dragon whelp.”

“You are precious when so angry,” he giggled with amusement and dodged out of the way of her attempt to rake her nails across his face. Abruptly, he released her, and the girl went stumbling back, breathless. He lifted his hands in surrender before clasping them behind his back. “I won’t touch you-”

“Go raibh maith agat,” she muttered and Aegon blinked.

“Did you sneeze?”

She huffed. “I was saying thank you. I will not have uppity Valyrians accuse me nor my people of being discourteous even as you are high handed.”

Aegon snorted. “It was your Westerosi brethren that sought to kidnap you, if I’m not mistaken.”

Her eyes were nothing short of vivid; such a brilliant, cobalt blue like the endless sky, rimmed red from tears and smudged black from lack of sleep. The softness of her vulnerability at his statement was unmistakable and she did not have a snip or barb for him. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself and did not meet his gaze. At a loss for words now after she spent so many. Gods, she was a mess. Dirt on her cheek, her soft, molten red hair a mass of curls tied in an unkempt braid. Her wool kirtle was no better, torn along the sleeve and neckline, though it did little to detract from how fine a garment it was—or had been.

The twist of pressure in his chest was uncomfortable and unfamiliar, and Aegon did not know where to put it.It snaked through the pulsing arousal through his blood, the aching desire he had for her. “How long have you been out here?” he asked her, voice gentler this time, as if she were a skittish mare.

She desperately looked around, her lower lip trembling before her teeth caught at the ruined flesh. Blood welled up in the wound once more from the broken clot. The desire to lick it rose in him once more. Instead, Aegon tugged his handkerchief from inside his sleeve and handed it to her. The linen was carefully embroidered with golden beetles by Helaena, who’d been bedridden during her last pregnancy.

It hung between them, Aegon’s outstretched hand with the offering. Tear filled eyes met his before flicking down, eyeing his hand with all the wariness of a little rabbit before she whispered, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, just as softly, if a bit ashamed. Aegon looked down at the corpse that still lay near them and he carefully stepped between it and her gaze, gently herding her away from the sight and towards the weirwood grove he’d come from. He let her lead the way, keeping a distance between them, his eyes darting about for either horses or those fools. Sunfyre warbled above them and Aegon knew he was keeping an eye out before the ground shook at the dragon’s landing. The maiden stumbled and Aegon caught her elbow before she could fall.

She did not jerk away from him this time and he did not grab her roughly, the idea of further scaring her making him uncomfortable.

“What is your name?” It was a polite question and one Aegon should have asked her before telling her he was going to carry her off to Dragonstone. No matter; he could make up for it now.

She did not look at him and Aegon noticed how she trembled, likely from the come down after the fight. His own hands were shaking lightly, but he’d been well trained to manage it. He cursed under his breath and looked towards the clearing where Sunfyre landed. There was a cloak in his saddlebag he could give her.

“Abrogail.” Aegon looked at her, dark lashes shading her eyes, her pink tongue darting out enticingly to wet her lips as she dabbed at her mouth. “My name is Abrogail.”

Oh. “That’s… that’s a lovely name. Abrogail.” It even tasted lovely on his tongue. “I’m Aegon. Targaryen. Of House Targaryen.” How foolish he sounded.

Her mouth twitched with a promise of a smile and warmth bloomed in his chest. “I gathered as much… Aegon.” Gods help him, he loved the sound of his name on her tongue. Adjusting his course of action seemed to be working as the tension eased a little in her slim shoulders and her sweet face. The pulse of desire flooded through his veins once more and Aegon exhaled, looking up at the red leaves and white boughs of the weirwoods they had come to. The light was dimming as the clouds grew heavy with moisture and Aegon could smell the oncoming rain; petrichor and ozone and the promising crack of lightning. Could he make it back to Dragonstone to stay the night?

“Are you far from home?” he asked, the words ashen in his mouth. It was the right thing to do, even when all he wanted to do was bundle her up and take her away with him. She was meant to be his now. He had claimed her, won her in combat.

“Not overly far,” she said with a strange tone. Aegon looked down at her. Abrogail’s gaze had darkened, turned inward in her contemplation. “I left for my own reasons… and I find myself without my horse. I am not,” she paused, pushing a finger into his chest with fierce, flashing eyes, a kitten arching her back, “Saying I would come with you as your concubine.” She spat the word out with a wrinkled nose.

Aegon grinned at her, all bright teeth and amusement, a mad sort of giggle spilling from him. “Oh, you’ve made yourself quite clear, my lady. I promise not to make you my concubine, but I can offer you a ride away from here.” ‘To Dragonstone,’ he thought. She was escaping something, she said, and he could provide her anything she could want. All he’d ask for in return was a taste.

Abrogail tilted her head, rosebud mouth pursing in her wariness but the curiosity was easing her features.

Several tastes, perhaps. If she insisted on looking so appetizing.

“Your dragon?” There was a nervousness in her tone, but oh, that curiosity. Aegon nodded and held his hand out to her.

“Come,” he said softly. “You can meet Sunfyre.”

Thank you for reading! I would love to hear what you think! If you're looking for more Aegon and Abby, check out The Maiden and the Drowning Boy! and of course, be sure to check out the other stories being posted for the big bang <3

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