#Aemond Targaryen x original female character

[justfandomwritings]

Who Hurt You? (Aemond Targaryen - Part One)

Pairing: Aemond x Niece!Unknown Parentage

Word Count: 7.6k

Warnings: This is a "Who Did This To You" trope so the OFC was a victim. It is not described in graphic detail, but please keep it in mind before reading if that may be triggering for you. Also Targaryen-typical cest.

Summary: There was no father in her life from whom she could seek protection in that moment, no father who could rush in and save her from this evil, who could swear to her it would never come for her again. But there was a voice, quiet and gentle and caring, which called out to her "Who hurt you?" and for a moment she thought that perhaps someone cared enough to listen to the answer.

“Princess?” 

How different might the world have been if Viserys had let Rhaenyra marry Daemon that night he’d bedded her in the brothel? How different might the world have been if Rhaenyra had run away with Criston Cole when he asked her to flee with him? How different might the world have been if Laenor had not been forced to marry her mother? How different might the world have been if Rhaenyra had not taken Harwin Strong into her chambers? How different might the world have been if she knew who her father was?

“Princess!”

Her features were a mixed bag, some that may have been Daemon, some that may have been Criston, some that may have been Laenor or Harwin, some that appeared to come from absolutely no one at all. Each of them had, at one time or another, looked at her with that sense of possibility, that she might be theirs or their worst enemies. All she could pinpoint were her eyes and her hair, Valyrian to her core. Many pointed to them as evidence of Daemon’s fatherhood of her. Her mother loudly touted it as proof that she was Laenor’s. She doubted it was proof of either so much as it was proof of Rhaenyra’s motherhood. Their hair, their eyes, were exactly the same shade. From the back, many had mistaken her for her mother over the years.

“Princess who did this to you?”

Some nights, when she was feeling particularly lonely, she would play pretend in her mind, decide which man was her father and play act at him loving her. She would pretend Daemon took her up on dragonback back and taught her to fly. She would pretend Ser Criston snuck her sweets and hugs whenever the court's backs were turned. She would pretend Laenor… Well, she never had to pretend with Laenor or Harwin. They had always loved her in their own ways, as much as they could anyway. 

“Princess? Who hurt you?”

If she knew her father, if she had a father at all, maybe she could go to him now. She could run inside to find Daemon; she could slide under the wing of Caraxes’ protection where she knew no one would ever hurt her again. She could run to Criston and beg him to take her away as he’d once offered her mother; he could draw his steel and beat back those who tried to hold her there. 

“Princess, who did this?”

Someone was grabbing her, shaking her. She felt it in a sense, but in a far greater sense she didn’t feel it at all. She knew it was happening, but she didn’t feel the hands that gripped her shoulders, that tugged her back and forth. The same with the voice, calling out to her. She knew it was there, knew what it was saying, but she couldn’t process the words.

“Princess, look at me.” 

Something had happened. Something terrible. She knew that much. She knew the rest too, but by the by it would not come to her. Something had happened to her. 

“Princess, you’re bleeding.”

Yes, she rather thought she was. Not a great deal, but certainly enough to be noticed. To be noticed by… someone. Did she even want to know who?

“Alarra!”

She heard that word. She knew that word. Her name. Laenor had given her that name. He had been so kind to her all the years she knew him. He had always treated her as a daughter, claimed her as a daughter, cared for her as a daughter, loved her as a daughter… at least from what she remembered. Perhaps those memories were colored rosy by death. Perhaps Laenor would not have made this situation any better; perhaps Harwin, perhaps a father of any kind, wouldn’t have either. Perhaps Ser Criston or Prince Daemon would have only made things worse. Perhaps this was simply her fate. 

“Alarra, who did this?”

She knew that voice. She’d known it the whole time, but she recognized it now. 

Tears welled up in her eyes, and Alarra blinked them away. Her eyes, against her will, regained their focus and brought her out of her daze. They brought her back to the world around her. She didn’t want them to. She wanted to stay there, in her head where she felt nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing. People couldn’t hurt her in her mind. In her body, people could hurt her. 

She must have been crying for some time without realizing while she was stuck in her head. Her eyes were already overwhelmed with tears, and she could feel their dried tracts down her cheeks. 

Aemond was more blur than man, hunched over in front of her, little more than overlapping shades of silver and black in her watery gaze. Yet even in her current state, there was no mistaking him. The details of his face were gone, but the vague black circle where an eye should have been marked him for who he was. 

“Alarra, who hurt you?” Aemond’s voice was quieter than it had been when it called her back to her body, like he knew then that she couldn’t hear him and knew now that she could. 

Of course it would be Aemond. Of course he would be the one to find her at her weakest, at her most vulnerable. He had a way of doing that, finding her weak spots. 

“Who did this?”

In response, Alarra’s body racked with a sob. Her shoulders were shaking with the force of how hard she cried, and it made some still disassociated part of her mind wonder if Aemond had touched her at all, if Aemond had actually shaken her shoulders as she thought or if it had been her body crying the whole time.

“Alarra, I’m going to take you to the Maester now.” Aemond touched a gentle hand to her upper arm, a far gentler touch than she had ever felt from him before, far gentler than she thought him capable of. 

“NO!” She jerked back the moment she realized what he said. Her hands clutched her dress to her chest to keep it from falling as she frantically skittered back on the ground away from him. “I can’t- you can’t- they’ll- no- no- no-”

Why couldn’t Jace have found her? Or Luce? She would give anything for one of her brothers to be here. She would even take her mother or, gods forbid, Daemon right now. 

The bush at her back poked and scraped against her bare shoulders and kept her from moving further away. It reminded her of her present state, of the dress barely clinging to her form and the bruises already coloring her arms and the cuts still bleeding at her collar. 

“As you say,” Aemond held up his hands in a mock surrender. She could see him now, the panic clearing her eyes of tears. His own eye was narrowed, though not judging or angry, for once, merely cautious. 

“No maester…” He stayed there, frozen and unmoving until Alarra ceased, till her feet stopped slipping and sliding uselessly over the ground, pushing for every inch of distance she could win away from him, till her shoulders stopped curling in on themselves hiding the more vulnerable parts of her body from him in favor of her partially exposed back. 

Even when she stopped trying to put distance between them, when she relaxed with the surety that he wasn’t going to force her to the Maester, he did not move any closer, did not break the silence in the air. 

He watched her patiently, as he so often did. And she, as she so often did, looked away. 

“If you take me to the Maester…” Alarra hiccuped around another tearless sob. She felt a need to explain herself to him, to explain before he jumped to his own conclusions. 

She hiccuped again as she prepared to subject herself to the mercies of one of the most merciless creatures she knew. “If you take me to the Maester, they’ll say my virtue — He didn’t. I swear he didn’t, but they’ll say he did— What with the rumors about my father, they will say… They will...” 

Neither of them needed to address the fact that Aemond was very much included in the ‘they’ whom Alarra feared talking. 

Aemond had long questioned the Velaryons’ parentage. He had relished toying with her brothers’ features that clearly weren’t Valyrian, basked in the opportunity to avenge a childhood of mockery and wrongs. She had never before been the subject of his wrath, mercifully spared by a childhood friendship, but the gods knew this opportunity would be too good to miss if she didn’t confront it.

“They will…” She couldn’t help mumbling the incomplete thought under her breath.

When Alarra found the courage to meet his gaze again, Aemond’s one eye was already boring a hole through hers with its intensity, and Alarra thought, not for the first time, that perhaps the gods themselves had plucked out Aemond’s eye. If for no other reason than to quell a potential challenger. 

“Please,” she wasn’t sure if there was enough air left in her lungs to voice the word, but she tried to speak it anyway, pushed it out between her lips like a quiet prayer to the gods, a quiet prayer to Aemond.

Aemond looked to be calculating his own course through these uncharted waters just as much as he appeared to be studying her reactions. 

“We cannot stay here, Princess,” Aemond spoke in a very stilted, calculated tone, like one reading facts from a book. “You are injured. Your appearance is disheveled. Your dress is in tatters, and if I was as without honor as your family thought I was I could see every inch of your front simply by glancing down.”  

Alarra subconsciously clutched her torn dress tighter to her. It was true. The blade had sliced clean through the neck and shoulders of her dress as it cut across her skin. The front would have fallen off long ago if not for her hand, and the weight of the damned thing and lack of support had long exposed huge swaths of skin to the cool night air. 

Though, admittedly, up until Aemond’s arrival her dress had been her least concern. 

Alarra turned her eyes down to her dress for the first time, again to avoid Aemond’s gaze. It was destroyed. The sleeves were gone; the embroidery was pilling and torn; the skirt was caked in mud; and worst of all, what remained of the neckline was soaked in her blood.

Without warning, Aemond stood.

Alarra’s eyes shot back up and her whole body tensed for a moment before she realized what he was doing.

Aemond wrenched off his black, Targaryen cloak and in the same flourish draped it over Alarra. She grabbed for it as it fluttered down, holding it to her chest. 

“Th-Thank you,” she stuttered out the words. 

Aemond’s cloak. She was wearing Aemond’s cloak. 

Aemond ignored her platitudes, which was just as well for her since she wouldn’t have known what else to say to him. “I’m going to touch you now, Princess,” Aemond said in warning. “I won’t harm you, and there will be no Maesters. I’ll only carry you to your chambers through the servant’s halls.” 

It was a chore, to force herself to calm enough for him to touch her, but she knew it was the best course. Her dress was well torn and would trail in ribbons behind her, and she was not sure she could walk. There was no physical damage to her legs, but she did not relish the idea of trying to rise to her feet in this state. Her upper body quaked even now; her legs would no doubt collapse if she so much as attempted to use them. 

Aemond approached slowly, cautiously. He looked like a predator about to put his prey out of its misery. She knew he wasn’t going to hurt her, at least not physically, but by the gods Aemond couldn’t help looking like the hunter. There was something to his face. Power perhaps, a touch of ruthlessness, the confidence he had lacked as a child. 

His hands slipped around her, one high on her back while his other dipped under her knees. He was ever so careful in the placement of his hands, tucking the cloak around her in his grip to avoid touching any skin.  He stood with her in his arms, and she thought of anything else to help even out her breathing as she felt a man’s touch brushing against her even through fabric.

Being at home on the rocky beaches of Dragonstone. The soft feel of braiding her mother’s hair. The sound of a crackling fire in her room. The smell of the salty, ocean breeze off the water. The taste of her favorite wine on her tongue. 

Every hall Aemond turned down she made a new list, and her breathing remained steady so long as she kept thinking of things. 

Balerion’s skull on a pedestal lit by candles. The dowse of warm water as Jace threw her in the sea. Caraxes’s roar when he flew overhead. The scented oils anointing her baby brother’s skin. Luce’s piss poor attempt at roasting rabbit as they camped in the woods.

Aemond said nothing while she made her lists. Perhaps he was calculating some plan of his own; perhaps he was simply giving her the space to think. Before tonight, she would have presumed the former, but now she was unsure.

Viserys on the throne. The soft threads of her embroidery. The nurses singing lullabies. The awful smell of the stables. A morning cup of tea. 

They walked in absolute silence, and Aemond took every precaution not to be seen. He ducked down the hidden passages known only to those who had truly mastered the keep; he stopped at the sound of every approaching footstep and hid behind pillars or corners. At one point, he pulled her into an abandoned meeting hall for several minutes as two servants stopped outside to chat. 

That had been a particularly painful few minutes, and she had refocused her efforts to list those things that meant the most to her.

Witnessing Daemon and Rhaenyra’s wedding. Vermax’s rough scales under her fingers as Jacaerys introduced her to his dragon. Harwin comforting her with sweet words after a cruel bout of insults about her father. The smell of smoke when her mother took her up on Syrax. The odd tasting fish Laenor cooked for her every nameday.

“Princess,” Aemond’s voice, as surprisingly gentle as it had been before, called out to her, “would you get the door?”

It was the first thing Aemond said on their walk. 

She mindlessly pushed open the door of her chambers, not even realizing that they’d reached them. “You can right me here, Aemond.” 

Aemond didn’t hear her, or perhaps he ignored her. He did not deposit her in the doorway as she asked; he crossed the room and set her gently back on the edge of her bed. 

“Thank you,” she said, more out of habit than anything. She owed him her thanks to be sure, but her mind was too occupied with other things to mean it. 

“Of course, Princess,” Aemond fingered the edge of the cloak still covering her. “I can leave this with you,” he offered, “but people will question why you have my cloak. It is your choice.” 

Alarra released her death grip on the fabric, and Aemond didn’t tug it away until it seemed she had firm grip on the dress beneath. 

Aemond stood to his full height and turned to leave. “I will leave you to your night. We will talk again when you are well.”  

She watched his back retreat for only a few steps before she could resist no longer.

“Please Aemond,” Alarra whispered into the night air as if the silence were glass and her words a falling hammer that might break it were she not gentle enough. 

Aemond paused at her door and turned back. 

She wasn’t sure what possessed her to speak, to ask. It was too much to ask. She knew it was too much to ask, especially of him.  “If you ever cared for me at all, as friend or family… do not tell anyone about tonight?”

His eye was not as intense as it stared at her now. It was softer, more discerning. 

That, or more likely the distance buffered the spear of his gaze.

“You are owed justice, Princess.” Aemond replied as he stepped back from the door and let his hand fall from the handle.  

Alarra had expected a simple yes or no, even if the yes was a lie. But then, she hadn’t expected him to find her in the garden. She hadn’t expected him to help her if he did. And she certainly hadn’t expected him to care if she received justice. 

Aemond crossed the room in long strides and knelt down before her, resting a gentle, almost hesitant hand on the top of her exposed knee. “You are owed justice, and you shall have it.”

“But I…” 

Aemond didn’t understand. And how could he. He was a man. He could fuck his way through half of Flea Bottom, and Viserys wouldn’t bat an eye. Aegon already had, and the greatest repercussions he’d faced had been the occasional cold shoulder for his lack of decorum. Aemond was a man, and unlike women, men could demand justice when they were wronged. 

“If I say anything… the rumors… I’ll be ruined. He will say he ruined me, and no one will believe me, not over a man. The moment he opens his mouth, it will be my fault, and I will be ruined.” The tears in her were hardening into something more as her voice became more clipped, “No assurances from the Maester that I am untouched will be sufficient to quell the mongers. My first child will be a bastard no matter when he’s born or to whom, and no man will have me accompanied by such a stain.”

This, of all things, was what Alarra was complaining about, what she was forced to worry about. It made her sick. She felt the bile rising in her throat even now, and she tried to swallow it down. 

This was not what she truly cared about. Alarra wanted nothing more than time to grieve herself, grieve her pain, grieve what had been done to her, but she could not have it. And not simply for Aemond’s presence.

It would have been the same if it were any other man who found her. It would have been the same if it were the queen or even her mother. And even if she hadn’t been found at all, it would have been the same tomorrow, or the next day, or whatever day that monster of a man finally came forward and opened his mouth about what he’d done to her. 

She would be expected to be unshaken, unperturbed by any trauma. Her first and only concern would be expected to be her house, her reputation, and her family, not her own wellbeing. 

The council, monsters that they were, may even demand she marry him, to be sure of the bloodlines.

The tears began to fall again, and she mourned not just what had been done to her and taken from her, not just her sense of safety and security, not just her sense of self, but also the mask she would have to wear come morning. She mourned because she knew it was her last chance to mourn. She mourned because she knew that even now she wasn’t supposed to mourn, for Aemond was watching.

“Leave that to me, Princess.” Aemond’s hand reached up, and a thumb gently brushed away her newest tears, “I swear to you, on my life and my dragon’s. No one will question your honor.”

Alarra scoffed. Such a fond notion. If it came from her brothers she might have thought them naive enough to think such a thing could be done. If it came from her brothers she might have thought them sweet enough to try. But this was Aemond, and he was not sweet. And he was certainly not so naive. 

“You can’t promise that.” Alarra closed her eyes to avoid looking into his.

“I can. I have my ways, Princess. Do not concern yourself with such trifling things as other’s expectations of you now. I will see to those. You need only worry after how to feel yourself again.”

It was as though he’d read her mind and pulled out the exact thing she wished he'd say. If he were Jace, she would have leaned into his hand on her cheek and fallen asleep, not trusting that all would be well by morning but trusting at least that he would be by her side when it wasn’t. 

But this was Aemond, and another tear slid down her cheek from behind her eyelids. She wasn’t sure if she could trust him, but by the gods did she want to. 

“Alarra, tell me. Who did this to you? Name the man who forfeited his life tonight.”

For a moment, her breath caught in her throat before…

----------------------------------------------------------------------

“You violated guests' rights, broke into a lord’s bedchambers, dragged him out of bed, drew your blade on him, carved out his tongue, and left him to be found by the servants who heard his cries!” 

For the first time in many, many years, Viserys Targaryen looked like a dragon.

It was enough to quell the room to a still silence. It was enough to make the young ones quake with something akin to fear.

The Targaryens and Velaryons, the family, were the only ones called into the throne room for this particular trial. It was not, as so many usually were, made known to the nobility or even the entirety of the Small Council. Even the Kingsguard, save Cole, had been asked to wait outside. The King had kept it quiet, assembled the necessary parties, and immediately begun questioning his second son the same morning the young knight had been found dismantled on the floor of his guest chambers in the Red Keep. 

Aemond stood firm in front of his father’s rebuke. Arms tucked behind his back, feet shoulder width apart, he said, as though he were discussing the weather, “I also knocked out all his teeth.”

Aemond thought he might have heard Aegon snort.

“HE IS A TYRELL!” Viserys lurched to his feet, cutting his palm on the throne he moved so quickly. His finger stabbed at the man, leaning on Ser Criston for support, looking ever the pitiful victim. “A TYRELL! AND THE GUEST OF YOUR KING!”

The pain of the blades did not seem to register to Viserys, and even the usually attentive Alicent did not move to help her king as blood ran down the tip of Viserys’s finger.

On Aemond’s eye’s side of the hall, the Velaryons formed one strong line in his peripheral vision, ever the picture of courtly decorum even as Jacaerys and Lucerys no doubt wanted to jump with glee. They were all quelled to a state little more than statues by the severity of the moment.

Only Alarra stood out of line. Only Alarra was not frozen in stone. She stood behind her mother, peaking out at him between Rhaenyra and Daemon’s shoulders, watching him with a gaze that flashed between awe, pity, shame, and something akin to desperation.

Aemond looked away. He did not let his gaze linger long on her. Much as he wanted to dissect the moods haunting her every feature, he refused to draw the kind of attention to her that observing her would require. 

“Not an important one. Second son of a third son,” Aemond shrugged nonchalantly. “I assure you House Tyrell will not be greatly aggrieved by his loss.”

Viserys’s frame shook as though it could not contain his rage within his body. “On what grounds, Aemond!” 

Aemond stood firm. Truly, his father could yell all he liked. When he wanted to be, Aemond could be a terrifyingly patient man. His patience would far outlast his father’s anger. Not merely for the fact his father was too physically weak to maintain this rebuke for long. 

“I apologize, my King,” Aemond endeavored at civility, “but the grounds are not mine to say.”

That seemed to take Viserys back. Something cold, dark, came into his tone. “You would dare refuse your King.”

“I do not refuse my King. I have freely admitted to what I have done.” Aemond answered with an equally deadly calm.

A pin could have been heard dropping on the stones as Viserys took a shaky step down from the throne. “The Tyrells will make you take oaths for this, and I will not refuse them. They will ask to send you to the Wall.”

Aemond swallowed down his pride, swallowed down the urge to rage that it was the Tyrell who should be sent to the Wall, swallowed down the urge to cut through his father’s presumptions about the night. 

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Aemond bowed his head, “If my king commands.”

“Aemond,” His mother finally broke the silence of the rest of the room as she hissed at him, “Defend yourself.”

Aemond’s eyes stayed straight ahead, watching his father. 

“You heard your mother! Explain yourself boy!” Viserys commanded. “You have dishonored this house; you will give your reasons for this!”

“My reasons are my own. If the Wall is the price of his tongue so be it. I will not-“

There was a commotion amongst the Velaryons as all eyes turned to see Alarra pushing past Rhaenyra and jerking out of the grip her good father tried to clasp her in. 

“He was defending me, your Grace,” Alarra called even as she crossed the room. Daemon and Rhaenyra’s attempts to stop the girl halted as she loudly made her declaration.

Alarra dropped into a short curtsy next to Aemond before taking a similar stance to his beside him. Awaiting judgment. 

Aemond clenched his jaw tightly. He thought he might’ve felt a tooth crack. He did not glare down at his niece, much as he wanted to, nor did he chase her back behind her parents, much as he wanted to. 

Resisting the urge was not without complaint, and a huff slipped past his lips. The whole point of cutting out the man’s tongue had been so he could not speak of what he’d done to her. And now she loudly declared it in open court.

Was she trying to save him? Really, did she think Viserys would actually send him to the Wall? He would order it done then change his mind and settle for some brief exile or other. He would go to Essos, fight a war, become the next Daemon. 

“You must forgive Aemond for any impertinence.” 

Yes. She was trying to save him. 

Alarra’s head was hung as she addressed her King. “It was merely for the sake of protecting me. Ser Wendell attacked me in the garden last night, your Grace. Aemond was my rescuer. That is how Ser Wendell came to lose his tongue. If the Tyrells demand an oath, let me give it in his stead. Aemond has acted with nothing but honor.”

There was a quiet after Alarra finished speaking. Somewhere outside, knights in armor were walking past the throne room. 

The first sound to break the silence was a wordless, toneless groan.

Ser Criston had let go of Ser Wendell, and Wendell had swayed on the spot for a moment before Ser Criston had kicked the man to his knees.

“Attacked you!” Viserys stumbled back to sit in his throne, breathing heavily, seemingly exhausted as the anger within him at his own son quelled in the face of this new revelation. “In what way, dear girl, has this knight attacked you? Has he dishon-”

“No,” Aemond cut off the King before he could finish voicing the word. He had promised no one would question her on this. “I saw what was transpiring from the balcony. At first it seemed nothing more than a spat. When I realized he’d drawn a blade…” He was cut off by his sister’s loud gasp. “I came to her aid as quickly as I could. I am sorry to say I could not prevent all of what transpired, but I assure you my niece’s virtues remain entirely intact. I would swear to it. His honor was the only thing destroyed last night.”

Wendell, on his knees in front of Cole, made loud, wordless noises and gestured wildly in the direction of Aemond and Alarra. 

Aemond sneered and rested his hand back on the hilt of his sword, the blade letting out a threatening ‘shink’ noise as he unsheathed the first inch. Wendell shrunk back, his arms freezing though his mouth still blubbered on. “You can still lose your hand, Ser Wendell.” 

“Or your head.”

All blubbering ceased.

For all of his bluster and rage and shouting and for all the silence and fear it evoked, there was nothing Viserys could do to chill a room like those three words said by that voice. 

“Why does he live?” Daemon continued. His voice was as cold as the Stranger’s embrace, and his eyes glaring across the hall at Ser Wendell just as steady.

The question was for Aemond, he knew, but Daemon made no move to address him directly.

“The coward fled even as I arrived. Alarra was quite merciful in her pleas that hunting him down to slaughter was not justice. So I quelled my anger with his tongue.”

“And his teeth,” Aegon muttered under his breath. 

Aemond’s head jerked around, and he sneered at his brother. “His teeth were incidental. If he hadn’t so resisted losing his tongue, he’d still have them. They had to be gotten out of the way.”

Daemon paid no mind to the bickering between the brothers. He sauntered forth, like a lion stalking its prey.

“Alarra wished to have justice?” 

Daemon stopped then, in front of Wendell, staring down at the man. 

Aemond’s eyes flitted to the woman in question. 

Alarra was watching Ser Wendell almost as intently as Daemon watched him. The way Aemond remembered she used to watch the bugs that frightened her as a child, like she had to know where he was at all times, like she had to keep him in her sights or he may sneak up on her some other way, even tongueless and on his knees with the man visibly pissing himself.

“Yes, she did.” Aemond answered for her.

“He has no tongue,” Daemon mused. His head tilted to one side, and from where he stood Aemond could see the tug at the corner of Daemon’s mouth. “I suppose the only fair trial he will have is by combat.” When he wanted, Daemon’s smile could truly be a thing of evil. 

Alarra looked ready to be sick.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a chore to escape her rooms that night. Her mother had posted two guards to her door in an effort to make her feel more comfortable, but when the unfamiliar faces introduced themselves and took up their station it only made her feel more cut off, more alone. She felt suffocated by the presence of these strangers she did not know or trust blocking her primary exit from her room. 

Climbing out the window had seemed the logical thing to do. 

She could not sleep and had not eaten at dinner. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to do either, but she was sure she didn’t want to feel trapped. 

Her feet took her around the back halls of the palace, wandering paths where no one would dare to look for her. It was around the fourth or fifth hall, in front of the room they had stopped for minutes on end, that she realized the path her feet had been carrying her along. She made no attempt to stop it. Or maybe she did and her feet didn’t listen. 

The garden was beautiful, if a little more terrifying. The moonbeams that had always made the water in the pool seem to glint now only seemed to cast shadows under the hedges. The flowers which were so beautiful and richly hued at twilight had bigger thorns this week than last. 

“I would have thought wandering the keep at night was not to your taste anymore. Least of all here, Princess.”

Alarra did not so much as jump when she heard the voice. If anything, her shoulders seemed to loosen their tension.  

“I could not sleep. My feet brought me here, and I-I cannot say why I did not leave.” She answered the unasked question. 

Aemond came to stand beside her against the bannister, putting his back to the garden and instead facing her. “We all fight our battles differently, I suppose.”

“I appear to be losing mine.”

Aemond chuckled humorlessly. “On the contrary Princess, I think you are the champion of House Targaryen.”

Alarra finally tore herself away from the spot on the grass she had been trying to burn with her eyes alone. “I feel like the Queen of Fools. I keep thinking of everything I should have done, ways I could have stopped him, things I wanted to say.”

Aemond paused for a long moment, quietly considering his response.

“Even if there are things you could have done, that does not make you the Queen of Fools… though I understand why you would think such a thing.” Aemond assented. His head turned so his eye could stare out at the sky, and Alarra watched his profile in detail. He cut a far less intimidating figure tonight than he usually did in the light of day. “I am the same with my duels with Ser Criston. I berate myself for weeks after each loss, picking them apart in my mind. I play each out a hundred different ways. It helps at first, helps me become a better fighter, better swordsmen. I study it until I know I will never make the same mistakes again. But eventually, I have to move on.”

Aemond turned his eye back to her. “For one simple reason, Princess. Those are all things I know to do differently now, but I did not know them then. One day, you will wake up and realize that the only thing you could have done that night, with what you knew then, is exactly what you did. Every idea you think of you can apply if the situation arises again, but you cannot expect yourself to have known those things before you knew them.”

Alarra pulled her eyes away forcefully and stared down at where it happened. He was right, in a way. She just wasn’t sure that made anything better. 

“Do not trouble yourself with moving on now, Princess. The last fight isn’t over until I’ve stopped thinking about it, and I can’t win the next one until it is… but if it takes me weeks to move past something as petty as a lost duel, I wager you are allowed more than a night to move past this.”

“And how many nights can I go before I collapse during the day?” Alarra asked quietly. “This is the second night I have not slept, and my mother’s solution is to put my life in the hands of men I know no better than Wendell.”

That did seem to make Aemond pause. He always thought before he spoke, and the man thought hard now for what to say and how.

“I can-if it please you of course-think of one alternative.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------

“She will not harm you, Princess,” Aemond assured her. 

Alarra stared up at the dragon looming over her. Her feet had frozen to the ground the moment she realized where Aemond was taking her, which given her distracted, absent state of mind had not been until they were standing on the beach with the dark, hulking mass of Vhagar casting shadows in the moonlight illuminating their skin.

She swallowed and shrunk back further into the meager protection of her cloak as Vhagar shifted and grumbled in her sleep. A puff of smoke floated away on her exhale.

“Princess,” Aemond stepped between her and Vhagar, his back to the creature. He caught her chin between his fingers and tilted her head so her gaze was forced to meet his eye. “Princess, do you trust me?”

“Trusting you is not the issue at the moment, Aemond.” Alarra mumbled.

“You’ve been around dragons many times.”  Aemond said it as both a statement and a question.

Alarra nodded. “Yes of course, but never Vhagar.”

“She’s no different than any other dragon.” Aemond stipulated.

“Only that she’s thrice as large and thrice as deadly. She's so large Arrax could sleep in her jaw.” Her tone was more biting than she meant for it to be. 

Alarra’s eyes wandered back over Aemond’s shoulder. She couldn’t help it. Not with her sleeping right there. 

"I'd be a fool not to be warry, Aemond. We all would be. She's conquered kingdoms. She's killed dragons."

"None of yours." 

"Well, I don't have one to kill."

Aemond rolled his good eye. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” Alarra bit back immediately. It was an instinctual answer this time. An instinct that had formed over the course of only two days, but an instinct nonetheless. If she had been thinking clearly, Alarra would have lied and said no or at least pretended to consider her answer before she tacitly agreed to trust him. Yet with the figure silhouetting Aemond, it was impossible to take time to think and consider anything seriously. 

Something softened, only slightly, in Aemond's expression as he heard her response. “Come.” She hadn’t realized till his hand dropped away that he had been cradling her chin the whole time, drawing her eyes back to his as it did. “I would never hurt you, and she does as I bid. If it helps, keep your eyes on me.” 

Aemond took Alarra’s hand in his and turned. Staring at him did help. Alarra glared daggers into Aemond’s back as he pulled her along towards Vhagar. Though, t he daggers turned to spears as her peripheral saw the beast open its’ eyes. 

“Do not look.” Alarra whispered to herself.

Aemond chuckled, shoulders shaking, and she realized she’d spoken the reassurance out loud. 

“Easy to laugh with the most fearsome creature in all the world under your control.” Alarra snipped quietly at him. 

Aemond squeezed Alarra’s hand in response, as he had so many times that night, so many times since he found her in the garden. “Tonight she is hardly mine.”  Aemond stopped a mere arms length from the head of the dragon. 

Vhagar had not moved but to open her eyes, and Alarra felt them watching her as she stared intensely at the space between Aemond’s shoulder blades. If she didn’t look, didn’t challenge the dragon, maybe she would make it out of this alive. 

“Hello Vhagar,” Aemond’s free hand reached up and trailed over the scales on the underside of her snout, the only place he could truly reach.

Vhagar huffed in response and tilted her head ever so slightly towards Aemond’s palm. Alarra clutched his hand more tightly in response.

“Konīr iksos nykeā hāedar nyke jaelagon ao naejot rhaenagon.” There is someone I want you to meet. Aemond said the words to Vhagar gently, reverently, asking her permission as much as telling her.

“Oh Aemond,” Alarra tugged at the hand he was holding. “I can’t. I’m not-“

Aemond didn’t loose his grip. He clenched down and tugged Alarra out from behind him. He pulled her under his raised arm and tucked her into his side, never letting go of her hand on the other side of her body, instead choosing to wrap his arm around her. “Alarra,” by necessity given their difference in height, Aemond leaned down towards her ear, “I know. Trust me. I know.”

Of course he knew. Everyone knew. The Targaryen who couldn’t ride a dragon. The would-be queen who couldn’t claim a mount. The undeserving heir. 

Alarra’s head dipped slightly away at the reminder. 

Aemond lifted their entwined fingers and took a step behind Alarra. For a moment her heart leapt being alone in front of Vhagar, but Aemond quickly pressed himself into her back, shuffling her forward to reach the dragon. He placed Alarra’s palm on Vhagar’s snout where his had been moments before. 

Vhagar huffed, and Alarra tried to retreat her hand, but Aemond held it still. 

“Easy girl.” Alarra didn’t know whether he was talking to her or the dragon. 

“Gīda, Vhagar. Gīda.” Aemond leaned over Alarra’s frame, pressing her even closer to the dragon, and laid his forehead to one of Vhagar's scales. 

The dragon's chest rumbled and she nudged back against him. Alarra’s hand twitched in Aemond’s grip under the shifting scales, but she made no move to pull it away. 

“Vhagar, bisa iksos Alarra.” Vhagar, this is Alarra . Aemond pulled his forehead back and began running his hands, the free one and the one trapping Alarra in its grip, over the beast. 

With the sound of his voice telling her to calm, Vhagar’s gaze shifted to her rider with a wary eye, and being out from under the dragon's gaze took a great deal of the weight from Alarra’s chest. 

“R-Rytsas.” Alarra hesitantly addressed the dragon. 

Aemond smiled appreciatively down at Alarra and let go of her hand.  She kept it there on Vhagar’s snout though she stopped her stroking. 

Alarra stayed frozen where Aemond left her waiting instruction on how to proceed while the dragonrider stepped out from behind her. Aemond stood under the edge of Vhagar's snout and held his arms out in what would have been a hug if the dragon were smaller.

Aemond's tone was soft as he spoke to his dragon. “īlon jāhor sagon ēdrure kesīr rūsīr ao.” 

Alarra’s head whipped around and her hand fell in shock. 

We will be staying with you tonight. 

Aemond paid no mind to Alarra’s shock. addressing only his dragon. “ Ziry iksos aōha āeksio sir. Mīsagon zȳhon rȳ ry. ”

Treat her as your master as well. Protect her at all cost.  

There was a pause of several moments before Vhagar’s gargantuan tail lifted from the sand and smacked back down. Whatever passed between Aemond and the dragon, he seemed to understand this as acceptance. “Thank you Vhagar.” 

Aemond scooped up Alarra’s fallen hand and tugged her down Vhagar’s length away from her snout and towards her belly. “This should do for now,” Aemond said over his shoulder. “Sand is not as soft as a bed, but it is a far cry better than wandering the keep all night.”

Aemond let go of her and dropped down on the beach, looking up expectantly at Alarra.

Alarra remained standing above the prince staring down at him in stunned silence. 

Aemond watched her shock for a long moment before he said. “You've said yourself Vhagar is the most fearsome creature in the world, Alarra. Yes?”

Alarra nodded numbly. 

“Well?” Aemond gestured around them. Vhagar’s tail had flopped in a ring closer to her head, leaving the pair of them in a nearly perfectly closed loop encircled by the most powerful creature in existence. “I assure you anyone that makes it past Vhagar won’t make it past me.” 

Alarra wasn’t bothered by that notion. No, she was fairly certain this was precisely what Daemon and his loyal guards frequently joked about as ‘overkill’ when discussing old battles. She didn’t feel safe in her room, and instead of suggesting she get to know her guards or offering her Criston for the night Aemond had taken her here, to a veritable fortress of his own making, safer than anything Maegor had ever built. 

No, it wasn’t the threats outside of the circle that gave her pause. It was those within, or rather the lack thereof. 

“Aemond…” Alarra remained on her feet even as he offered her a hand down into the sand. “Aemond…”

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “If it is being alone with me that causes hesitation, I can return for you before morning. Vhagar will keep you-”

“ Āeksio?” Master?

Something washed over Aemond then, trading the pause from Alarra to him.

Alarra spoke quietly, as though she was afraid someone would overhear what Aemond had just done. “Ao gīmigon skoros bona udir means. Ao daor gūrogon bona arlī.” You know what that word means. You know you cannot take it back.

Aemond’s brow furrowed. He seemed to think for a moment before deciding to respond, in equally flawless Valyrian. “Nyke jāhor daor jaelagon naejot.” I will not wish to.

Alarra, still as stunned as ever, took the hand he offered her then and followed him to the sands.

[adarkandmagicalforest]

the dragon has three heads

pairing: aemond targaryen/original female character (targaryen sister), mentions of aegon ii targaryen/original female character

warnings/tags: brother/sister incest, smut, body worship, gentle sex

part two, part three

It was not always odd to wake up in her brothers arms. Though when it happened, she usually found them to be Aegon's. 

But not today.

It was quite early in the morning, she could tell. Earlier than she received any visits, including Aegon's. The mists were still travelling in from her slightly ajar windows, its refreshing air breezing in past her long, flowing curtains. A mourning dove sang its soft, nostalgic tune, and the warmth and coziness of her blankets and the heat of her brother's body versus the cool air had her as content as a purring kitten stretching out her limbs.

"Go back to sleep." Aemond's low, calm timbre commanded in her ear, knowing of course the moment she'd stirred. 

The princess hummed back, adjusting herself in his arms slightly but not yet wanting to disobey.

The morning was her favorite time of day - as it was Aemond's. Normally he took advantage of it by training, while he was most energized, the foggy skies and mists making him ready for the day. But it seemed at some point after rousing, he'd desired otherwise.

Despite his command to sleep, within his safe grasp, Aemond had begun taking action that would only serve to stir her back awake. His long, elegant fingers had begun to slide up and down her bare arms, his narrow fingertips grazing along her pale flesh. The sensation of it made her sigh, still sleepy and oh so soft; Despite the look he provided the court and rest of the world, her older brother was a gentle lover. He enjoyed intimacy more than the carnal pleasures, and it was through his hands he most liked to experience it. 

It was their eldest brother whose carnal desires ruled him. 

Aemond's steady touch lowered to her waist. His fingertips briefly rubbed along the silkiness of her nightdress, as if testing its quality or perhaps merely memorizing the sensation of it, before his palm laid upon her, his warm hand gliding along the curves of her figure with the same deft attention as his fingers had as they'd trailed over her arm. He ran his touch up as far as the softness of her small breast and then lower, until he reached the curve of her thigh and lower still to press along the inside of her knee. There, he deliberately pressed in the short nail of his ring finger.

He dragged it along her leg, slowly, only just hard enough that it would raise a pink line in her flesh. A shiver of utter pleasure came from the scratch, and goosebumps rose over her arms and up her neck as her sex began to ache for attention.

"Aemond." She breathed softly, a quiet plea.

The older of them hushed her gently, lowering his lips to her shoulder, as delicate as the kiss of a butterfly. These he left more of, adoring kisses along her arm, then back up to her shoulder and the curve of her neck. He moved her long braid out of the way, carefully, before too kissing her temple and then her cheek. 

The one on her cheek made her smile, and the princess could not help but turn so she could kiss him sweetly on the mouth. 

Aemond hummed into it, tickling her, and when she softly laughed at the sensation, he rose his fingers up to cup her face, deepening the kiss.

If they let them, their kisses could last hours, if not lifetimes. Just their lips and tongues moving against one another, while their hands gripped and rubbed and petted. 

Soon, he had her nightgown lowered and a hand massaging her breast, teeth gently nipping at her lower lip. His hand was warm, and his thumb rubbed over her pink nipples until they had perked and hardened. Once they had been, his gentle kisses began to travel down to them.

The moan that escaped her was unrestrained when Aemond wrapped his lips around her left nipple, suckling at it and slowly swirling his tongue around the bud. He always took a generous amount of time with her breasts, as if he was hoping for her to start producing milk if he tended to them with enough care and focus. But rather than milk, all Aemond's attention caused was a great amount of hot want between her legs.

"Aemond..." She pleaded softly, beginning to properly squirm now, her thighs parting to try and encourage him.

His hands did travel down south at her pleading, but not as she needed. His fingertips dragged firmly along the outside of her thigh before rubbing his palm comfortingly over the slightly more punishing touch. 

"Shh... Patience, sister." Aemond hushed her as his lips pressed against her ribs. His clever hands had begun spreading her thighs, making room for himself to lower there while his kisses moved down her ribs to her belly. She felt his tongue against her navel, the wet heat making her squirm with what was the opposite of patience. Of course, all this did was make her brother smirk and chuckle lowly against her pelvis. 

"I see, is this beyond you?" He asked, the vibration of his deep, soft voice against her enough to make her whimper. To the gods, he finally relieved her, dragging his hand between her thighs and rubbing his knuckle against her core.

"Aemond please, it is too much this morning." She murmured, reaching her hand down to push her hand through his hair, the pin-straight locks flowing through her fingers like silk as she scraped her nails lightly over his scalp. Of them, despite how hard he tried to resist, it was Aemond who liked petting the most (though, Aegon was a very close second.)

"Very well." He breathed, rubbing his fingers more firmly against her, testing her wetness between his fingertips.

It was then though that the metallic 'shink!' of her bedroom lock shattered the peace of her chambers - as their elder brother Aegon let himself into her rooms.

[lola-writes]

One-Eye & the Dreamer

(Aemond's POV)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x O.C Aylana Velaryon

Word Count: 2,2k

Themes & Warnings: slow burn, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, violence, blood, targcest, sexual themes, tension, drama, angst, fix-it of sorts, eventual smut, sexual inexperience, forbidden love, high valyrian, dance of dragons, POV first person

Summary: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Written from Aemond's POV.

More chapters

Gravity had nothing on us, my dear. 

You can’t untie red strings of fate. 

This is how it feels to fall in love with the atmosphere. 

The world surrendered to a symphony of wind.  Turbulence thundered in my ears and whipped my hair untamed as I ascended the skies. Rising higher and higher, the clouds enveloped me in a blinding haze, and the elements of the earth below decreased into a mosaic. I conquered the celestial at such speed that I felt like Aegon reborn. 

Vhagar was an extension of myself, her undulating muscles beneath my straddling body felt as if connected to my own, forcing our masses through the heavens with an effortlessness. I commanded her higher still, and she heeded my command. We defied gravity in a dance of grace and power.

As we approached the stratosphere where air ran thin, I straightened in my saddle, and my mighty Vhagar leveled out, conforming to every delicate change in my movements. The world below became an inverted dreamscape as we sailed the vague interstice that marked the transition between sky and oblivion - the clouds beneath were the unconquered sky, and the indigo above was the ocean, and I was flying upside down. 

Together, Vhagar and I, were limitless.

The memory of when I first claimed her was so potent it eclipsed everything else, real or imagined. It was like walking penniless and finding a mountain of gold at your feet. What was one to do with such power? A power so raw and exhilarating, it consumed. Suddenly, I had no fear. Suddenly, I was not alone…

I leaned into Vhagar’s warmth and she folded her wings against me. We plummeted back down towards the earth, a thrilling drop that sent a jolt of pure ecstasy through my veins. My stomach lurched, and beneath me, Vhagar’s thorax vibrated – a deep, primal roar that resonated through my very bones. In that moment, I mirrored her, a guttural exclaim of pure, unadultered joy escaping my lips.

Never had freedom tasted so sweet.

The force of our descent sliced through the nebulous clouds like a knife through cotton, and as we emerged, the Narrow Sea gaped wide, glittering beneath the noontide sun like a crystal embellished blue silk. I leveled out again and watched Vhagar’s twin loom out of the water. 

In the distance, the seven huge drum-towers, proud sentinels of pale red stone, rose out of the sea on their stony summits, and the tolling bells welcomed me back home. An unfamiliar fleet of ships coasted down Black Water Rush like wooden beads along a blue mesh - an unremarkable observation, as nobles from every corner of the realm had been descending upon King’s Landing for the wedding. They had all come through the gates by horse and carriage, none by sea. 

Traders perhaps? Coming just in time to fortify our stores for the upcoming plunder. 

So many fucking mouths to feed. I had seen them endlessly pour through the castle gates in a river of gold, silver, and polished steel – their banners displaying the sigil of house Lannister, Baratheon, Tully, and I could’ve sworn I saw a direwolf banner among them. Would the Starks truly find a Targaryen wedding of such importance that they would bother dragging themselves out of their frozen pits? It was to be a grand affair, to be sure. A celebration with tourneys, hunts, feasts, and dancing, to last for at least a fortnight.

If I had it my way, I would escape and race the wind on Vhagar. But mother’s orders were a bittersweet curse. We were to be on our best behavior, a euphemism for me babysitting my nuisance of a brother, to ensure he does not imbibe every wine cask in the keep, and to hearten my sweet sister who always grew gauche in social gatherings. 

One could hardly fathom I was the youngest.

But the chief of my worries was Aegon. He already had an inclination of getting unreasonable drunk on a plain day. I shuddered to think of the lengths he might go to in tribute to his own nuptials.

Unease filled my gut.

But it wasn’t the vigil of my siblings that rendered me apprehensive.

As I drew close enough that I could make out the banners, I realized that these were no ordinary trading ships. In fact, these weren’t traders at all. I tugged at the reins and Vhagar gathered air beneath her leather and sprung up high, casting her mighty shadow atop the vessels. 

Memories consumed me like a bad aftertaste. The sigil-emblazoned sails draped across the masts below needed no introduction. The seahorse and the three-headed black dragon caught the wind. 

It could only mean one thing…

The thought got knocked right out of me as a bone-jarring impact to Vhagar’s thorax threw me off my saddle. Her earsplitting roar resounded across the blackwater, as I tumbled down her back. Instinctively, I snagged my wrist through a loop in her saddle ropes, dangling precariously until she steadied herself. I hauled myself back up, heart hammering in my chest, adrenaline pouring into my bloodstream. I scouted the skies for an attacker in a glassy bewilderment, growing acrimoniously aware of my disability. But the firmament was still and empty. 

What in the Seven Hells?

Another blow. It knocked me aslant, and I felt fury consuming me like poison. Gritting my teeth, I gripped the saddle horn and twisted the reins twice ‘round my forearm, and perceived every muscle of Vhagar’s back contracting beneath me, waiting to charge. 

Who would dare challenge me?

A flicker of movement caught my eye. A shape, shrouded beneath Vhagar’s wing membranes, was soaring alongside us. And when I turned to look, my eye met a stranger, masked and cloaked, stalking us on a dragon as black and swift as a raven. But the beast was miniscule in relation, just the age to breathe fire, and yet had nearly forced me to meet the gods. 

Humiliation morphed into a blinding rage that seethed through my veins and marred my vision with a red mist. “Ossēnagon, Vhagar!” Kill. I growled, and steered her toward the trespasser. But the figure crouched down in their saddle, and their dragon dove towards the city. 

Fucking craven.

We went after them. Their descent was swift and inaudible, while mine was slow and thunderous like a moving mountain. The pale orange rooftops of King’s Landing, bleached from the summer’s scorching sun, spread out like a vast rust beneath our darkening shadows. I pursued them to the Hill of Rhaenys, where we landed opposite each other outside the crypts of the dragonpit. 

Dismounting, I started towards them, each step a measured threat. The steel of my dagger sang its lethal warning as I drew it from my scabbard. But the stranger stood their ground, defiance flickering in their shadowed form. My anger, already a simmering cauldron, boiled over. I closed the distance between up, a growl ripping from my throat, raw and primal.

“You!” The word barely a breath before my blade bit their throat. A desperate struggle ensued, but my palm collared the nape of their neck, locking them to the steel. A Kingsguard’s alarming exclaims sounded in the distance, but the words faded underwater. 

“The Stranger requests an audience.” The contiguity drowned my voice into a whisper. I took pleasure in that I towered over them, and felt their hot, humid breath against me, hitching beneath the sharp edge.

“My prince!” Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, came running towards us. His voice, booming like thunder, always sufficed in snapping the whole court to attention. But it wasn’t his timber which stirred me this time. “Let her go!” 

His words carried me out of my raging inferno.

Her?

I blinked through my apprehension and scavenged the stranger’s frame with my eye, as if I’d awoken from a dream and seen them for the first time. A tug, a rustle, and their hood fell back and settled around their shoulders. 

A wave of ice ran down my spine. 

It was like seeing a ghost. The protagonist of all my nightmares coming alive, ready to haunt me. 

Aylana Velaryon.

Her eyes, the color of sunlit amber flicked with gold, held mine with an unsettling intensity. She seemed to see right through me, demanding answers I could not provide. Then, a knowing smile played on her lips.

“Skoros iksos pirta, kepus?” What’s wrong, uncle? A sardonic edge laced her voice. “Gaomagon ao daor gīmigon issa?” Do you not remember me?

The words hit me like a physical blow. I swallowed, stunned by her High Valyrian.

For a moment, I believe I stood petrified, unable to tear my gaze from her, unable to utter a word.

A torrent of questions, accusations, apologies – years of unspoken turmoil – churned within me. But now, with her life literally in my hands, the words deserted me. My tongue, usually an agile weapon, felt like lead. This was the person who had haunted my every waking and sleeping thought for years, and all I could manage was a stunned silence. Perhaps my countenance spoke volumes where my voice failed.

She echoed the girl I remembered, but time had woven its changes. I had to take it all in. Her voice, saccharine and laced with a hint of mockery, was a stark contrast to the playful child I held in memory. Her once youthful features had sharpened, cheekbones higher, lips fuller. Then, my gaze, fell upon the one jarring element – a crimson scar that snaked across her left eyebrow, expressing a raw pink sheen beneath a shell of transparent skin. Years had passed, yet the wound looked fresh.

The accident.

My jaw tightened as venom seethed through my veins.

I could still see her crumpled, lifeless form in the dirt, her skull cracked open, every time I closed my eye.

And I was holding the bloody rock.

Shame coiled in my gut like a suffocating weight. I could not bear to look at her.

“Some things never change,” she said facetiously. “Don’t you agree, uncle?”

Shit.

I was still holding my knife to her throat. I recoiled with such force that the effort pushed her back as well. A bright seam of red welled up at the lip where my blade had kissed her and painted the length of her neck like dark fruit. 

I reviled myself. I had tried to kill her. Again. 

But she just smiled, a dimple flashing in her cheek. As if we were still kids and she had made a humorous jest.

I realized I had been holding my breath when a gasp escaped my lips and air rushed back into my lungs. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy.

“Aylana.” I spoke her name derisively without intending to, as I sheathed the knife at my waist where my gaze lingered a moment, dreading to meet hers. 

My stomach turned. I never used to call her that. It sounded so formal and distant on my tongue, just like ‘uncle’ on hers. But that’s what we were to each other now - our friendship no more than a distant memory. I no longer assumed myself worthy of her alias. I had lost that privilege. Just as I had lost my friend. 

The weight of the past pressed down on me, suffocating.

Agitation infiltrated my mind and my whole disposition must have come off as reticent and hostile. I watched her pull her gloves off finger by finger and release the clasp of her cloak. There was an attitude in her movements and a poise in her posture. Beneath she was dressed in sable flying leathers that clung tightly to her body. 

I averted my gaze. 

Frustration clawed at my chest, and whatever other feeling it was that made my mouth dry and my palms clammy. 

“You look well, nuncle,” she said. 

My eye met hers and I noted them briefly flicker across my eyepatch. Her scrutiny made the leather singe my skin with awareness. Growing diffident, I looked away. 

“Hmmph,” I said, my favorite expression of disdain. 

I knew what she was implying. That if I had only listened to her that night, instead of acting like an arrogant scoundrel, I wouldn’t be looking like a eunuch with one eye at present.

And she was right in mocking me. If her insults were the currency for my betrayal, I would gladly become a spendthrift.

My breathing shallowed as I gazed at the damage I’d caused. I had to get out of there. 

“I hope we did not frighten you earlier,” she said, interrupting my escape. “I only thought I might test the mettle of the largest dragon in the world. She truly is remarkable. A fair exchange, to be sure.” 

I turned to look at her, and I didn’t know what I must’ve looked like, because the playful smile that had been dancing between her lips our entire encounter, vanished. There it is, I thought. The realization. The Aemond you knew is gone. This is the monster you forged.

“Ser Harrold,” I said. “Escort the princess to the Red Keep. And make sure she does not test the mettle of anyone else in the city.”

“Certainly, my prince,” said Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander who was the very first person to see my face after the loss of my eye. This fact made him remarkably significant somehow.

I mounted Vhagar and took to the sky, watching Aylana and Nymax blur into mere specks on a canvas. 

This would be a celebration I was sure to remember…

More chapters

[ladylaviniya]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐳𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 — 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 || 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭.

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤!𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐗 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 (𝐌𝐲 𝐎𝐅𝐂)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐄𝐚𝐭, 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭-𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐀𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. *𝐍𝐨 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫*

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟑,𝟗𝟎𝟕𝐤

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬:

⊹⋛⋋( ●´⌓`●)⋌⋚⊹ 𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘!!

★𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭, 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭, 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓, 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐓.

★ 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐚, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭. 𝐈 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐀𝐩𝐩. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝. (𝐈𝐟 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐯𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫, 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐀𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐯𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐬.)

𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: "𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬" 𝐛𝐲 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬

Ser Gilbar surveyed the chaotic scene, the carnage of Valeman soldiers sprawled across the ground intermingled with the corpses of the six unfortunate troubadours. He took a deep, remorseful breath as he cast a look over the desolate terrain, the gravity of their mistake weighing heavily upon him.

“This was a serious error in judgment,” he muttered, his voice carrying the weight of the consequences before them. “He won’t take kindly to this. Gods be merciful.”

Ser Ryden, the younger of the two knights, was far more nonchalant, casually cleaning his sword with a cloth, each wipe staining it a deeper shade of crimson. He dismissed his companion’s concerns with a roll of his eyes.

“Shit happens. You sound like a woman, stop your whining Gilbar, you’re overeating,” he responded with a scoff. To Ser Gilbar, who stood there staring mournfully at the fallen soldiers, he said, “Now, hurry, strip those troubadours of their clothes and put them on.”

The soldiers from the Crownlands – a total of four others in all – were busy attending to the corpses of the murdered, their nimble fingers quickly removing the outer garments adorned by the departed entertainers. Fortunately, these outfits showed only minor signs of damage, a stroke of luck considering the circumstances.

Ser Gilbar swore under his breath as he joined his fellow brothers in arms in preparations, adjusting a dull blue tunic adorned with yellow embroidery over his head. He couldn’t suppress a hint of irritation, his words carrying a note of disapproval.

“We wouldn’t have had to do this if we’d have simply followed his fucking orders,” he said, his voice tinged with resignation. Despite the unfortunate turn of events, he found solace in the fact that the consequences of their departure from the original plan were relatively minor. They were a safe distance from Runestones castle, and the ambush had occurred in a secluded area, likely minimizing any unwanted attention.

As they all awaited for the arrival of their king, the stillness in the clearing was almost stifling, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Despite the apparent anonymity of their disguises, each of them remained on alert, anticipating their sovereign’s arrival. However, for the time being, all remained blissfully unaware of their presence, and the plan to enter the city under the guise of troubadours seemed to be intact. The carriage they had commandeered stood ready, waiting to carry them into the heart of the castle yards.

Ryden’s response was flooded with over-confidence, his tone unphased by the mass of naked bodies by their feet, “Have you met our King? Forget not how he gained the throne, fire and blood. He’s not going to give a flying fuck about this slight detour and a few corpses.”

Ser Gilbar paused, searching for the most apt description. “Mayhaps not,” he agreed, his brow furrowed in thought. “Our King however is rather meticulous... sometimes.” He gestured at the aftermath of their chaotic ambush, a grimace on his face. “And we have made a great mess of this already, more than what was needed.”

Ryden’s scoff echoed through the silence like a sharp rebuke.

“You waste your breath with this Gilbar, you speak of his majesty as if he did not viciously murder his own kin astride dragonback,” he retorted firmly. “The king won’t care about these fools.”

The sound of distant hooves reached their ears, and a hush fell over the entire group. All eyes turned toward the figures in the distance, watching as they drew nearer to their position. Gilbar found himself clenching and unclenching his fingers nervously, his discomfort mirrored by the other soldiers, each one fidgeting in their own way.

Riding majestically upon a powerful steed, King Aemond appeared like a demon spirit, straddling the boundary between man and shadow. With the glow of the moon and the distant stars on his back and raining through his long silvery white hair, his imposing figure was silhouetted in shadow, leaving his features in a shadowy veil. The air grew tense as a small group of Kingsguards who were also on horseback formed a protective ring around them, effectively caging them in a small clearing.

“What occurred here gentleman?” the King asked tensely.

Ryden bent his knee in hurried obeisance, echoed by the others. His voice carried an urgent tone as he sheepishly pleaded, “Your Majesty, I implore your gracious understanding,” Ryden began, bowing his head low. “Circumstances beyond my control have led us to deviate from our intended course.” His hunched stance reflected the towering presence of the king on horseback, a giant amongst men. “Our aim was to target an unguarded convoy, as instructed, but there was an unforeseen complication.”

Aemond dismounted with a casual grace, his armored boots striking the ground with a rattle that echoed through the clearing. A hint of mockery laced his tone as he spoke, his eyes narrowing on Ryden.

“Did you grow impatient, perhaps?” he drawled. “Is that why you decided to throw caution to the wind and deliberately disobey my orders?”

Ryden hastily corrected himself, his voice quick and strained. “No, Your Grace,” he protested. “It wasn’t impatience, I assure you – I only thought...it might be better to risk a slightly guarded carriage than wait any longer and risk missing our opportunity altogether.”

Aemond’s gaze hardened on him in the dim light, his lips curling into a wry smile. “Is that so? Hm?”

Aemond’s tone was dry and contemplative as he examined the slain bodies with his shrewd eye, shifting one of them with the toe of his boot.

“Despite the banquet being many hours away,” he remarked, “it seems your little endeavor began quite some time ago. And I’d hazard a guess that these unfortunate souls were dragged a fair distance just to end up here. So, not only were you impatient, but you also moved up your timeline considerably.”

Ryden’s voice was tinged with a hint of uncertainty, but he carried on, eager to defend his decision. “Yes, Your Grace, but it was not a thoughtless move, I assure you,” he reassured. “The road was deserted, there were no witnesses – ”

As Aemond stepped closer, his towering figure casting an intimidating shadow over him, Ryden’s false bravery slowly faded. He swallowed hard, but continued, “We thought – the risk was worth it. Taking on a few Valeman guards seemed the same as any other target.”

Aemond paused, allowing a lengthy, unsettling silence to fill the air. The quiet seemed to stretch on endlessly, only intensifying the tension. When he finally spoke, it was with a smile that was both patronizing and unnerving.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice dripping with irony. “A perfectly logical decision.”

Ryden looked up hopefully, the first hints of relief flitting across his face. “Your Grace – you mean...you understand?” he asked.

Aemond nodded, his voice tinged with a light, almost flippant tone. “Indeed. I would never oppose efficiency,” he said. “And you’re correct – the risk seemed the same either way, didn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, precisely your majesty,” Ryden nodded, eager to validate his decision.

Aemond smiled, his tone dripping with a veneer of graciousness. “Of course,” he continued, “The disappearance of these guards will not go unnoticed. When they fail to return to their commanding officers, questions will be asked. And when you arrive with no guards, they will surely ask about the missing soldiers, will they not?”

Ryden stumbled in his explanation, his voice laced with uncertainty as he suggested, “We say that a Hill Tribe ambushed us, perhaps?”

Aemond’s smile widened, giving a glimpse of his teeth as he responded with a dry humoring tone. “Ah, yes – a bold move on the part of the Hill Tribesmen,” he agreed, “Quite fearless to attack Vale Knights so close to Runestones instead of waiting further on the eastern roads, one might say?”

Ryden froze, feeling a sense of unease as he registered Aemond’s words. “It – it’s believable,” he protested.

Aemond’s tone remained steady and even, but his unsettling smile had turned fixed, lending an uncanny stillness to his features. “And you’re certain there was no possibility of someone witnessing your little transgression, considering you chose to fight them where they were and then dragged their bodies here after the attack? Instead of doing as I instructed and luring them off the road first.”

He tried to explain, but before he could say more, Aemond’s hand – encased in its armor – suddenly encircled his throat, cutting off the flow of words. The ait around them grew colder. Ryden desperately clawed at the fingers, trying to pry them away, but they remained firmly locked in place. Gilbar and the others instinctively withdrew their daggers, but none dared to intervene as Ryden struggled helplessly in the king’s iron grip.

Aemond’s voice cut through the tension, the quietness of his tone making his words all the more chilling. “I dislike unnecessary risks,” he stated simply, his gaze unflinchingly fixed on Ryden’s flailing form. “It was sheer good fortune that you weren’t discovered – mere happenstance. You gambled on the odds and fortune smiled upon you this time.”

Ryden gasped and wheezed, his pleas ignored by the king. He began to choke, but only when his struggle became more desperate did Aemond relinquish his grip, sending him sprawling to the ground. Then, with a careless twist of his foot, Aemond pinned his wrist beneath the heel of his boot, immobilizing him like a specimen on display. “My orders are not to be questioned or altered at your convenience,” he declared harshly. “I don’t issue them just for the sake of it. Understood?”

With a sickening crunch, Aemond stamped down with his foot, crushing the bones of Ryden’s fingers in a single brutal movement. The tortured sound of the breaking bones sliced through the night, accompanied by a sharp bark of pain that escaped from Ryden’s lips. He crumpled forward, cradling his injured hand against his chest, his body curving in submission like that of a wounded animal.

Aemond observed the scene for a few more seconds, a malevolent glint in his eye betraying his satisfaction. With a smooth motion, he swung himself back onto his horse, as if casually brushing aside the recent violence. There was almost a perverse enjoyment in his tone as he continued, “However, I rather like the tale of a Hill Tribesman ambush. It might raise some eyebrows, but it should hold up under scrutiny when time is limited. You may proceed with the plan as I have commanded.”

Ryden’s face still wore an expression of shock and horror, his features frozen in the aftermath of his suffering. He cradled his injured and now mangled hand close to his chest, his voice shaken as he protested weakly, “But...but my hand...my fingers...”

Aemond’s tone remained calm and nonchalant as he spoke, as if commenting on the weather rather than the mutilation he had just inflicted. “Really, you can hardly expect to be unscathed after a supposed altercation with hill tribesmen,” he remarked casually. “And there’s nothing quite as effective at diverting scrutiny as a bit of compassion, wouldn’t you agree?”

The king turned his back, "Ser Raynard! Be sure Ser Ryden is dealt with accordingly in the future?"

The Commander Raynard glanced down at Ser Gilbar and drifted his eyes over to the whimpering Ser Ryden.

The King and his entourage rode off into the night, the thumping of hoofbeats gradually fading away. A stunned silence lingered for a moment as Gilbar collected himself, knowing very well that the punishment could have been far more severe.

“You were correct,” he noted wryly, assisting the wounded Ser Ryden to his feet. “It wasn’t the corpses that troubled His Majesty.”

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

Ser Trevor Belmore returned, bearing two goblets in his hands. With a courteous gesture, he offered one to her, a note of disappointment in his voice as he spoke. “I must admit, I had anticipated a more impressive display from the Targaryen King of Westeros. After all the tales of war and conflict, it seems we’ve been treated to rather...a different spectacle,” he observed with a slightly bemused tone.

His gaze shifted to the nearby gathering, where the King and his company engaged in a seemingly civil conversation with your second cousin, Lord Regent Gunthor Royce of The Runestones and Ser Eldric Arryn, the current heir presumptive to The Runestones. King Aemond, in contrast to his well-known reputation, had presented a surprisingly benign and even softened persona throughout the night. It made you disgusted.

Lady Laviniya received the goblet from Trevor with a modest bow of her head, then she gently swirled the drink, all while silently resolving not to consume any of its contents.

Lady Laviniya chuckled softly under her breath. “Yes, my cousin Ser Eldric had some interesting observations about the ferocious King Aemond....He called him a fat goose.” She whispered with a smile, her voice quieting to avoid any unwanted attention.

Trevor chuckled, his handsome, youthful face adopting a carefree smirk. “I wonder, Lady Laviniya,” he inquired playfully, “you speak of cousin Eldric, yet you have familial ties with the king as well, do you not? Are you not cousins also, through your father? And yet you seem to choose the company of your mother’s kin instead.”

Lady Laviniya tensed slightly, her fingers gripping her goblet a little tighter as she responded. “My blood,” she began, her voice firm and steady, “My blood, Ser Trevor, flows deeper in the veins of House Royce, the First Men who ruled these lands long before Aegon the Conqueror ever stepped foot on our precious Westeros, more deeply than that of the dragonlords of Old Valyria.”

Trevor dipped his head close, his smirk unwavering as he murmured in her ear, “Your silvery locks and pretty lilac eyes tell another story, my lady.”

Laviniya suppressed a grimace, her eyes closing briefly as she clenched her jaw. Though her hair had been elegantly arranged, the whiteness of her tresses and the unmistakable shade of her eyes betrayed her heritage. Her only safeguard was her well covering mask.

Her lips pursed into a thin line and she retorted, “Pray Ser Trevor, let us not forget, our current King cut down the Prince Daemon above Gods Eye? Who else is there for me to pledge my allegiances if not to the House of my mother, the mighty Royce name?”

To say the least, it was an insult. She didn’t want to be here, not in his presence. Aemond Targaryen was the kinslayer...the murderer of her father who sired her and the murder of his own brother, the usurper king before him Aegon Targayren. 

Though Laviniya even loathed her father at times, the brutal manner of his death left her with a sense of disgust, a bitter taste in her mouth.

Trevor’s eyebrow arched in skepticism as a smirk played on his lips. “I must admit, I struggle to understand how that unassuming fellow over there managed to fight in all those wars, battle after battle, and emerge victorious. And those wild tales of his savagery and ruthless conquests, ah, they fall short of the image I had in mind. Disheartening, indeed. What about you, my lady? Do you share my disappointment?”

One of Trevor’s companions, an older knight, leaned in with a hushed warning. “Mind yourself, my lord,” he murmured cautiously, “Keep your voice down. We don’t want any...unwanted attention.”

Trevor’s face scrunched into a dismissive sneer as he spoke. “Unwanted attention? We have no cause for fear,” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance.

The companion knight shook his head, his expression grave. “You would do well to reconsider. They say the man has a temperament that changes like the wind. One moment, affable and pleasant, the next, vicious and volatile. And he has a reputation for being rather vindictive.”

The King’s actions went far beyond mere vindictiveness. He left a trail of atrocities in his wake, including public humiliation and severe punishment of those who dared to defy him. It was a shrewd political tactic of sorts, as it instilled an atmosphere of fear and obedience that led to few instances of resistance and swift surrenders.

It was hardly surprising that the southern kingdom had devoured its northern neighbors in a quick and ravenous expansion. While the King’s abilities undoubtedly played a part, it was his ruthless nature that truly paved the way for such rapid conquest.

In small secluded hallways it was often whispered that he was not only a kind but now titled, “Aemond The Conqueror.”

Despite his penchant for cruelty, there was no denying that King Aemond possessed a remarkable level of strategic skill when it came to warfare. He was a true master of tactics, his intellect and cunning rivaling his own ruthlessness. In all his years of battling, he had never tasted defeat.

The young lady’s lavender shaded eyes flitted impatiently back and forth, her pale nose wrinkling every time she caught a glimpse of her maidservant and friend Myrielle. Trevor was boastful and proud, but he possessed a striking appearance that drew admiring looks from some of her handmaidens. Even Myrielle couldn’t help but steal glances at him, finding his confidence and flourish captivating.

Trevor seemed keenly aware of the admiring looks he received, puffing out his chest slightly in an air of confident self-importance. “Your elder cousin should know that the men of Runestones can count on the support of my kinsmen, should the need arise,” he declared, his voice filled with the same noble pomp and bravado.

It brought a sense of reassurance knowing that the Belmore would stand at their side in their time of need. “Your people are truly gracious,” Laviniya replied, her smile carefully crafted to reach her eyes but lacking any genuine enthusiasm.

The pair took a small wander about the Runestones hall.

It didn’t take long for Laviniya to identify the troubadours, for they were the very same ones she had been gossiping about with Ser Trevor earlier. They were the musicians that the chamberlain had deemed to be substandard in their performance and had subsequently exiled them to the outskirts of the event, far enough away as to prevent any further embarrassment.

She noted with some fascination that the lute player appeared to have a broken hand, and her curiosity was piqued. Rumours had circulated about a group of troubadours that had been ambushed by bandits en route, and these seemed to be the very ones.

Ser Trevor, with a conspiratorial tone, leaned towards her and whispered, “I wonder if these troubadours are truly as atrocious as to be relegated here.” He continued, “Are you skilled in recognizing musical talent?”

She shrugged, “If they are genuinely awful, it shouldn’t take much skill to discern that,” She also added a touch of intrigue, questioning, “But is there such a thing as being so bad it becomes entertaining?”

As they approached the performance, an unexpected intermission abruptly halted the show. The jester stepped forward with a few fellow actors, his voice changing subtly to signify he was speaking out of character.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “I am regretful to report that our actress who was to play the role of Lady Saerra has unexpectedly taken ill.”

He continued, “However, rest assured, she is perfectly fine, merely indisposed and unable to continue the show. We kindly request that one among the audience volunteer to step in for her. Fear not! We have the script at hand, so all you need to do is place on this mask and read the words with a dramatic tone of voice!”

It seemed like the troubadours were having quite an unfortunate night. The jester’s desperate pleas for a volunteer were nearly causing her second-hand embarrassment. To add to that, she had a nagging feeling that if she lingered too long, they might enlist her as a volunteer – an uncomfortable privilege that came with being the fair lady, an easy target to be used as entertainment.

Determined to avoid the situation altogether, she subtly steered away from the scene. Thankfully, the lord seemed to understand her intent and loyally followed her.

Trevor chuckled softly, speaking in a lighthearted whisper. “I thought you might have jumped at the chance to showcase your performance skills and impress us all,” he teased.

As they distanced themselves from the jester’s plight, the lord brought up another unfortunate artist. “It appears that many performers are having a rough night tonight,” he observed. “Your lordly troubadour and now the plight of poor Lady Saerra.”

He continued with a dry smile, adding, “But at least I’ve spared you from my dubious lute-playing skills.”

With a deadpan expression and her head held high, she threatened Trevor in a serious tone, “If I hear so much as one verse from you, I will leave you here. I swear it.”

Despite maintaining her serious facade, she was comfortable enough with him now to tease him with playful threats. Her step increased slightly, keeping her slightly ahead of his. Myrielle who walked on her other side touched her wrist. The time was drawing nearer that her friend wanted to greet her squire outside soon.

Trevor lowered his voice to a whisper, his expression darkened with disdain as he cast a pointed glance at the Targaryen entourage. “Frankly, I find it baffling why your cousins would invite them or the King here and throw such a lavish celebration in his honour,” he said, his tone filled with disdain. “Imagine how Prince Daemon would feel, if he were still alive.”

Her smile wavered at the mention of her father, Daemon, as her slender figure seemed to shrink slightly, becoming more fragile in an unspoken display of sorrow. “You know, I think you’re right, Ser,” she admitted, her voice laced with an air of melancholy. “Aemond doesn’t appear to possess the aura of a conqueror, does he?”

Trevor understood the fragility of the fair ladies and looked genuinely remorseful. “I didn’t mean to bring back that painful memory,” he apologized. “What I mean is that inviting the Greens here is like letting venomous snakes into your own home. They cannot be trusted after what they have done,” he said firmly. He then paused for a moment before adding, “Of course, I know the decision was not yours to make, but rather your elder cousin’s.”

Laviniya gently touched Myrielle’s shoulder. “The Greens were notorious expansionists after the dance of dragons,” she said, “and I can’t say I’ve ever heard of an expansionist snake. No, you see Ser Trevor, The Greens are rather more like rabbits... Burrowing holes in crop lands and spreading their chaos across the valleys...At times I miss Aegon the Idle. He was not so formidable.” she added with a touch of sarcasm. Laviniya then motioned to move away. “Now, if you’d excuse me.”

Laviniya found herself growing increasingly frustrated. They were never going to get to discussing Myrielle, and Ser Trevor seemed capable of talking endlessly. Moreover, all this talk of politics wearied her, as it seemed to be at odds with the expected delicate sensibilities of young ladies as herself.

She couldn’t help but wonder if her elder cousin really believed they could make peace with a warmonger over a fancy dinner party. And if he honestly trusted that king, with his deceptively mild demeanor, to keep his word... Well, that was his prerogative. But Laviniya tried not to concern herself too much, as she did not want to face disappointment.

She flashed a warm smile once more to the young lord Trevor Belmore, this time allowing it to reach her eyes. With a graceful wave of her hand, she signalled for her Lady-in-waiting to follow her. The flowing silk of their gowns trailed behind them as they left in a swish of fabric, creating a mesmeric spectacle.

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒:

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬. 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬.

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[delusionalmishka]

Blue Blood

Summary: After the turmoil at Driftmark, King Viserys attempted to mend family divisions by arranging a marriage between Alicent's son, Aemond Targaryen, and Rhaenyra's daughter, Lucenya Velaryon; when King Viserys died and the greens and the blacks war began to unravel, the arrangement fell through. On the brink of war, Lucenya was sent to Storm's End as an envoy. Aemond didn’t plan on letting his bastard bride slip through his fingers one more time. She’d owned him for his left eye.

Warning: uncle x niece relationship, extremely dubious consent, targcest, canon-typical violence, mild Fire and Blood spoilers, my warnings are not exhaustive, if you don't like it, don't open it!

Word count: 3,565 words.

Context: *A couple of things before getting into the chapter. Lucenya is basically the female version of Lucerys but a little older, a year younger than Jace, to be more exact and Rhaenyra was never pregnant with Visenya. Very dark fic, lowkey reverse harem-ish (i'm fully indulging myself, sorry not sorry) I don't sugarcoat things. Usual ASOIF violence and incest weirdness!!! You know what you are getting into!!! A couple of spoilers from the Fire and Blood book but nothing that will ruin your experience. Enjoy!!

Aemond Targaryen stood on the balcony of his chamber, his mind racing. The breeze licked his face and hair as his fist crumbled the piece of parchment in his hand, the crow that had just delivered it, quickly flew away, leaving no witnesses to the meeting with the prince, like it was carefully trained for; these special crows meant news from his spies in Dragonstone. 

He had just received word of Lucenya's impending departure to the North. A cold determination tempered combined with his rage, fire rushing through his veins. His predictions were right; as soon as Aegon rose to the throne, Lucenya Velaryon would be sent to Storm’s End to Beratherons as an envoy of war, them possibly North to the Starks. 

Aemond had promised himself that he would not let his promised bride slip through his fingers again, like she had done years ago, and he intended to keep that promise. 

As the first light of dawn broke over King's Landing, Aemond exited his chambers and descended the steps with purpose. 

This was valuable news. Aemond considered his plan carefully; There were great risks, but great rewards as well. Rhaenyra loved all of her bastard children, although everyone knew her only daughter was the one closest to her. Having Lucenya as a political hostage could make Rhaenyra and her loyalists bend. 

Maybe he could take her eye as well.  It would make his mother happy.

His grandsire and his mother would appreciate his quick thinking, he would end the war before it started. Vaghar was fast, he would be able to reach Storm’s End in less than a day.

{...}

Lucenya's eyes fluttered open, barely focusing on her surroundings. Pain coursed through her body with every harbored breath, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through her limbs. The room around her blurred and swayed, her ears ringed, the lingering grit of sand and blood from Storm's End still clinging to her skin and clothes.  

Her feverish mind conjured vivid visions, blurring the lines between reality and hallucination. In one moment, she saw her mother, Rhaenyra, pacing the halls of Dragonstone, her face etched with worry and regret. Rhaenyra's voice echoed in her ears, calling out her name, the desperation in her tone piercing through Lucenya’s haze. She could almost feel her mother's arms around her, a ghostly comfort in her feverish state.

In another vision, Lucenya found herself in the great hall of Winterfell. Her brother Jace stood beside Cregan Stark, Jace’s eyes were filled with a mixture of anger and sorrow, his voice a distant murmur as he spoke of rescuing her. She reached out, trying to call to him, but her voice was lost in the void, her fingers grasping at empty air.

The scenes shifted and twisted, leaving her disoriented and lost. She sees herself on a beach under a raging storm, the clouds looming ominously above her as she stumbled away from where she had landed, away from Arrax’s body. Shadows danced at the edge of her vision, and she heard the distant roar of dragons, their cries mingling with the howling wind. An enormous figure emerged from above, Vaghar landing —her uncle, Aemond, his sapphire eye gleaming with cold malice. He reached for her, and she recoiled, her heart pounding with fear.

Through the haze, she became vaguely aware of voices— sometimes muffled by the ringing in her ear, sharp and insistent. 

"How soon can it be done?" it was Aemond's voice, impatient, edged with urgency.

Lucenya struggled to comprehend his words, her fevered mind grasping at fragments of conversation. Another voice responded, softer and measured—it was the Maester.

"Prince Aemond, the lady is gravely ill. She needs rest and proper care if she is to recover. To discuss a wedding at this time is highly inappropriate. It is a miracle she survived."

Aemond's figure loomed closer, his face coming into sharp focus for a moment before blurring again. His expression was one of cold determination. "She will recover. And when she does, I want the wedding to take place immediately." 

A new voice entered the conversation, sharp and urgent. "This was reckless, Aemond," Lucy recognized that voice immediately. It was Alicent Hightower. "Attacking and kidnapping Rhaenyra’s daughter? Do you have any idea what this will provoke?"

"It had to be done," Aemond replied, his voice cold and unyielding. "We need leverage in this war. Lucenya is that leverage."

"You’ve endangered us all!" Alicent argued. "Rhaenyra will stop at nothing to get her daughter back. She'll burn King’s Landing to the ground!"

Before Aemond could respond, another voice joined the fray— Lucy also recognized this voice, it was Otto Hightower. "Aemond is right," he said calmly, his tone measured. "This move gives us a significant advantage. With Lucenya as our hostage, we have a powerful bargaining chip. Rhaenyra and her followers will be forced to negotiate."

Alicent turned to Otto, her gaze observed the girl in bed for a second. It was like Lucenya had gone to the battlefield: cuts, bruises, and burns were scattered around her face and limbs, her skin was still dirty with sand and blood and a thin layer of sweat covered her exposed skin. It was indeed a miracle that she had survived. 

"Father, you can’t be serious. This could escalate the war beyond our control."

Otto met her gaze, his expression resolute. "War is already upon us, Alicent. We must use every advantage we have. Lucenya’s presence here gives us a strong hand to play."

Alicent took a deep breath, clearly torn between her fury and the harsh reality of their situation. Rhaenyra would never forgive her for letting her son hurt her daughter like this. Their old affinity with each other was officially dead. 

After a long pause, the Queen Dowager spoke again. 

"We must move forward with our plans. Lucenya must be integrated into our family."

Lucenya’s blood ran cold at their words. She was a pawn in their game, a tool to be used in their quest to steal her mother’s throne. Her mind raced, trying to think of a way out, but her body was weak, her injuries severe. 

Aemond's gaze flicked down to her, his eyes narrowing. For a moment, his expression softened, but it quickly hardened again. "You will pay, Lucenya," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "This is your destiny."

As the room spun and the fever tightened its grip, Lucenya’s mind drifted back into the depths of unconsciousness, her body unable to fight any longer. The last thing she heard was Aemond’s voice, resolute and unyielding. 

Her visions returned, more vivid and desperate. She saw her mother, Rhaenyra, scouring the air, her eyes wild with panic as she called out Lucenya’s name.

{...}

The knowledge of the secret ways behind the walls of the Red Keep had come in aid for Aemond and his purpose. Turning a few corners, he quickly arrived at his desired destiny: the temporary chambers of his bastard niece and the newest heir to Driftmark, Lucenya Velaryon. 

It was quite the evening at the Red Keep. Someone finally had the courage to say it out loud; his older sister was a whore and her children are bastards. Vaemond Velaryon lost his head because of it, but it did gave Aemond the satisfaction of having his niece and nephews around again. 

With silent, deliberate movements, Aemond gently pushed the false wall, the hidden mechanism yielding to his touch. He slipped through the small opening, his steps as quiet as a predator stalking its prey. The cold sapphire in his eye socket gleamed faintly in the dimly lit space, the flames of candlelight and the fireplace licked his skin lightly. His heart pounded with a mixture of anticipation and rage, the obsidian shadows of the Red Keep cloaking his approach.

As he entered the chamber, Aemond's mind buzzed with thoughts, the jewel in his pocket seemed more heavy now. Aemond himself was not sure what drove him to invade his niece’s chambers. They both could get into trouble if they were caught, no matter his intentions. 

Lucy was not asleep, as he had expected, despise the late hour. Instead, she was awake, brushing her long brown curls at her vanity. The rhythmic strokes of the brush through her hair seemed almost hypnotic, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within Aemond. For just a second, Aemond allowed himself the luxury of observing Lucenya's beauty. 

Unfortunately, his niece had grown into her bastard features; the long brown hair and the almond brown eyes complimented her delicate face. She wore a long white nightgown that exposed her sharp collarbones and was see-through enough that Aemound could see the silhouette of her body through the fabric. She was indeed as beautiful as the rumors and whispers that made to King’s Landing and the rest of Westeros. Bards in King's Landing were kin to singing about her.

He stepped into her camp of vision, his presence announced by the cold gleam of his sapphire eye. Lucenya's hand froze mid-stroke, her almond brown eyes meeting his in the mirror. For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken words and buried emotions.

"Aemond," she said quietly, her voice steady but with an edge of wariness. "What brings you here at this hour?" Unfazed by her uncle's sudden appearance. 

Aemond's lips curled into a semblance of a smile, though it was devoid of warmth. "You know why I am here, Lucenya. We have unfinished business."

Lucy turned to face him, her gaze unwavering, but Aemond could spot the hesitation in her eyes. "Is this about Driftmark again? About what happened when we were children?"

Aemond's jaw tightened, the sapphire in his eye socket catching the candlelight and reflecting a cold, malevolent glint. "You took my eye, Lucenya. You humiliated me and took my destiny.  King Viserys promised you to me, yet your mother schemes to wed you to you bastard brother."

Lucenya's expression hardened slightly and her eyes remained guarded, aware."I was a child, Aemond. We both were. It was an accident, a moment of fear and anger. I was defending my brother! You cannot hold me responsible for the rest of our lives!" she paused and lowered the copper hairbrush, her neck turning slightly in his direction.  “And we both are aware our Grandsire was not off sound mind, an arrangement between us would never work, uncle.” 

Aemond could tell she tried to be assertive, but there was almost a unnoticeable tremor to her voice. Aemond was a terrific hunter, he knew when his prey was wavering in fear; she feared him, but was not afraid to confront him. Since she had arrived, Lucenya was always looking over her shoulder and seemed on edge. She knew she was in enemy territory.

Aemond also had rumours that reached Dragonstone. How the prince had grown and had became a lethal weapon like his dragon; not only great in his academics but had enviable skills with a sword. Lucy was not stupid or hopeful like her brother Jace; she needed to have her guard up around the greens, especially Aemond. 

Their little misunderstanding over dinner tonight just confirmed how Aemond still felt bitter towards her.

Aemond stepped closer, his presence looming over her. His hands grabbing her naked shoulder firmly, he could feel Lucy slightly shivering underneath his fingertips. 

How cute.

"You owe me, Lucenya Velaryon. Your future, your destiny—they belong to me. You were promised to me, and I intend to collect what is rightfully mine."

Lucenya maintained eye contact although the pink tint that rose to her cheeks gave her away. "And what do you propose, Aemond? How do you intend to settle this score?"

She watched with attention when he placed his right hand in his pocket, the left one still holding her in place. Lucy was expecting a dagger, but Aemond’s long fingers fished a necklace from his pocket. With an unusual gentle touch, Lucy gazed as her uncle placed the tear-drop-shaped sapphire - that looked awfully similar to the jewel that replaced his left eye - his hand holding the unusual gift around her neck. 

"You will honor the arrangement King Viserys made. You will be mine, as it was always meant to be. I will have your loyalty, your obedience, and your heart. You will make amends for the pain and humiliation you've caused me."

Lucenya's eyes flickered with a mixture of defiance and resignation. The fear she felt was gone, getting replaced by outrage, fire dissolving the fear and hesitance she felt towards the man behind her. "And if I refuse?"

Aemond's grip tightened slightly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Then you will face the full extent of my wrath. I have waited too long, and suffered too much. You will not deny me any longer."

The room seemed to close in around them, the weight of their past and the intensity of their emotions creating an almost palpable tension. Not another word was spoken among them, Aemond finished his threat and promise by clasping the necklace around her neck, taking his time with it and leaving, disappearing in the shadows from where he had appeared.

{...}

Lucy woke with a start, her breath coming in shallow, rapid gasps. The fever that had plagued her seemed to have broken, leaving her drenched in sweat but more clear-headed. She took a moment to orient herself, the dim light of the room revealing the familiar, yet oppressive surroundings of King’s Landing.

The memory of her last encounter with Aemond haunted her for many years. After leaving King’s Landing that day, she intended to never look back. The sapphire in her neck was still intact despite the brutal attack she had suffered.  

Pain still radiated through her body, a constant reminder of her injuries from Storm’s End. She winced as she tried to move, every muscle protesting in agony. Slowly, she turned her head and her body froze in fear when she saw Aemond. He was slumped in a chair beside her bed, fast asleep, his usually stern features softened in repose. A dagger hung from his belt, a silent threat even in slumber.

Tears burned in Lucy’s eyes but she quickly blinked them away. 

It was not the time to show weakness. She needed to go back to her mother, where she belonged.

The room was quiet, save for the faint crackling of a fire in the hearth. Lucy took in her surroundings, noting the lavish tapestries and heavy curtains that adorned the walls. Lucy’s bed was a grand four-poster, its canopy draped in silks and velvets of green and golden, the Hightower colors. The sheets, though currently disheveled and stained with sweat and blood, were of the finest quality, soft against her bruised skin. The bedposts were carved with dragon motifs, their eyes seeming to watch over her protectively.

Despite the grandeur, the room felt like a cage, a prison where she was held against her will.

Her gaze returned to Aemond. Even in sleep, he seemed imposing, a figure of both protection and danger. She watched him for a moment, her thoughts a tangled mess of fear, anger, and confusion. Why had he done this? What did he truly want from her?

Summoning what little strength she had, Lucenya shifted slightly in bed, trying to assess her condition without making too much noise. Her body was bruised and battered, and the bandages wrapped around her wounds were a stark reminder of her recent ordeal. Yet, the clarity of her mind brought with it a renewed sense of determination. She was no longer lost in the fog of fever and hallucination. She needed to think, to plan, to find a way out of this nightmare.

As she lay there, her thoughts racing, Aemond stirred. His eyelids fluttered open, and he blinked a few times before focusing on her. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the silence heavy.

“You’re awake,” Aemond said, his voice rough with sleep but carrying a note of relief. He straightened in his chair, his eyes never leaving her face. 

Lucy opened her mouth, but suddenly her mouth and throat felt dry, a parched feeling that made her wince in discomfort. 

Aemond stood up immediately. Without a word, he reached for a goblet of water on the nearby table. His fingers, usually so sure and authoritative, were gentle as he lifted the goblet and approached her.

As he carefully propped her up in bed, his touch was surprisingly tender, though his demeanor remained stoic. Lucy’s heart raced with fear and confusion. What did Aemond intend to do next? 

He held the goblet to her lips, his gaze steady but distant. Lucenya drank slowly, each sip soothing her parched throat, but she could not shake the underlying tension. Aemond’s silence was oppressive, adding to her anxiety. The room was filled with the faint sounds of the crackling fire and her labored breathing, but otherwise, the silence between them was thick and heavy.

Aemond's eyes remained fixed on her as she drank, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts. He was careful not to rush her, allowing her to take her time. His silence spoke volumes, and Lucenya could sense his contemplation.

As the goblet was finally lowered, Lucenya’s throat felt less constricted, but her fear remained. She dared not meet his gaze directly, unsure of what emotions or intentions lay behind those piercing eyes. The way he looked at her, with that unsettling calmness, left her on edge.

Once she had finished, he set the glass down with deliberate calmness and settled back into his chair. The quiet tension in the room was palpable.

Finally, Aemond broke the silence, his voice smooth and calm. “Once you’ve fully recovered, Lucenya, we will proceed with the arrangements for our marriage.” His tone was measured, devoid of emotion but carrying an unmistakable weight.

Lucenya's eyes widened in shock and disbelief, her hand gripping the bedclothes as she tried to process his words. “Married?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. “To you?”

“Yes,” Aemond replied, his gaze steady. “You will enter Aegon’s court as my wife. Your presence there will serve to solidify our position and provide leverage in the ongoing conflict.”

His words felt like a heavy blow, and Lucenya’s mind raced with the implications. The idea of being wed to Aemond, and becoming part of Aegon’s court, was overwhelming. She would be in enemy territory; they would punish her mother for her missteps and she would be punished if her mother decided to retaliate. 

She needed to get out of King’s Landing.

Besides her fear and uncertainty, anger also boiled inside her. 

“You think this is the end of it?” she said, her tone edged with determination despite her frail state. “My brother Jacaerys and my mother—they won’t just sit idly by. They will come for me. They’ll come for you and they will come for your traitor brother!”

Aemond's gaze remained steady, a hint of amusement flickering in his eye. He regarded her with curiosity and indifference as if weighing the validity of her threat.

“I’m well aware of the lengths your family might go to,” Aemond said calmly, his voice devoid of concern. “But by the time they realize what’s happened, our plans will already be in motion. Their efforts will be in vain.”

He stood up and walked closer to her bed.

As Aemond approached Lucy’s bed, the room's dim light accentuated the sharp lines of his face, casting shadows that highlighted the intensity of his gaze. His footsteps were soft, and deliberate, and his movements were infused with a strange, almost unsettling calmness.

Reaching the side of the bed, he looked down at Lucenya with a gaze of usual coldness and disdain but there was something more elusive—perhaps a fleeting hint of tenderness or possessiveness. With a practiced grace, he extended his hand and gently brushed the stray strands of her dark hair away from her face.

His touch was surprisingly tender, a stark contrast to the steely resolve he had shown earlier. He moved her hair with delicate precision, his fingers lightly grazing her forehead. The action was almost intimate, a silent acknowledgment of her vulnerability.

Lucy, though still weak and disoriented, could feel the warmth of his hand near her skin. The juxtaposition of his cold demeanor with this gentle touch only deepened the confusion and fear she felt. The tenderness in his actions seemed almost incongruous with the harsh reality of her captivity and the dire threats he had just made.

Aemond’s expression remained blank as he continued to smooth her hair back, his movements slow and deliberate. There was a methodical nature to his actions as if he was contemplating the weight of his decisions while attending to this personal detail. His touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary, and then he pulled his hand away.

“I’ve made preparations for such eventualities. I assure you, niece, everything is under control.”

As he finished speaking, he stood up, the faint glint of the dagger at his belt catching the light. His posture was firm, resolute, and indifferent to her protests. “Rest now,” he said, his tone final. “Once you’re well, we will proceed with our plans. Until then, there’s nothing more to discuss.”

(Part Two)

AO3

[ladystarksneedle]

Darkly, delicately

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Character

Warnings: Minor character death, mentions of period typical crimes and their punishments, prostitution, implied smut.

Word count: 4.7k

Summary: All her life Meynara has struggled to belong. Captured and taken to a land far away she's made her place in the world of Westeros with allies she can count on one hand. With the siege of Duskendale by the army of King Aegon II, she finds herself facing odds that change the course of her life once again, weaving her fate to the tune of the dragon in a dance hidden through time, as the war between the blacks and the greens rages on.

Link to read on ao3: here

She hears the bell ring twice as the castle erupts in chaos. “Noom, Narrah, Nyel” she chants to herself as the third dong reverberates through the wind drowning the screams around her before she's shoved hastily to the safety of the dingy cellars below. The scent of sweat fills her nostrils as she navigates the musty cramped quarters, filled to the brim with anxious ladies clasping their hands in prayer as they kneel together trying to stifle their whimpers. Lady Meredyth wrings her hands nervously as she stares into the distance, somber in demeanor. A moment of recognition seems to pass through her eyes as she spots her near the hastily barred door, before she turns abruptly to question her ladies maids’ who bow their heads in response. She finds her place near one of the walls, turning away from the woman reprimanding those around her to assess the scene in silence. Ever since the war began she knew the siege was inevitable. The family of the dragon had torn themselves in two embroiling most of the realm in their chaos and it was about time they too were hit with the consequences of their support. One of the dragons would soon grace their skies, she only hoped it wasn't their queen. Rumors of the kinslayer had wafted through Duskendale these past few moons. Round the winding harbor and the cobbled streets, onto the market square threatened over a bargain gone wrong, passed around taverns along with a drink in hand all up to the Dun Fort and it's gates in hushed whispers carrying over inwards to the pale walls enclosing winding threads weaved together for their lady, his name had evoked fear, disgust and surprising wonder alike. As the clashes of metal drew nearer to them she wondered how long it would take for him to finally reach his mark.

Seven blows was all it took to bring down the giant gate of the Dun Fort. The irony of the number isn't lost on her as they are rounded up in the central courtyard by noon. Captives surround her in haphazard lines along the posts and below the outer gate manned by armed men in green, their banner of the three headed dragon glinting maliciously in the sun. Some of the women struggle to stifle their sobs as they watch their husbands and sons being rounded up for slaughter before being hushed with a shove and a sharp word. She cranes her neck to see an older man at the head flanked by two heads of silver around a familiar face kneeling in chains.

“People of Duskendale, you face the price of your betrayal! Lord Darklyn has condemned you all but the King is just and merciful. Whoever wishes to make good on their vows again and pledge allegiance to the true heir to the Iron throne need only speak it now and his grace shall consider their folly pardoned” booms the older man, his tanned skin streaked with the blood of the burning ports. She hears a few whispers of indignation and fear before a handful of knights step forward to pledge their allegiance. It is a meager number which she realizes dissatisfies them deeply.

“Very well then” murmurs the King before they hear a shrill roar near the top of the castle. There in all his glory, perched atop the highest parapet, she sees a beast so beautiful, unworthy of the carnage it has wreaked, yet as it growls and makes its way towards them with its scales of shimmering gold she feels the true power that the men before her yielded. More of the folk around her now rush to bend the knee, hastily murmuring their pleas and apologies as the men in green smile haughtily. A lone eye, stern in its gaze, catches her unmoving. She suppresses the shiver that runs through her as she curtsies in response. The urge to live has long outlasted whatever moral code runs through the heart of the realm and it does not fail her today. Somewhere to the side she hears a familiar scoff of distaste. “It won't be my head on a spike when they're done with us” she thinks as she stares at her rival in defiance. Lady Meredyth scorns her in response as she's dragged off to witness the event of the day. Lord Gunthor kneels a few paces before her, locking eyes with their captors before turning to face her with hurt and disdain. She sees him gaze at her for a moment before offering a few words of comfort to his wife along with affirming his allegiance to the Queen with pride. She feels a quiver of fear pass through him, a cry of anguish a few feet away and an unrelenting stare on her as he's beheaded. A hush falls over the courtyard as the deed is done and the guffaws resume their way to the main hall shoving all in their path. Somewhere in the distance her heart leaps, far away across the fishing villages dotting the skyline towards the ruins of Hollard castle near the fork of the Crownlands. Duskendale would face a similar fate tonight.

She wastes no time in making herself scarce. She trains her ear on the whispers clinging to the walls as she makes her way downwards. They have been sacked by a little under three thousand men amassed during their journey through Rosby and Stokeworth that are to stay on till further word from the King. The lower kitchens and the halls are filled to the brim and are easy to blend into as she hurries towards her destination. She finds herself taking the familiar flight of stairs past the makeshift bakery to wind down to a hidden door below. Exactly three knocks later it opens to reveal a harsh face staring right at her.

“You are late”

“Forgive me for trying to stay alive” she huffs in return.

“Did they hear you?”

“Not yet”

“Let us keep it that way then.”

She knows he means to assess the threat before them both before feeding her to it. That is how it has always been, her body for the price of their safety. For all her bravado she hasn't been able to escape the clutches of home and the thread that ties her to it remains the one that cuts her the most.

“I know what I have to do”

“You move on my command Meynara, not before, nor after. We've made a decent life for ourselves here, do not go ruining it now.”

“I suppose the head of the lord staring at us as we walk through the hallways is enough of a hurdle in our path” she retorts shakily.

“As if you were ever fond of him”

“No, perhaps I wasn't. Doesn't mean I wanted him dead either”

“Life and Death are right around your corner”

“Faith shines the ability to prevail in both” she finishes turning away from him. Those were his father's words, ones that he'd told her on the boat to Westeros as they lay together shackled and starved. She remembers his eyes shining with a promise in the dark, willing her to forgo her fear. It seems a lifetime ago yet the man before her stares at her just the same. It is her gaze now which is filled with apprehension rather than the faith she's long left behind and no feelings of ardor can bring back the naive trust she has lost.

There is a feast to be held in honor of the King as Duskendale had yielded with ease, unprepared and caught off guard. Perhaps if Gunthor had insisted on better fortifications and riders rather than her religiously mounting him each night, his head wouldn't be hollow and unattached at the moment. She finds herself slinking into the shadows, with that thought, trying to keep an eye on the party at hand. The ale flows freely in the lower halls with the men getting handsy with the serving girls despite their indignation. Her only option is to reach the upper halls unnoticed hoping the stronger wine would dull them long enough to be done with her faster. She spots him in the distance as she makes her way up. He stands still near a burly man, eyes as empty as the dead hanging outside. A brief flicker of warning passes through to her before he's consumed to his farcity. Faith shall have to suffice for both of them tonight.

The main hall is decorated with banners of gold yet much sparse compared to the mess below. Anyone with a title should occupy the benches ahead of her, some newly appointed lords and generals, who all sit jesting and drinking below the dias as the men of the hour watch on. She watches the King engrossed with the head cook’s daughter fully partaking in the merriment. She sees her blush and smile coquettishly turning a lock of her hair as she entertains him and wonders how much persuasion it took for her to be offered up on a platter. Freshly plucked and naive, innocence was always coveted first at the altar, of worship and sacrifice alike.

Next to him sat two men with equally stern faces. She recognised the first with the booming voice, still in his armor refusing woman and drink alike, surveying the crowd for an imminent threat yet the man flanking the King's left drew her attention the most. To see him in person after their loss at noon made her skin tingle and the rumors had not done him justice. He sat poised, with his hair still braided for battle, eye lazily surveying the crowd like the elder man next to him, sipping from his chalice at ease. His gaze seemed unfocussed, unwilling to seek out anything in particular yet she saw through the haze. A predator responds only when it spots a worthy threat.

“What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone” she hears someone say before being grabbed by pudgy hands. The man near her reeks of nauseating sweetness. Arbor red she discerns as he leers close to her.

“Apologies my lord, I was on my way to serve the King” she lies promptly.

“Perhaps you might serve me first then. His grace would not refuse his loyal subjects tonight” he spoke earning a few jeers.

“Wait” she hears a crisp voice break through the crowd. “That one is mine”

There is no room for argument as she's pulled by two armed knights towards the dias, under the eye of the dragon.

“My my brother, you've caught a pretty one. A shame she's too old to be plucked” smirks the King playfully biting the girl on his lap.

She sees the prince ahead of her regard her with interest before beckoning her forwards with his finger. It isn't long after his appraisal that he takes her by the arm retreating to the sounds of muffled cheers. She feels him make his way around the castle assuredly, neither in haste nor at leisure, before he pulls her into the nearest chambers he can find.

“What can you do for me?” he asks abruptly, leaning against the door as he surveys her again.

“Whatever you desire my prince” she responds, as demurely as she can muster.

“I do not wish for pleasantries”

She balks at his refusal as she stands before him, tilting her head to observe him closely.

“I meant what I said”

“Are you a whore?”

“I am what you want me to be”

“If I wanted a whore I'd find one more willing, you may quit your farce”

“And what if this isn't one” she finds herself saying.

“Then I have wasted my time and I do not wish to be proven wrong”

She stares at him in bewilderment and defiance meeting his gaze as he turns to pour himself another cup of wine.

“I can entertain you to your heart's content”

“I am not a man who revels in the pleasures you seek to offer”

“You are hard to please, as any prince should be, yet I am not one to yield. Allow me to show you instead” she says confidently walking towards him. He looks at her skeptically, before his eye widens slightly upon hearing the clinks that follow her. He lets her lead him to the chaise nearby, raising an eyebrow at the sound that clings to her while she smiles at his astonishment, ready to finally play her part.

She keeps her gaze on him as she begins her routine, serpentine and sinuous, twisting her arms above her head with precision entrenched in her bones. She feels his eye take in her form, the flow of her wrists twisting like waves to the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each turn, moving in tandem with her hips all while the room jingles with the ring of threes; Noom, Narrah, Nyel. He continues his trail along her frame trying to match her pace and she sees him relax through her lids, taking in his enraptured face.

“Is this to your liking, my prince” she smirks as the ringing comes to a halt, the chanting of her soul, awake at the appraisal in his gaze. She finds her answer soon in the nights to come.

“You move to the sound of the gods” he says as they lie together, sweat clinging to them as the wind wafts through the open windows. It is the second night under the new command of Duskendale and all seems to be at rest, lying in wait for the bells to strike.

“Do you believe in them?” she whispers back, turning to regard him with mirth “I thought the Targaryens fashioned themselves as gods”

“The blood of Old Valyria leaves little to imagination.”

“But Valyria is gone and all you have left in this strange land is the power you wield through the skies” she continues stroking his bare arm.

“Which strange land should I thank for gracing me with such beauty tonight” he whispers, turning a lock of her hair between his fingers as he gazes into her eyes.

“Norvos, across the narrow sea”

“Norvos” he repeats, rolling the syllables around his tongue regarding her with awe. “Are all Norvoshi so,”

“So?”

“Quiet”

“I thought you found my chatter incessant”

“I never heard you” he stops her, “Not once as you crept around the castle all the way into my bed”

“You wish to know my secret?” she asks him playfully “Perhaps my blood is as special as yours”

He scoffs in turn earning a crease to her eyebrows which does not go unnoticed. “We are not so different, you and I. We both seek to soar far beyond what fate plans for us”

“Your riddles can exhaust a man far more than your movements” he huffs petulantly.

“You are only displeased because you cannot decipher this one” she hums thoughtfully earning her a pinch to her hip which she swats away promptly.

“Careful, I am not fond of that wayword tongue of yours” he warns her with a smirk.

“Why when it has given you such pleasure? What is the use of depriving yourself of such an investment” she finds herself giggling in return to the bashful pout of his lips.

It has been long since she's been so enamored with a man. There have been a few, young and beautiful, not immune to the charm she summons at will but none so rigid yet tender that makes her heart want more.

“Dance for me” she hears him say as he lies back, hair splayed around the pillows like a halo.

“As you wish your grace” she responds devilishly, slinking away from his embrace to twinkle under his eye.

Their nights continue with well practiced rhythm as their days stretch on. She finds herself at the precipice of good fortune, confined mostly to his chambers as his prize, content to stay hidden till she's displayed with pride. The King she learns takes offense to her growing presence in his brother’s life yet is dissuaded to take action by his elder hand, his disapproval making itself known in its own way.

“My lady, the prince is betrothed to Lady Baratheon of Storm's End and is to be married in a few moons”

“With the tide of the war changing ever so often I feel it best to practice restraint Lord Hand. I'm playing my part just as everyone, as a loyal servant to the crown won't you agree?”

“As I am certain you are” he responds with distaste.

“The prince seems quite sated does he not? What then I wonder, merits such growing concern. As long as your plans come to fruition I am sure a woman such as me should hardly pose a worthy obstacle” she bites back eager to send him away from her new chambers. Victory in the face of adversity tastes almost as sweet as the dreaded wine she brings to her lips, sipping at it with mock delight as she watches the commotion enfold out her door. As he walks to give way to someone, she hears a familiar scream of anger grace the threshold. Lady Meredyth barges in, red faced and fuming. She finds her predicament almost hilarious were it not for the state she's in. Dressed in mourning for a neglectful husband who managed to give her a daughter too young to give away for the dwindling power she now tries to hoard, she tries to muster whatever pity she can find for the woman, before she opens her rotten mouth.

“You seem mighty pleased with your situation, finally living up to your true potential as the whore you are”

“Widowhood suits you my lady. The black brings out your eyes” she responds back sarcastically.

She sees her spit at her feet before she's escorted away, spewing curses through the halls. There is no greater joy in watching the old crone claim her late husband's chambers where she rode him to death while she lounges on her very own bed waiting to be taken in the arms of pleasure at night.

“What did I tell you about that tongue of yours” he retorts as he pulls her into an alcove at midday.

“To use it more often” she whispers, running her lips along his jaw. The walk she'd managed to take away from her confines had proved to be a welcome change after that harrowing ordeal in the morn.

“You wanton thing. Do not vex me outside of these walls”

“You have my word” she says flightily resuming her course along his neck.

“And much more” he breathes, palms burning through the blue she's clad in. She finds herself smiling as she pulls him closer, enjoying his proximity during the quiet of the day. Perhaps nights are not the only thing to look forward to anymore.

She feels his presence in the hallways later, long before she turns the corner, trying to rid herself of the evidence of her dalliance.

“You've lost your faith” he remarks somewhere behind her.

“I've simply found it around another corner” she replies, turning to face the judgment in his dark eyes. There are bags underneath them, weary with doubt and the wisdom he seems to wield like a weapon.

“He is a dangerous man to be around. Someone who kills his own is not one to be trifled with”

“And yet we've faced far worse”

“Worse than treason?”

“Tell me you don't mean to support yet another foreign queen”

“You've grown slow” he states glaring at her. She finds herself at a loss of words. Her old self would have caught on to what was spoken almost instantly with an equally sharp retort in tow. Shame creeps up on her at being caught off guard, vulnerable and at his mercy.

“I will not fail you” she says, turning to avoid his eyes, tears glistening amongst her own. “I am only doing what I think best”

“And therein lies the problem”

“Lady Meynara” a voice cuts through the silence suffocating her as she turns to face the source of her shame. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back regarding her companion with distrust only for her to turn around to find him gone.

“Do all of you possess such talents of evasiveness” he questions her as she sighs and makes her way towards him.

“It has served us well”

“On the contrary, it makes you noticeable. The very thing you are ever so keen to avoid”

“I think you happen to have a keener eye than most, my prince. Do not fault the entire realm with the same flaw you possess.”

“I would hardly call it that”

“A flaw?”

“More of skill honed and fortune bestowed” he smirks leaning towards her.

“Something that earned you your birthright” she questions back impudently. “I've heard the rumors”

“I didn't think you'd put much stock in them”

“One tends to learn a lot through tales, true and false alike. Besides aren't rumors as such keeping your plan afoot”

“You know far too much to be jesting as such. Do you not fear for your life?” he asks her, eye glinting in the light.

“You'd have me hanging near the gate by now if I was such a threat”

“By your feet” he replies, watching her face darken. “You needn't worry as long as you serve me.”

“That is a threat my prince, far worse than what I'm accustomed to”

“Good, my intentions must be made clear then.”

“And what exactly might they entail”

“Your faith for a price” he says regarding her in earnest. The promise of more lingers on her lips as he leaves her wondering what it is she plans to do about it all.

“You mean to leave” she asks him on the third night they're together, with the moon at its height bathing them both in its embrace. He's reclined on the bed, one arm resting behind his head as he listens to her, eye closed in sequestered bliss.

“Rumors can only serve their purpose with cause to back them”

“You are to leave at dawn then?”

He hums in response as she fidgets with the sheets around her.

“Do not fret, I shall ensure your safety for your word”

“That is a hefty promise”

“And one I intend to keep”

“You will tire of me soon enough.”

“Perhaps,” he says, opening his eye to look at her. “Yet I'm certain it won't be so soon”

She feels the sheets pool at her feet as she rises to sate him for the night, eyes trained on him as she watches him cock his head in piqued interest. There is an unspoken understanding between them as she glides by the bed, running her fingers over the wood to stand in the center of the room, the light from the candles illuminating everything she wishes for him to see.

“Not tonight” she murmurs, running her hands over her hips.

“You'd deny the man who holds your fortune” he asks incredulously.

“I'd offer him something far sweeter”

“And what is sweeter than your company my lady”

“Joining me in ways a man would take his woman”

She sees the bed dip with his weight as he rises, moving with agility to stand before her. She cranes her neck to see him peer down at her, eyebrow raised at the game she wishes for him to play.

“In Norvos, we move like this to show our feelings. For emotion sometimes is best expressed through something tangible” she says reaching forward to steady his arms.

She feels him follow her movements with ease, twisting and turning with surprising accuracy never letting her out of his sight.

“You are a trained warrior”

“So are you, it seems. This is much like swordsmanship”

“All art is said to be inspired”

“What inspires you tonight little soldier” he rasps as he spins her around, arms enclosing her as she stares ahead. She feels his breath against her neck, her back pressed against the ridges of his body leading her to exhale before she writhes in his embrace.

“I do not wish to be a piece in the war you play at”

“We are all pieces to be moved about, each for a different purpose”

“It seems you've mastered my tongue in these past few days”

“I've only claimed what's mine” he says running his hands along her waist.

“Your plan will only work on trust, something the people here lack in abundance. Faith, which you scorn me for holding on to, is only meaningful if adhered to in earnest”

“I don't begrudge your faith” he whispers, turning her around to face him. “Just who it's tied to”

She finds herself mesmerized by the blue of his eye, so still yet violent, unrelenting yet open to the words that spill from her lips. “He is what connects me to who I am”

“To cherish something so deeply is a suffering in itself that I've come to accept. I think you understand that very well, Aemond.”

She feels him stiffen at the mention of his name, fingers clasping her arms tighter before he turns her around in a pirrouette, bowing before her as he ends their performance.

“Always your way, yes” she responds breathlessly.

“I do not wish to mold you Meynara, only to make you realize how well you belong. I can offer you something far more than the life you wish to subject yourself to”

“Wealth and power?”

“Purpose” he says with finality.

“Then I ask one thing of you. Bare yourself to me, in good faith” she whispers, watching him carefully “and I shall do the same.”

“Haven't I seen all of you?” he questions, removing the barrier across his face.

“Not without adornment” she says, reaching down to remove her restraints. “They are as much a part of me as this is of you” she finishes reaching up to cup his face. The sapphire glistens brilliantly as she stares at the angry scar accompanying it, intensifying his beauty.

“Is this what you've heard of” he remarks, gritting his teeth at her request.

“Indeed” she replies, reaching up to stroke his face. “We wear our shame and pride on our sleeve. It is time to embrace it together for the purpose you so wish to achieve”

“It will require much more than I've since asked from you”

“I think it is time I left the chains that bind me my prince, yours will have to suffice for now”

They wake again at the crack of dawn to the domestic bliss of togetherness. There in his chambers she experiences what it means to be a wife at last. The euphoria of nurture, she'd long dreamed of since she was a girl, envelops her in a sense of longing and nostalgia. As she bathes and readies him for battle, she finds herself gazing at him wistfully.

“I shall return soon”

“I am aware. I did not forgo my bindings for a lie”

“You wished to soar did you not.”

“You know, the Norvoshi do not trust a man without a beard. They say one as such lacks the honor to defend and the foresight to lead” she responds by running his blade across his face as he turns away from her.“You have your own honor though”

“Many would disagree. I am said to be cursed ”

“One man's curse is another's blessing. You shall return a King”

“Because I've given you the freedom you desire?” he jests “Your faith is truly boundless”

“As is your routine. Hold still while I finish or they'll have to wait the whole morn for you to ride out with glory”

It is an hour later after she meticulously braids his hair and secures his armor, over his eye and body that she finds herself truly bogged down with the weight of his departure. He kisses her temple as he leaves, the act too chaste for her to protest before he's gone. As she sits ruminating on her time spent with him, she hears the flap of the great wings of Vhagar, leathery and forceful as she rushes to spot her out of her window. A shadow falls over the Dun fort as she flies past, giving way to three rings of the great bell of Duskendale, thrice for the sound of freedom that soars through her heart.

Taglist: @arcielee @succnfuccubus @barbieaemond @watercolorskyy @paprikaquinn @witheredoffherwitch

[xoxo-surfergirl]

wash my sins away

I. The Ocean has it's silent caves

aemond targaryen x fem!lucerys velaryon

abstract: lucera and aemond awake on a beach in storm's end, with no recollection of how they got there. they sense the brewing war, but amnesia has ripped away the memory of visery's passing.

themes: amnesia, dark aemond (he's a dark character so he's gonna come off as dark in this fic), all of rhaenyra's children are girls, enemies to enemies to lovers, eventual smut, medium burn

lucy's notes: this is cross-posted on ao3, where I currently have 8 out of about 13-14 chapters posted. i'm currently in the process of bringing the entire fic over here and updating at the same time--the rest should be uploaded to tumblr later this evening! The first two chapters are shorter in length, where as the rest average at about 6k words.

word count: 3.3k

The rumble of the sea took over. The sound was atmospherically encompassing, the only thing Lucera knew. As she was beginning to feel more tethered to earth, she could hardly bear to open her eyes. Tiredness had sunken deep beneath her skin and anchored there. Feeling made its way through her body again, and the aches in her muscles turned into burns. 

The clouds were dark and hanging low overhead. A light rain was falling, and the time of day was hidden in ambiguity. Quickly, she felt the body behind her, the arms that were tightly bound around her chest and waist. The body had curled itself into her, their knees slightly tucked together. Lucera looked down, and saw large, lithe hands adorned with rings settled on her. 

The Targaryen crest was featured prominently on his middle finger. She knew very little of herself, of where she was, but she knew it was him. Aemond was holding her so close to himself that it was nearly hard to breathe. 

But she didn’t know anything right now, and could hardly recall her own name. And for some reason, him holding her like this felt okay. Something told her that it shouldn’t, but it did. Lucera could nearly feel the moment his eye opened, as his hands and arms flexed around her, and a deep breath pressed his chest further into her back. But he did not let go. If anything, he held her tighter. His deep breathing continued, and they laid curled into each other on the beach for long enough that the sun began to barely peek through the clouds after being hidden in darkness. 

She began to sit up, and he followed suit. “Aemond,” her voice croaked. It sounded foreign to her. 

“Lucie,” he replied, his voice sounding just as strange to him. 

Part of her remembered that he never called her anything but Lucera. The last time he had called her Lucie, they had been children. He looked at her with shock. It was as if he couldn’t look away. 

“W—we should…where are we?” Lucera looked around, taking in their surroundings. 

Aemond took in the large rocks on either side of them down the beach, the dark clouds overhead, and the warbled waves. 

“I think we’re in the Storm Lands. There is nowhere else in the south that looks like this.” He said upon his assessment.

A shudder moved through Lucera, her body reminding her that the clothes she wore were soaking wet, she didn’t have a cloak, the sea that she had clearly emerged from was a gripping temperature. What little heat Aemond’s body had to offer was now gone. 

Aemond. What in the gods had happened? She thought she remembered her family—white and dark hair curling in her memory. Nyra. Jace. The only memories she could truly access were of her younger self at the Red Keep. 

Her confusion mounted and a myriad of questions surrounded her. What was Aemond doing here, with her, in the Storm Lands of all places? Most of all, why was there a creeping part of her that was deeply afraid of him? 

“W-we should find a village then,” she chattered out, jaw tense from holding in shuddering the cold, “th—there must be a fi—fishing village somewhere.” She pulled herself off of the sand, every joint echoing pain. Aemond looked at her with what she could mistake as a hint of concern. 

“Yes, there must be,” he replied, pulling himself up along with her. Lucera was having a hard time walking, and he felt…what was it? Guilt? It bit like an ulcer in his stomach. “Put your arm around me.” 

Lucera looked up at him, with slight hesitancy. She looked into his eye, her fear no doubt shining through hers. 

“I’m going to help you walk.” He looked at her expectantly. After taking a moment in hesitation, she looped her arm around his waist. He held his arm through her other arm, taking a decent portion of the weight off of her legs. 

The relief was needed. They trudged through the sand, the water from what appeared to be a night’s rainfall had soaked through and hardened it, making it easier to walk on. In the daze of fog, she could make out the broken remains of ships that had found their end on the reef beneath the water. Large, splintered wood that creaked with the tide. The sense of foreboding that it gave her was hard to ignore. 

The higher ground above the beach allowed them to see a glowing cluster of lights not too far in the distance that was no doubt a village. Tiredness overwhelmed them greatly, but their determination to warm themselves was more pressing. The glow grew larger until they were standing underneath it, the flames in the lanterns dancing. Even in this state of confusion, Aemond was no fool. He was perhaps the easiest to spot from afar, his long silver hair shining brightly even in the dimness of the storm, and there was the matter of his brilliant sapphire. 

He knew that he and Lucera were nowhere near returning to their families, and may be here in this village for longer than either of them would hope for. Concealing their identities as much as possible was necessary. They strolled the outskirts, attempting to find a cloth maker. Their presence made the other uneasy. She had let him know that she believed she could walk on her own now, and surveyed the merchants around her. 

She was plain. Her brown eyes and brown hair swayed and searched as she clung to him for support. Bastard. Common-born.  The words echoed in his head, but at the thought, something pulled deep in his chest. Every time he looked at her he felt overwhelming guilt and relief. It was oppressive, and he would fulfill the desire to run away from her and never see her again if it wasn’t for the accompanying frantic need to watch over her. 

When did this happen? Why is his mind betraying him so? All he remembered of her was a little girl with freckled pudgy cheeks and a pig nose staring up at him, a puppy who chased after her older sister Jacaera, the girlish giggles that would echo down the halls. He remembers her round face smiling up at him as they played hide-and-seek, the both of them in the same spot waiting for Jacaera to catch them. How they all got a little bit older and Aegon began roping her into his pranks and jests at his expense. How that grew his dislike for her. 

How she cut out his eye on Driftmark soon after that. 

The coldness of resentment swept him over as he watched her walk up to a woman with an assortment of clothes hanging from various lines, ready to be sold, on the edge of the square. He has every reason to dislike her. She had been careless that night. But then his emotions switched as the wind—that immense guilt that was coming from something he couldn’t grasp, and that desire to…protect her? 

The woman was gesturing to several different dresses and cloaks, all drab compared to their royal attire. Her arms reached around her neck and unclasped her necklace, moonstone and silver, and held it out for the woman who took it in with widened eyes. She became much more enthusiastic in her motions, and brought out different styles for Lucera’s choosing. 

Aemond looked at her with confusion. He wasn’t sure what to do or how to treat her, but a voice inside guided him to be calm and reserved. 

Lucera returned with dark cloaks for the two of them, two dresses for herself, two shirts and pairs of breeches for him, and a pair of shoes. He quickly threw the cloak over himself with the hood on. She kept hers down. 

“I saw an inn over at the corner there, on the right” Aemond said while nodding towards the light glow. “There looks to be a tavern underneath.” 

Once inside the walls of the tavern, the cold, salty air was quickly replaced by the thick stuffiness that only numerous bodies confined in walls could produce. There was an underlying hum accumulated from the many voices that wafted through the air with the smell of ale and fried fish. The two slid into a booth on the far side, settling in as a barmaid hastily set down two large horns of ale, the cups overflowing and sloshing onto the table. 

“We’ll have whatever is the most filling, and a room.” Aemond’s voice was void of emotion, and he took off one of his gold rings and put it on the table. “I’m sure this will suffice for anything we might need during our stay?” 

The barmaid was surprised, but nodded fervently. “Yes, of course.” stumbled out of her mouth and she made her way to the kitchens.

Lucera laughed lightly, “You don’t think we’ll be giving away our identities by giving away our jewelry?” 

“Not exactly,” Aemond replied dryly. “Although they will know we are highborn”

“What if someone tries to attack us or hold us captive in hopes that they will receive gold for our safe return? Even if they don’t know who we are?” Lucera looked at him, with true concern behind her eyes. 

Aemond laughed darkly, and looked up at her with a strange look in his eye. “Do you forget my skills with a sword, Lucie? Do you forget how the best knights in Westeros struggle against my blade?” He leaned forward. “I am not worried about a few scoundrels trying their hand against me for a few gold dragons.” 

The fear from the beach coursed through Lucera once more. She looked at the man across from her—a dangerous man, a powerful one, and there was something unexplainable and dark lurking behind the mist. She could feel it. It must have been written all over her face. 

Remorse surged him as he read her expression, but then he saw her two eyes and thought of the way she maimed him, the way she altered his life completely, how she held all of the power in her hands that night. He had been afraid of her in that moment, seeing the blade strike down and feeling the impending tear of flesh, and he wanted her to feel the same fear he felt that day. The feeling of utter weakness and hopelessness haunted him, and he felt that she deserved to feel it too. 

“Are you afraid of me, Lucie? Do I make you scared?” He taunted her. 

She looked away from him. Good, he thought. A rush ran through his veins, the kind that only power can give. 

In truth, she was terrified. He did scare her. He sent fear wrapping around her neck, her chest, her legs and arms, holding her still. 

“No, uncle. I am not afraid of you.” her voice shook as she spoke, and they both knew the truth. She just had to be stubborn about it too, didn’t she? 

But then the feeling stopped. The power trip faded, and Aemond was left with that…other feeling creeping into him. The one that made him feel gross, and overly concerned with her. He couldn’t even sink back into the overly domineering part of himself if he tried. Her eyes locked with his eye and she swore his expression had softened. It was foreign, so out of imagination that he was capable of feeling self-reproach. 

The barmaid gently set their food on the table, clay plates hot and steaming with spices and butter. The loaf of bread was still warm, fresh from the oven. Neither of them wasted any time on getting to their food, their bodies aching from hunger and a heavy wariness. Words were not needed; fulfilling themselves proved to be a far more important task. Yet, both were grateful for the excuse. 

The tavern was alight with song and dance, and Lucera smiled at the joy of the dancers as she ate. The moment had turned pleasant and light, and eating alongside the smallfolk had lifted her spirits more than she thought it would. Her own body didn’t have the energy to sustain a dance, and to her dismay, realized that she didn’t know any of the smallfolk dances. 

The barmaid returned with a key. “Up the stairs, down the hall, take a right, it will be the second door on the left.” She refilled their ale. 

“Thank you, we appreciate your hospitality,” Lucera smiled at her. The barmaid thanked her for her kindness in turn, and left the two be. 

The pair sat and watched the music for a while, contemplating everything they knew, and everything they didn’t. The smallfolk looked genuinely happy. The women’s skirts were swaying and the men were swinging in their dances. Life seemed simple, and for a moment Lucera wondered for the first time if highborn life was too complicated. She wanted to feel this happiness, this ease. 

Aemond was quick to snap her out of it, however, as he stood up. “We need to rest Lucera”. She mumbled something in agreement, and followed him as he walked towards the back of the tavern where the staircase was hidden slightly from view. 

Each step sang differently as their boots made contact with the worn wood. The stairway was narrow, and the bright noise of the people below faded into a hum as they ascended. She watched him walk through the hallways, his tall figure taking up space, making it seem crowded by his very existence. The hallway was just as tapered, and quickly Lucera thought about the room they would be sharing. Would it have one bed or two? The thought of there being one bed was an odd one. Would he rather sleep on the ground than with her? Would it bother her if he did think that way? How did he view her? She had never fully considered it, but then he pushed the door open and they were met by two small beds. 

There was one on either side of the quaint room, and in between them sat a desk with a few candles. There were two windows that overlooked the street below. It was a quiet and quaint space, and the silence between them hung thick. 

Aemond began taking off his cloak, and setting it on the wooden bedframe. He leaned against the wall. “I don’t know how we ended up on that beach, Lucera, but our reasons for being there must have been significant.” 

Lucera was debating on how honest she felt like being with her uncle. They hadn’t always been the nicest to each other growing up, but they had known each other for nearly their whole lives. Given the circumstances, and that he was just as in the dark as she was, she figured that honesty, even at the cost of a little vulnerability, would be worth it. 

“It is strange, uncle. I don’t remember much of anything besides many of my older memories, and who my family is, and who I am. All of what would be my  recent memories…there’s just an empty space there.” Lucera looked at him. 

“My mind is the same. I’m curious where Vhagar is, if she’s around at all or if she’s back at the Dragonpit. I just can’t imagine myself traveling anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms without her.” 

At the mention of Vhagar, Lucera’s body tensed. She wasn’t quite sure why. Arrax came into her mind, and a deep feeling sunk into her heart. “I feel the same about Arrax, though if he were to have flown me here, it would have been the longest flight we’d ever been on.” She paused, then continued. “I don’t know what I would have been doing in the Storm Lands in the first place, especially on my own. I don’t exactly travel without my family.” 

Aemond laughed underneath his breath at that. 

“What? He’s a young dragon, and I’m a Princess of the Realm. It isn’t weird that we haven’t gotten out much” Lucera insisted. 

“Whatever you say Princess.” Aemond looked at her with a smug look on his face, one that told her he felt greater than her. 

“Just because you ride the biggest dragon in the world, doesn’t mean you’re better than everyone else”. Lucera huffed at him. His smile only grew larger. 

“No, it’s the fact that I am well studied, am a great swordsman, and I ride the biggest dragon that makes me better than everything else.” She knew he meant it as a joke, but it was obviously true. 

“Your greatest weakness is your ego, uncle”. Lucera laughed slightly, and she began taking off her shoes. 

The mattress was no featherbed, but it wasn’t a pile of sand either. They discussed finding horses, or a boat to take them back to King's Landing, but both dismissed the idea as a last resort, as they each had felt wary of the ocean after having washed up on shore together. 

She watched Aemond as she crawled into bed, his eye lost in thought looking out the window beyond the square. Her mental space was deeply disturbed, and her heart was pulling in many different directions. She felt afraid of Aemond, deeply afraid. She felt heartbroken almost, as if there were certain feelings bubbling to the surface that weren’t there until he acted. She was nearly appalled at her discovery of their existence, and she refused to acknowledge or name it. 

The soft licks of the flame in the lantern spread a light glow to the town, leading derelicts and drunks back to their homes at the late hour. Aemond watched them, contemplating his arrival here, and his companion. Gods, her mere existence drew him mad. She was so…stupid sometimes, naive, and annoying in a way that younger people often are. She was innocent—regardless of if she had taken his eye—she maintained her innocence, somehow. He didn’t. He knew part of his resentment of her sprouted from that—the fact that he had to grow up. He had to learn how to live with one eye, with the pain. How he looked terrifying to most. How he would never be able to compete in tournaments because vision is already limited in a visor. He had to find glory elsewhere, as a second son no less. 

He felt the fire of resentment grow, and then something else rushed in. There was something else there, something that cooled the resentment and told him that they were even now. He didn’t know how, or by what. She still had both eyes. 

And suddenly he was scared again, looking over at her, wanting to protect her. His heart rate increased and to his own surprise he felt pulled to wrap his arms around her and hold her in his chest. That she might disappear any moment if he didn’t. 

Aemond spent the night watching over her from his side of the bed, contemplating. He was smart , he could figure this out. He knew better than to ignore his instincts. He knew, deep down, that he had hurt her somehow, and that they were even. Something pulled at his heart, and the guilt rushed in. It was not a feeling he was familiar with. The unfamiliarity of it alone disturbed him. He could make this better, improve things before they both found out the truth for good. He hated to admit it, and he barely let himself think for a moment that he couldn’t stomach the thought of her disliking him. 

When had he ever given second thought to her feelings, her emotions? The dark part of himself loved her fear of him. But for the first time in his life, the good part of him felt sickened by it. 

[writinggraveyard]

❥⌈ Diagnoses of the Heart Masterlist ⌋

⌦Summary: Student loan debts, mother in an induced coma, no other family to rely on but herself. When options are running thin, sex work is the last and desperate choice she must make to ensure to keep medical payments afloat, until he becomes a sudden constant. Aemond Targaryen might just be her last hope to not lose the last person she holds dear. ⌘Rating : 18+ Minors DNI ⌦Story Type: Series ⌘Fandom : House Of The Dragon ⌦Pairing : Doctor!Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character ⌘Warnings : mentions and depictions of sex work, mental health exhaustion, {poorly portrayed} medical diagnosis, money trouble, p in v, mentions of drug use, family drama , soft dom!aemond

❥each chapter will hold their own warnings and have a more in depth list of what the chapter warning's intel.

⌈ ❥ ⌋ Index ⌈ ❥ ⌋

⇲Chapter one . . . ⇲Chapter Two . . .

❥Collection | Navigation | Inbox | Aesthetic | Taglist | Divider By : @ firefly-graphics

[authurials]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 . feigning ignorance

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 . link

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 . strong/crude language, power imbalance, suggestive themes

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 . fully intended for this to be chapter they have sex, but that's going to be a whole drawn chapter on its own--hope you enjoy! as always this chapter has also been cross-posted over on ao3, so if you prefer to read over there you can.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 Aemond had ridden his dragon had been the day he had slain Daemon Targaryen above the God’s Eye.

Hovering from above upon the back of Vhagar, Queen of All Dragons, the Targaryen prince had been struck with a sense of purposelessness as he watched the falling form of the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, and the broken body of his rider until the water had inevitably swallowed them whole. Aemond had wondered quietly to himself about what he was supposed to do now that his uncle was dead? Daemon, after all, was the greatest weapon the Blacks had possessed–war seasoned and blood hungry; a man willing to do anything and everything to win the throne for his wife, or more likely himself. His nephew had seen himself as his greatest rival, pity the elder man had never even considered Aemond to be a challenge; maybe then the Battle Above the God’s Eye would have ended up differently.

After Daemon’s defeat, the fall of the Black’s remaining forces was not far behind; they became unorganized and desperate, chaos ensuing as those left loyal to Rhaenyra scrambled to make headway in the war or throw themselves at the Greens’ mercy. The Black Queen herself had barely escaped the freshly taken King’s Landing when Aemond returned home with his uncle’s head in a sack and Dark Sister at his hip. With Daemon Targaryen’s head now on a spike where it belonged, the one-eyed prince set himself to a new purpose–putting an end to this war and claiming victory for the Greens.

And though he had quickly claimed that victory–standing at Aegon’s side as his brother ordered Sunfrye to end their bitch of a half-sister’s life–to this day it still tasted like ash in his mouth. For what victory was there truly to celebrate when the kingdom they ruled over lay in ruin? When so many of their own had been the price they paid? Little Jaehaerys and Maelor, casualties of a war they had never even played a part in; Helaena, who had one day succumbed to a mother’s grief; his grandfather, executed for his hubris and ambition; brave yet foolish Daeron, who no one in his family ever truly knew. Even his own mother, the Dowager Queen Alicent, might as well have been lost to the war; after the Dance she had steadily fallen into madness, which only worsened to the point of becoming all consuming after Aegon’s poisoning. It had been at the urging of his advisors that Aemond had reluctantly had her confined to her wing in Maegor’s Holdfast, stripping every corner of the green she had come to detest and leaving her to her ghosts.

When she passed, Aemond did not truly feel the need to mourn–he had long since said his goodbyes and buried his mother–all that had been left was a shell of her former self that more often than not he could not bring himself to face.

Throughout all that and the years following the end of the war, Vhagar had been the one constant at Aemond’s side–aside from Jaehaera; grounded for the foreseeable future after her battle with the Blood Wrym, the Queen of All Dragons had retired to a spacious field near the Godswood where her rider visited her regularly and where he now found himself once again.

“Lykiri, Vhagar,” Aemond called out as he approached his dragon, trekking through the damp tall grass to his awaiting lady.

The war dragon shifted in acknowledgement of his voice, resting on her side with her torn wings tucked around her ancient body comfortably as she pushed her midday meal around with her maw. The few keepers that remained after the destruction of the Dragonpit were put to task not only tending to the remaining eggs they possessed but also caring for the King’s dragon daily, ensuring her contentment and health for however much longer she may have in this world. On that particular day they had brought her three carcasses of deer that had been hunted in the Godswood that morning, one a sizable buck that hopefully satisfied the dragon’s voracious appetite.

“Rytsas, Vhagar,” Aemond greeted as he stopped a few feet away from her massive head; the she-dragon tilted her head towards him in equal greeting, her green eyes glowing with an uncanny intelligence. Reaching out a hand, the king placed it upon the rough scales of her snout, resting it against her warmth for a moment as he enjoyed the silence of her company.

After his eventful visit to the nursery to see his son–and the wet nurse–Aemond had been bombarded with the responsibilities of the day. The council had met–thankfully putting to rest any conversation about him remarrying this time–and discussed recent updates from the surrounding houses; there had been particular attention paid to the Riverlands and the Vale, as well as the North; since the conclusion of the Dance, it had been Aemond’s main focus to bring all seven kingdoms back under the protection of one crown and work on rebuilding the peoples’ trust and faith in the monarchy. It was a task easier said than done, especially in regards to those factions that had stood with his half-sister in matters of succession; it was those same houses who then had to begrudgingly accept their defeat at the hands of the Greens and either kneel to the king or have their titles and lands stripped and their lives forfeited.

At the end of it all, few had chosen the sword over the humility of kneeling.

There was none more surprising among those who had kneeled than that of Lord Cregan Stark, however, who Aemond had fully believed would rather throw himself upon his own blade rather than forgo the oath made to his queen; although, Aemond understood in the end why the Northerner had eventually acquiesced to the Greens’ victory and had sworn fealty to first Aegon and then soon after Aemond. If the king recalled correctly, Cregan had a young son, one far too young to take up the mantle of lord just yet and with those bearing the Stark name in such short supply nowadays it would be foolish of the standing lord to gamble with his life in such a way. And so the Starks were allowed to remain wardens of the North, as long as they kept in line the same as the rest of the houses and did not become a political headache again.

Much the same way that day’s council meeting had been a headache, with no good idea in sight of how to put to rest any remaining tensions after the war. The council had at least put in motion some plans to ease somewhat the current burdens in Flea Bottom, with rising crime and poverty and little hope in sight they were at risk of an attempted uprising; and Aemond could not afford to lose what little support he had with the common folk, if there was any truly to be had at all.

Sighing, he let the hand laid upon Vhagar fall to his side as he rolled back his tense shoulders and tilted his face up towards the gloomy sky–eye closed. It had rained earlier that day, the smell of the air was wet and earthy, carrying on its breeze the sound of the birds’ calls and the shallow breathing and grunts of his dragon. Opening his eye, he lowered his head to once more face Vhagar, who had not yet looked away from her rider; she slowly blinked, and then blinked once more, before finally lowering her head to the damp ground. The sounds of bones snapping beneath the weight of her skull could be heard, the remnants of that day’s meal–and possibly even the one from the day prior.

Aemond cracked the faintest of smiles before letting it fade; sinking down to the ground, feeling the coolness of the wet grass seeping through his leathers, the king reached into his satchel and pulled out a heavy book. Opening the tomb across his lap, he bent his head–pale hair falling like a curtain over one side of his face–and began to read aloud.

---------- ☾ ----------

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐓 held up left little to the imagination. Made of a soft and velvety blue material, the neckline was cut to reveal the shoulders and tops of one’s bosom, with subtle silver designs elegantly embroidered into the bodice and sleeves; the skirt was standard, floor length, and simple in its shape, waistline cut in a way to compliment the natural curve of one’s body. It was simple yet elegant–and far too much for someone of a wet nurse’s station.

Keeley eyed it warily in the mirror, her face flushed and framed by slightly damp curls as she sat at the vanity draped in nothing but a robe. It was as she was finishing her responsibilities for the day that the girl that now stood behind her with the dress had come to collect her–to prepare her for her dinner with the king; alongside the girl had come Keeley’s replacement for the night, a slightly older woman named Mag that Keeley knew was a wet nurse for some of the nobility that stayed in the Keep. It had felt unsettling to leave Prince Aerion in someone else’s care, but Keeley had little choice in the matter as she was soon being coaxed into a warm tub and scrubbed clean.

Once out of the bath, scented oils were pressed to the insides of her elbows and wrists, as well as the soft swell of her neck and the valley between her breasts; the earthy scent of sandalwood and lavender permeated her nose as the girl had ran a brush carefully through her tangled curls, unbinding them from each other with a practiced hand. And now, a time later, with her curls dried for the most part and her skin no longer flushed from the warmth of the water, it was time to put on the dress.

“I….I could not possibly….” She trailed off as the girl’s reflection gave her a knowing look. “I cannot possibly wear something so….regal.”

“It is what the king has picked out for you for dinner,” the girl hummed, a tinge of nervousness in her voice, “he has….requested that you wear it for him.”

Requested–as if there was any much of a choice in the matter. For Keeley. For the girl. Both were bound by their duties to his grace–the girl in making sure Keeley was ready and wore the dress he picked out, and Keeley….

She did not like to think about what exactly it was the king wanted from her, though she would soon find out as the hour drew ever so closer.

Keeley sighed with a resolute nod, “very well.”

She pushed back gently from the vanity, the legs of the stool scraping unpleasantly against the stone flooring as the girl stepped back to give the wet nurse space. Holding together the sides of her robe, Keeley turned to face the girl, for the first time actually taking her since they had entered the room. The girl was dressed like any servant in the Keep–deep red dress with a white smock tied at the waist, simple hose and shoes, hair tied back with a kerchief pinned over top of it; she was a waif of a thing, no older than fifteen if Keeley were to guess, her eyes were the color of cornflower, and the few strands that had escaped the kerchief revealed that she was dark of hair.

How long had she been working here? Keeley wondered. How many were there like the girl–like herself–lurking within the walls of the castle, at the mercy of a dragon’s whims? It hardly seemed fair, but Keeley had learned long ago that life was seldom fair to those born without wealth or station.

Together they got Keeley into the dress, which at first seemed a little loose around the waist, until the girl stepped behind the wet nurse and tightened the ties of the bodice; the tighter she pulled the more Keeley’s tender breasts were pushed up and for a moment she feared if it was tightened any further she might begin to leak from the pressure. It was just as these fears settled in that the girl stopped and fastened the laces so they would not loosen. Once finished, the girl walked around to assess her work, adjusting a hem here and a sleeve there until she was satisfied. She slowed her ministrations as she looked into Keeley’s eyes, her hands wavering for a moment before they fell once more to her side.

“Are you afraid?” Keeley found herself being asked, the girl’s voice soft and sounding just as unsure as she felt herself.

“No, not afraid,” she shook her head. “Nervous perhaps, nauseous definitely.”

She forced a shaky smile as she pressed a hand to unsettled stomach, trying to appear brave so that the young girl in front of her could go to bed that night with some semblance of peace. It appeared to do little if the helpless look in the girl’s eyes was any indication, but Keeley paid it no mind as they finished preparing her for dinner.

Once more sat in front of the vanity, the girl began to play with Keeley’s tight curls, maneuvering them into a simple, neat braid that tickled the base of the woman’s neck; in the front the girl adjusted the free pieces of hair, making it to where they framed the woman’s face. While she worked, Keeley took the opportunity to assess her own features; never one for vanity, it had been a long time since she had taken a moment to study the skin she lived in. She would not call herself a beauty, though seldom did one flatter themselves in such a way, but nor would she describe herself as plain. Keeley had always held a certain neutrality about the way she looked as well as the way in which others might perceive her, she had never been one for fancy dresses and jewelry–though her husband had often tried his best to lavish her in both.

Keeley was a woman of nearly thirty name days, born and raised in an impoverished city where most were lucky–depending on who you asked–to see the next day; she was dark of hair and skin, with lighter eyes the color of honey brown. Her body bore the memories of a life lived well–crow’s feet, scars, stretch marks that spread across the plains of a freckled stomach. She was not thin like a reed, her body holding proof of a past pregnancy in the heavy curve of her hips and belly, in swollen breasts sagging with the weight of their milk.

Overall, wholly unremarkable in Keeley’s opinion, and yet there she sat–mere moments away from a dinner ordered by the king, where she would share in his company and most likely in his bed. Keeley would not say she was even somewhat opposed to the idea of lying with the man, but she would have preferred more autonomy in the decision of doing so. It was no matter though, what was done was done and Keeley must play her part in whatever game the Targaryen was playing at.

“What is your name?” She finally found herself asking, eyes flicking away from her own reflection and to the girl behind her.

The servant looked up from her work on Keeley’s hair, a look of surprise on her face as if she had not been expecting the woman to ask her her name. After a moment of hesitation, her eyes flicked back the hair between her fingers as she hummed:

“Beryl, my lady.”

“Please,” the wet nurse shifted at the use of a title, “call me Keeley.”

A pause, and then a shy smile, “very well.”

Soon Beryl’s work was finished and she stepped back as Keeley was allowed to stand and admire the completed look in the mirror; the dress truly was simple yet elegant, with no jewelry to go with it Keeley’s neck remained bare aside from the length of her braid that rested over the crest of her right shoulder. Even with the fancy dress though it was clear–at least to Keeley–that she was still a servant, only now she was one that had somehow managed to draw the attention of the king.

“You’re beautiful,” Beryl hummed bashfully as she stood behind Keeley in the mirror.

“Thank you,” was Keeley’s reply as she returned the girl’s smile in the mirror, hands smoothing nervously down the plains of her unsettled stomach.

A pause, and then a question – “are you truly not afraid?”

Their eyes met in the mirror–brown against blue–something of the truth left unsaid but still somehow heard, hanging between the pair of them. Keeley looked away first after an uneasy moment of silence, with shaking hands she unwrinkled the creases in her skirt and cleared her throat:

“Perhaps a little.”

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐈𝐆 would not stop staring at Keeley, its blackened eyes seeming to peer into the very soul of her as a shaky head brought the cup of wine to her lips; its mouth was spread wide over a bright blushing apple, face forever frozen in a state of shock–a silent scream. The woman rather felt like screaming herself in that moment, shifting unsurely under the intense gaze of the man at the other side of the table.

Dinner had started as expected–stiff and quiet, second guessing her every move and word as the servants moved around the pair with bowed heads; neither of them had said anything to the other, Keeley only managing to stutter out a soft ‘thank you’ when her glass was filled and plate set down. It was only when the servants had completed their rounds and had finally stepped off to the side, standing vigil as they waited for an empty cup or the next course, that the man sitting across from her said anything:

“Eat.”

A command–not a question, not a request, not up for discussion; still, Keeley found herself hesitating as she picked up the fork and knife set on either side of her plate and looked down at the food. There was a piece of the pig, unfortunately, and along with it a slice of blackened bread and butter, a mix of vegetables, and a puree of what Keeley identified to be squash. Taking a deep breath, she scooped up a small forkful of the vegetables and attempted to eat, though her stomach rebelled at the mere thought.

“Is the food not to your liking?” The king hummed, holding his own goblet of wine as he peered across the table at her.

Keeley looked up from her plate to address him, finishing her first bite of food before she cleared her throat, “not at all, your face–the food is quite good.”

“Then why do you pick at it?” He hummed, sounding unconvinced.

“I find my stomach quite unsettled tonight is all,” she admitted quietly, continuing to push the food around her plate before she took another bite–this one smaller than the first.

“Is that so?” The man smirked knowingly but it quickly faded as he set down his goblet with a sigh; with a wave of his hand he continued, “very well–take our plates away, we will do with only the wine tonight.” 

“Your grace,” the servants bowed in acknowledgement, moving forward to collect the plates that they had only moments before set down.

“And there will be no need to return after you dispose of the food,” the king advised as the servants prepared to leave the room.

“Your grace,” the servants replied in tandem once more before making their exit.

As the door closed behind the last of them, Keeley realized she was well and truly alone with the king of the Seven Kingdoms; and that the king of the seven kingdoms was looking at her as if she was the meal for tonight’s dinner and not the food he had just sent away. Licking her dry lips, she picked up her wine and took a healthy sip, avoiding the man before hers gaze, though she could feel it burning the skin of her face as he stared intently at her.

“You're frightened,” he broke the silence after several moments of it spreading out between them.

“No, your grace,” Keeley shook her head, glancing at him for the briefest of seconds.

“Do not lie to me,” his voice held an edge to it, his grip tightening noticeably around his goblet as he raised it to his mouth.

“I am not,” she replied with more conviction, looking at him fully now. “I am not afraid, your grace.”

“Then what ails you this night?” He inquires, raising a pale eyebrow. “Other than my company?”

“It is not your company I find unsettling,” the woman swallowed, her tongue felt swollen and heavy, the fading taste of wine acrid in her mouth.

“Then pray tell,” he gestures for her to continue. “Enlighten your king.”

Your king, he said–as if Keeley needed a reminder of who sat before her.

“Forgive me for being blunt then, your grace,” she bowed her head for his premature forgiveness. “I just find myself unsure of what the night will bring. It is not everyday that someone such as myself finds herself in the company of a king, and I fear that has left me floundering I admit.”

“You wish to know why I have brought you here tonight?” He smirks again, fingers tracing the rim of the goblet in front of him.

“If you would be so kind as to tell me, then yes my king-”

“Aemond,” he interjected, smirk fading as leaned forward in his chair, singular eye locked on her expectantly. “You will call me Aemond.”

“Your grace, I-I couldn’t possibly-” Keeley began to argue but he raised his hand to stop her.

“You can and you will,” he hummed, “but only when we are alone; in the presence of others it is ‘your grace,’ understand?”

The implication of them being alone for more than just this occasion is not lost on Keeley, but instead of dwelling on that she simply acquiesces to his orders with a nod, “yes….Aemond.”

“Good, I am glad to see that you are quick to learn,” the Targaryen observed, “it makes things much easier.”

Keeley says nothing at that, choosing instead to take a deeper sip of her wine until the cup is nearly empty; setting it down, she once more looks at the king, who stays studying her intently–as if she were a bug to dissect.

“More?” He asks, gesturing to the wine pitcher set closer to his side of the table.

“I would not want to over indulge,” she declines–for over indulging could lead to the losing of one’s senses.

“I insist.”

Not leaving it up for discussion, Aemond looks expectantly between Keeley and the wine, silence once more filling the air around them. Pushing back her chair slowly, she rises from her spot and walks around the table and towards the pitcher, arms hanging limply at her sides until one raises to grasp the handle. As she turns to go back to her seat, the king clears his throat and she glances at him–his hand outstretched, holding his own cup.

The order was clear–she was to serve him–

And so she did, silently walking the rest of the way down the table to where the pale-haired man sat, watching her every move–awaiting her reaction. She says nothing as she pours the wine nearly to the brim before lowering the ewer as she once more turns to retake her spot at the other end; before she can, however, she feels a firm grip on her free arm, stopping her from going. Without looking back she speaks:

“Yes?”

“Look at me.”

For a moment she thinks of disobeying, of denying him the right to her eyes, but then she thinks of what would come after and reluctantly looks at him over her shoulder. Aemond stares back, singular eye intense–unblinking–as he maintains his hold on her.

“To answer why I have brought you here tonight, I believe it to be quite simple and apparent, but I am happy to entertain your feigned ignorance–”

She opens her mouth to speak but he continues without interruption.

“I mean to have you….I mean to fuck you. Perhaps only for one night, or perhaps until I tire of you, but I will have you nonetheless.”

“My king–”

“Aemond,” he corrects with a hum, not bothering to wait for her to continue as he spoke, “and you can deny yourself your shared desire all you want, but I can see it all the same in your eyes; I can see it right now just as plain as I could see it in my bedchambers.”

“It is not proper-” Keeley tried to argue, sputtering out a denial to his accusations–though even they tasted false to her own tongue.

“Fuck propiety,” the king hummed, finally releasing her wrist so she could pull away. “Propiety will have no place in my bed this night, but you–Keeley–”

The woman realized it was the first time he had said her name, and she tried her best to ignore what the sound of it on his tongue did to her.

“--you will have yours,” he finishes before gesturing back to her empty seat, “but first–the wine.”

She stood there for a moment still, eyes wide and body all but paralyzed against the shock of what had just happened–of the audacity of his hubris. What had Keeley expected of a king though? Especially of one that rode a dragon. She was at his mercy, and Aemond was right–she was not wholly opposed to the idea; for how could a simple nursemaid from Lorath–particularly one of Keeley’s age–ever hope to draw the attention of any man of nobility let alone the king’s? And it did not hurt that the pale-haired man possessed looks equal to his intellect and stature; a classic Valyrian beauty he was, with the white hair and violet eye his blood was known for, with defined features seemingly chiseled out of stone–his prominent nose to say the least. As far as powerful individuals who could be ordering her into their bed, she could do much worse for herself–though that did nothing to soften the wounded feeling that was her lack of a say.

The woman dwelled on this as she sank back down into her chair, pouring herself another cup of wine and bringing it to her lips, thoughtful as she met the Targaryen’s gaze. He stared back, saying nothing as he too partook in the drink held in his hand.

“Tell me, Keeley,” his grace finally spoke after several seconds of silent staring, “from where do you hail?”

The question took her off guard, for why would the king concern himself with the personal life of his servants–even if they were to be his bedmates? Still, she saw no harm in answering his question:

“I was born in Lorath, and until recently I had lived my whole life there.”

“And what brought you to Westeros?” He inquired.

“There was nothing left for me there,” she replied truthfully. “My mother passed unexpectedly many years ago, and it was not long before my departure that I lost my father–and with him his protection and coin; he was a merchant.”

The man before her said nothing, nor did he offer anything in way of a condolence or an apology for her loss; and Keeley admitted she much preferred the silence in response rather than swallow another thoughtless commiseration.

“How did you come to work in the Keep?” Aemond moved along with his questioning seamlessly, nursing his goblet of wine as he listened to her.

“A listing was posted in the lower city markets,” she hummed, watching her own wine swirl around as she continued. “I was down to my last few coins and there was no other work to be had; it was either the Keep or the Street of Silk. And I did not believe myself capable of pursuits of the flesh.”

Until now.

“It was unexpected that I would be picked from my spot in the kitchens so soon after my arrival to be the prince’s wet nurse–but not unwelcome.”

“Not unwelcome?” The king waits for her to continue.

“I am aware of the privilege of my position, my k-Aemond,” she quickly corrected herself. “There is an ease to my work that I am sure not many servants within this Keep can share in; to care for the prince–for any child really–was an honor I did not expect, and I am grateful to be trusted with something–someone–so precious.”

A pause–she continues:

“Yet it saddens me to know that Prince Aerion will never know his true mother’s embrace, that he will never know the sound of her voice or the kindness of her smile. I did not know Queen Floris, but I saw her–once or twice–and Ser Draven told me she would sing to Prince Aerion while she was still carrying him. He said-”

“Enough,” an air of unease seemed to have run over Aemond as his fingers flexed around the cup of wine, knuckles white and taunt over the bone as he sets it down, clenching in and out of a fist. Keeley tries her best not to read too much into the gesture, instead focusing on her own wine as she waits for him to continue. “I would hear no more of my son–or his mother–do you understand?”

“Apologies, my king,” she does not correct herself this time, nor does he try to do it himself, “I did not know-”

“Now you do,” Aemond cuts her off, placing both his hands flat on the table as he pushes back from his chair and stands.

Keeley watches him as he steps to the side and walks down the length of the table–towards her; her gaze moves, looking more and more up until he is standing right in front of her, hands folded behind his back as their gazes lock. Without a word, he brings one of his hands forward and waits expectantly; and even though she knows what he wants, the woman still hesitates, a final act of defiance as she continues to simply look up at him. She wants him to say something, she wants his command–

“Keeley,” is all she receives, and for now it is enough. Slowly, she places her hand in his and allows herself to be drawn up, hand tucked into the crook of his arm as he guides her from the room–food forgotten, and now the wine as well.

She hears the door close behind them as they enter the adjoined room–his sleeping chambers–and as it is closed, Keeley swears she hears a lock flicking into place–

Leaving her to the king’s mercy–what little he may possess.

[summerkoya]

the next right thing

Chapter 2

aemond targaryen x original female character , aemond targaryen x wife!oc

summary: Aemond takes care of his wife through the audience; Myria and Aemond attend a volatile family dinner.

warnings: little fluff, lots of angst, vulnerable aemond, aemond discusses his trauma

****

Myria had been instructed by the Maester to remain in bedrest for as long she could, to avoid any stitches from opening up and help them heal faster. That meant she hadn’t been able to greet the Velaryon upon their arrival, despite how much she desired to. She had met Rhaenyra before, since she had attended her and Aemond’s wedding, but they hadn't spoken that much.

She glanced down, towards the baby feeding on her chest, and smiled. She started stroking his little legs with her fingers, occasionally tickling his little feet, just to earn a heartwarming coo from the baby. But for every smile, she got an angry frown as well, as her teasing prevented him from eating. Sure, Max had her looks— but he had inherited his father’s temper. Aemond’s.

She turned her head, to stare at the painfully empty place beside her. He wasn’t around as much. He was either sparring in the patio, or teaching the boys how to care for their baby dragons, or reading them stories and teaching them High Valyrian, all for which Myria was grateful. But she missed him. And she couldn’t help but to think her endless foul mood, complaints and her always picking on fights had something to do with her husband’s absence. Maybe he had finally grown tired of her. 

The baby coughed against her chest, forcing her attention back to him and thankfully preventing her from diving into even sadder thoughts. At any other time, she would’ve been happy to stay all day in bed, with no other responsibilities but to take care of him, while the boys are under the safe care of their father, but with so many things happening at the castle, she dreaded the idea of being confined in her room, ignorant of everything outside the doors. 

So she dragged herself out of bed, grateful that Aemond wasn’t around to scold her, and left the room, with little Max on her arms. 

“Princess? Where are you going?” Yago, the bodyguard assigned to watch her door, asked, concerned. “Prince Aemond gave me strict instructions to not let you out of this room, you know?” He insisted, while grabbing her arm so he could ease her pain. Myria looked over at the man and grinned. Yago had been her sworn guard since she was a young girl in Dorne, and was specifically chosen by her father to protect her. When he agreed to accompany her to Westeros, to keep on looking after her, she was thrilled. He was a good friend, and an even kinder man. 

“Since when do you answer to my husband, instead of me?” She joked, letting a grunt of pain escape her lips. The man chuckled, and kept on strongly holding her frame, making sure she wasn’t putting too much pressure on her feet. Each step claimed a groan from her lips, but she didn't mind. She wouldn’t die out of exhaustion, boredom on the other hand… 

“I’m only loyal to you, Myria. Always.” He declared, switching his grin to a serious frown. “The moment things inevitably take a dangerous turn here… you simply say the word, and I’ll take care of everything. You, and the children.” 

“Yago… what have you heard?” She asked, looking at him with disbelief. 

“Whispers, my lady.” He explained. “Bad ones— corrupt ones. And your father is just as concerned as I am.” 

“You’ve talked to my father, how—” Myria mouth was shut, by him placing a gentle finger on her lips. 

Yago restrained himself by lending her a knowing look, and cleared his throat. Myria had failed to realise they had already arrived at the King’s door, and talking about such matters in front of the realm’s bodyguards wasn’t a very clever idea. 

“I’ll be here when you leave, Princess.” He said. 

“Thank you, Yago.” She smiled, putting on a nice smile. She then turned around, and looked at the guard outside the room. “I wish to pay a visit to the King.” She asked. 

“It’s been requested that the King receives no visitors.” The man grunted. 

“I only wish for him to be introduced to his new gransire.” She said, holding the baby closer to her chest. “I think the King will very much enjoy it.” 

The guard gave it another brief thought, before nodding and motioning for her to come inside. She thanked him, and walked across the room towards the bed, where a very ill Viserys laid. Judging from the bandages he had around his face, Myria could only assume the disease had progressed from the day before, and finally claimed his eye. And yet— as sickly and feebly as his body was, his mind remained unharmed in a way Maesters couldn’t quite explain. And Myria intended to enjoy what it could possibly be the last few weeks he had left of such awareness. 

“Is— is that who I think it is?” Viserys asked with a smile, doing his best to sit himself up, after spotting the young woman walking towards his bed. 

She sat herself next to him, and shifted the baby in her arms so he could get a better sight of him. 

“Hello, father.” She smiled. Upon meeting him, Viserys had been very adamant on her calling him father. He said he would have no daughter of his refer to him under formalities such as your grace, or my king, and for that, Myria was very grateful. She liked Viserys, and he had always made her feel very welcomed. “Meet your new grandson.” 

“Another boy?” He wheezed, showing a smile so big part of it disappeared behind the bandages. 

“His name is Max.” She chuckled. “Trystan named him.” 

“Oh,” he simpered, caressing the baby’s head. Visery’s face light up as Max grabbed one of his fingers, and strongly got a hold of it. “Max. He looks like you, dear.” 

“He really does.” She giggled. 

“He’s one precious little boy. Well done, Myria.” Viserys muttered, and squeezed her hand, looking at her with pride in his eye. 

Maybe it was at that moment she realised there were only a handful of stares like that one she would ever get from him, or maybe because receiving such affection from him made her realise she missed her own father so dearly, but Myria didn’t find the strength in herself to avoid tears from filling her eyes. 

“You’re a kind King, father, and an even kinder man.” She bubblered. “And all of your children and grandchildren love you very, very much. Your own daughter, Rhaenyra arrived here this morning, and I’m sure she will be visiting your chambers any time now.” 

Just as she said so, she heard a grunt behind them. Myria turned around and saw a scary looking man standing still, holding his hands behind his back. He had an eerie feeling to him, sinister enough that Myria felt shivers down her spine. Daemon. She had crossed paths once with him, and that was all she needed to realise he was not a man one could afford to be on his bad side.

Besides him, Princess Rhaenyra stood, listening with a gloomy smile to Myria’s words. Myria took their entrance as her cue to leave, assuming Rhaenyra probably wanted to spend time with her father alone. So she squeezed Viserys’ hand, and got up from the bed. She fought a flush of lightheadedness away, not having realised how much of a toll the walk towards the room had taken on her. 

“Princess, Rhaenyra” she bowed her head as she reached her side, “Prince Daemon. I’ll leave you to it.” She smiled, before starting to walk away. 

“Sister,” the Princess called her, before Myria could leave. She turned around, to find her grinning at her. “Congratulations,” she said, motioning towards the baby in her arms, “I hear it is a boy. Please extend my congrats to my brother.” 

“Yes,” she chuckled, “his name is Max. And I will.” 

“He’s lovely,” she said, tickling the baby’s feet, “you have three boys, just like Ser Laenor and I did.” 

“We do indeed.” She agreed. “I can only hope to be able to raise such nice and kind men as you did, Princess.” 

“Please call me sister, Myria, I insist.”  

“Sister,” she smiled, “I was told you became parents yourselves to two little boys recently. Aegon and Viserys, is that correct?” Of course she knew she was correct. The very night they got the news, their Aegon got drunk as ever, and joked about Rhaenyra finally ‘breeding Targaryen looking’ children. “Congratulations.” 

“Thank you, Myria.” Rhaenyra answered, with a genuine smile. As much as Myria wanted to understand Aemond’s family feud with them— she couldn’t. The woman seemed kind and sweet, and a loving mother as well. 

“Well I better leave, I’m sure you’re eager to see your father. I hope we run into each other again, Rhaenyra.” 

“I hope so too.” 

After one last bow of her head, Myria finally left the room. Yago was waiting outside, as he said he would. 

“Are you ready to go back to bed?” He asked, worried at the sight of her pale face, and the weak grip on his arm. 

“Yes please,” she whispered, handing him the baby, “could you please carry him, too? I’m afraid I don’t think I have that much strength left.” 

“Of course, princess.” He said, holding the baby with gentleness. He was great with children, and Myria felt very lucky indeed her sons got to regard him as not only a protector, but as family. 

They were walking with leisure and in silence throughout the castle’s hallways, when an angry voice called her from behind. 

“Myria?” 

Myria stopped in her tracks, recognising that voice as her husband’s and dreading the upcoming discussion. She slowly turned around with a grimace, only to find a very irritated Aemond striding towards her. 

He stood before her, and fixed his gaze on hers, without saying a word, as if she were being silently scolded. “I will carry my son and escort my wife from now on, thank you very much Yago.” He hissed, and then turned around to grab the baby into his arms. 

The man handed the child to him, and then glanced at Myria. She vaguely nodded her head, and Yago carried on with his way. Only after he had disappeared from their sight, did Aemond deign to look at her again. 

“What were you thinking?” He taunted her, still offering one of his arms for her to hold on. “The Maester gave you strict orders to remain in bedrest.” 

“I wished to introduce Max to your father.” She explained, naively following his steps. 

“You could’ve asked me to do so.” He said, with a strained voice.

“You weren’t around.” She argued, in a repproaching manner she didn’t actually mean. 

“I took the boys for a ride in Vaghar, so you and Max could rest, is that so bad of me?” He sneered, turning on a hallway Myria knew didn’t lead to their chambers. 

“W— where are we going?” She asked. 

“I’m going to leave you with Helaena and my mother’s company, as you can’t seem to be trusted enough to look after your own well being.” He grunted. “If I can’t keep an eye on you, I want them to do so.” 

“Then do keep an eye on me, Aemond.” She exhaled, pulling on his arm so he would turn towards her. “Stay with me, and the baby.” 

“The boys—

“The boys are perfectly content to play with the twins, under the care of your sister and the Septa.” She snapped, putting an end to her husband’s excuses. “I know you think I’m angry at you, for it seems as of late we can not help but to get into an argument every time we speak, but I’m not.” 

Myria delicately placed her hand on his face, and the other one on his chest. 

“And I know it’s my fault, as I’m the one always picking fights,” she continued, “and for that I have no explanation. Maybe it’s due to the lack of sleep, maybe it’s simply because being with child gets me into a foul mood, but one thing I know is that it’s not because of you.”

“For every feeling of annoyance I might have towards you, I promise there’s twice as many loving ones. And I apologise if that has made my presence dreadful to you. But I don’t want you to drift away from me, Aemond.” She pleaded, resting her face on his neck. 

He gruffed, letting the rest of his exasperation leave in that exhale, and lowered his gaze towards her.

“Don’t ever worry about that again,” he muttered, leaving a kiss on her forehead.

• • •

The following morning, when she woke up, Aemond was by her side, holding her hand against his chest, as he always did. She turned around to make sure Max was still sleeping, and was relieved to find the baby soundly snoozing on his cradle. 

She then swirled to face her husband once again, and placed a gentle hand on his face. Even in his sleep he didn’t look peaceful, or vulnerable. 

Myria delicately trailed her finger throughout his scar, wishing he would open up more often about the story behind it. She so deeply wanted to be understanding of her husband’s ever lasting quarrel with his nephew, but she couldn’t think of it as any more than that— a childish fight, if he didn’t tell her what had truly happened that night. Sure, he had explained to her how he lost his eye, but the way he narrated it led her to believe it had been more of an unfortunate incident rather than an intentional offence. Aegon had also comedically filled her in about the pig incident, over a few too many cups they had shared, but she thought there was more to it. There had to be more to it. Among the many things Aemond was— childish wasn’t one of them. He wouldn’t be so resentful of the boy unless something more meaningful than what he told her had happened. 

As gentle as she ensured her caresses remained, perhaps she had been thinking too loud, because next thing she knew, Aemond was sleepily opening his eye.

He reached for her hand on his chest, and drew it towards his lips, so he could leave a kiss on it. “Good morning.” He said, in a raspy voice. He then noticed her fingers trailing his scar, and chuckled. “What are you doing?” 

“Good morning, dear.” She whispered, bringing her face closer to his. “I was just fawning over my handsome husband.” 

“Hm.” He hummed, as a flustered smile stretched on his lips. Even when a tiresome frown covered her face, skin pale and frail product of a hard childbirth, he still thought she was the prettiest woman he had ever seen. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her, than to have her, but above all he was a gentleman, and his wife’s comfort would always be a priority to him. He knew it would take time before she could endeavour in such activities, and was fine with that. He was perfectly happy with simply admiring her. Admiring the way her swollen breasts pressed against his body, the way her nightgown enhanced the soft curves of her hips, or the way she bit down on her lips, leaving a faint shade of burgundy in them. 

But Myria must have noticed his gaze fixing on her lips, or maybe she just felt the very obvious arousal in his pants, because she then brought her face to his, pressing their foreheads, and hummed. 

“You can kiss me, if you want.” 

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” 

“A kiss won’t hurt me.” She whispered, closing the gap between them, and left a peck on his lips. 

He didn’t reciprocate at first, still unsure about it; he didn’t want to make her feel as if she owed him that. But he was convinced by the way his wife didn’t seem to care about that, and kept on passionately deepening the kiss. 

He then grabbed her waist and moved her body above his, to both avoid crushing her and letting her be the one in control, and hungrily took on her mouth. His soft, gentle kisses turned into greedy ones, agonising as he couldn’t get enough of her. 

It was when Myria realised how much she had missed having her husband. She yearned for his touch, for his kisses, for his love. But it was a bittersweet feeling— she desired her husband, although she didn’t desire intimacy. She still felt sore, uncomfortable and weak because of the baby. But Aemond knew that, hence his lack of any sort of following advances. He felt entirely content with being able to just hold her, and kiss her. 

They were interrupted by the soft cooing of a baby who had just awakened. Myria laughed into the kiss, and then turned around, to pick the baby into her arms. “Someone wants some attention too.” She chuckled. 

“Greedy.” Aemond joked, straightening up. He reached towards her, so he could take the baby into his arms. He placed his head on both his hands, as to let his little legs kick against his chest. 

Myria sweetly smiled at the sight, since it wasn’t common for Aemond to take that sort of initiative. He was never one to refuse holding his children, whether it was because Myria needed some help, or because the boys demanded him to, but he didn’t usually ask for it. It warmed her heart seeing him get more comfortable in that role— he wouldn’t have dared to carry Trystan with such confidence when he was born, and yet there he was, picking up Max from her own arms, not even asking before. 

She bent towards the baby, so she could leave a kiss on his temple, and with a groan got up from bed, and started to get ready for the day. 

“What are you doing?” Aemond asked, when he saw her change into a lavish, lavender dress. 

“I’m getting ready, we have an important audience to attend today.” She explained, struggling to do the buttons on the back. “Could you come help me button this up?” 

Aemond remained still. “Yesterday you said you didn’t wish to pick on fights, and yet it seems you do everything in your power to make me start an argument.” He hissed. 

“Don’t use that voice, I don’t want the baby to get upset.”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t think you should go, dearest.” Aemond faked a smile.

“Well, I’m going anyway, so I don’t see the point in—

“The Maester said you should rest, an audience where something is bound to go wrong is hardly the place you should drag yourself to.” 

“Then thank the Gods I have a caring, loving husband who will keep me company at all times, ensuring I’m alright.” 

He simply huffed at her, and returned his attention to the baby. “You will never be as troublesome as your mother, right Max?” He asked, tickling the boy’s feet. “She’s certainly proficient at keeping me on my toes.” 

“Otherwise you’d be bored.” She smiled, sitting besides the both. “It’s important that I go, Aemond.” She added, in a serious voice. “My father is the ruling Prince of Dorne, and my sister will inherit that title after him. I’m the only person here at court that can keep them updated on such politics. I don’t wish to be ignorant of them. Please understand.” 

Aemond stared at her for several moments, before answering. “I do.” 

“Thank you.” Myria smiled. “Now, help me get this dress buttoned up, or else I will make a spectacle of myself at court.” 

Aemond placed the baby on his crib, and stood behind his wife. Seeing her bare shoulders brought lustful feelings to the depths of his stomach, but he ignored them. 

“For some reason it doesn’t seem to close.” She complained, as he put his hands on her back, struggling to pin the buttons together.

“Yes, because it doesn’t fit.” He said, innocently. 

Myria turned around, and glared at him with so much fury, he wished he could confront a dragon instead. 

• • •

“What do you know of Velaryon blood, princess?” Vaemond asked, with a smug expression on his face. “I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn’t recognise it.” 

Myria discreetly clenched her fist against the blue fabric of her dress, her other hand tightly around Aemond’s arm. She couldn’t believe the nerve of Corlys’ younger brother. 

Although she could understand where he came from, and his desire to protect his house, Myria would never condone the way he so obscenely disrespected a Princess of the realm, especially in front of her children, who most certainly weren’t at fault for their lineage. 

“This is about the future and survival of my house,” the man continued, “not yours. My queen, my lord hand. This is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the continuation and survival of my house and my line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor. The Lord of Driftmark, and Lord of the Tides.” 

“Thank you, sir Vaemond.” Otto said, from his seat in the Iron Throne. Myria glanced around her, entirely surrounded by people who most certainly rooted for Rhaenyra’s downfall, and thought it was not fair for her. “Princess Rhaenyra,” he then called, “you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.” 

The Princess retracted her hands from her swollen stomach, and trudged towards the centre of the room. “If I am to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding that nearly twenty years ago, in this very—

The Princess' speech was interrupted by the loud noise of the throne room’s door being opened. Myria looked up towards her husband, to see if he was aware of what was happening, but she found him to be as ignorant as she was. 

But her obliviousness was accounted for by the voice of one of the guards. “King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” 

Myria let go of Aemond’s arm in order to get a glimpse of the King. She positioned herself between Aegon and Helaena, and got a better view of the hall. Her heart clenched at the sight of him, ill beyond any cure, dragging himself across the room, with nothing but a cane to support him. His walking was erratic, and sickly, he seemed as if he were about to collapse at any second. She reverently bowed her head as he lumbered past them, worried Viserys would not be able to walk up the stairs. 

“I will sit the Throne today.” He told Otto, stopping before him. 

“Your Grace.” 

A few guards bolted towards the man, in order to aid him, but he refused the help. He then slowly tumbled towards the throne, losing his crown in the process. The piercing noise with which the symbol clattered against the floor was one Myria would never forget. It would forever remind her of the lengths the man would go to protect his first born daughter. 

Daemon was the one to approach him, and placed a steady hand on his lower back, to help him to the seat. With a groan, the King sank into the throne, and Daemon was quick to place the crown on his head. He directed one last nod towards his brother, and returned to Rhaenyra’s side. 

“I must… admit… my confusion.” Viserys said, between heavy breaths. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.”

“Indeed, your Grace.” The woman, who had remained silent and still for most of the audience, confidently walked towards Rhaenyra’s side. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, and nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.” 

Myria looked at Vaemond, and could almost see the smoke coming from his nostrils. He was shivering in fury.

“Well…” Viserys sighed, “the matter is settled. Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.” 

And then it was turmoil. Such words from the King were enough to make Vaemond forget about any kind of protocol, and started accusing the King for breaking centuries long laws and traditions, and condemned Rhaenyra for adultery. 

“Her children are… bastards!” He yelled. “And she is… a whore.” 

The whole crowd, Myria included, gasped in shock that Vaemond would dare say such a thing. Predicting the inevitable, Aemond worriedly reached for Myria’s hand, bringing her closer to him. She clumsily stepped back, until she was by his side, and clutched on his arm. 

In an agonising gesture, The King got to his feet, with all the fury his sickly body allowed him to. “I…” he breathed, reaching for a dagger within his clothes “will have your tongue for that.” 

But Viserys didn’t need to claim any more threats, because quicker than a heartbeat and stealthily than a whisper, Daemon grabbed his sword, and swiftly cut Vaemond’s head in half. 

Myria choked in horror, as Aemond stepped right in front of her, to avoid such unpleasant sights from reaching her eyes. She clenched on his shoulders, starting to feel dizzy. 

Everything following that happened in a blur, and next thing she knew, she was being led by her husband outside the room, towards the gardens. Only when they were both leaning against the terrace, looking at the sea, did he open his mouth. 

“I thought you could use some fresh air, my lady.” 

“Indeed,” she inhaled, trying her best to forever remove the images of Vaemond’s head flying through the air from her brain, “I can’t believe that happened.”

“I do.” He scoffed, rubbing her back with a reassuring pace. “That’s why I didn’t want you to go. Vaemond was bound to lose something for daring to speak in such a way. You” he added, pointing a reproaching finger towards her, “have too reckless a mouth sometimes as well.”

“I would never go as far as calling Rhaenyra’s children illegitimate outside of our bedroom.” She complained. 

“But you would take the risk of yelling in this very garden, for everyone to hear, that you think a deposition against her is being planned.” He said, grabbing a strand of hair the wind had blown against her face and putting it behind her ear. 

Myria closed her eyes at his touch, and inhaled. “You’re right.” She admitted, dropping her shoulders. “It was foolish of me.”

“The yelling was foolish, the speculation not so much.” He said, lowering his voice, eye fixed on the ocean. “I apologise for dismissing your worries that day, truth be told I share them too. But there’s nothing we can do about it, Myria. And there’s nothing we should do about it, especially since we are clearly on opposing fronts.” 

Myria hummed, the feeling of apprehension tightening her chest. “I am never in an opposite front to you, Aemond.” She whispered, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I am by your side, always. I might not agree with… some of your family's doings, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t stand by you, in every possible scenario.” 

“Even if my brother were to be crowned?”

“I am loyal to you.” 

“What if your father took Rhaenyra’s side? If it came to a war, and you were to choose between us or your family?”

“That’s unfair.” She muttered. He simply shrugged. “You are my family, Aemond.” She said, holding his hand, more than anything hoping the time to make such a choice would never come. He nodded, and pressed a kiss on her forehead. 

“Let me escort you to our chambers, you should rest before dinner with our family tonight.” 

“As you wish, my love.” 

• • •

Myria watched as her husband got ready, while gently rocking the baby in her arms. She had already put the boys to bed, after getting on a nice dress and doing a simple hairstyle. Max had finally fallen asleep, when she heard a soft knock on the door. She glanced at Aemond, who left his buttons undone, and pulled the door open. 

“Hi,” Myria greeted the Septa with a whisper, “I just fed Max, and I’ve rocked him to sleep, so I think he should be down for the night. The boys are also in their beds, they shouldn’t be that much trouble. Prince Aemond made sure to tire them out by sparring with them, so they should be snoring already.” She explained, as she placed the baby in the woman’s arms. “Although, Griffin has been having some night terrors, so he might wake up at some point.” 

“Don’t worry, Princess, I know a lot of stories.” The older woman spoke softly, with a soothing smile. 

“Great, he’ll love that.” Myria said, escorting her to the boys’ room. “I’ll fetch the baby when we’re back, thank you.” 

She returned back to her chambers, and promptly helped Aemond get ready. After that, the two of them bolted towards dinner, with Myria walking as fast as his sore body allowed her. 

“We would get there earlier if you carried me.” She asserted, with a condescending pout. 

“I’m not doing that.” 

By the time they reached the room, everyone except for the King had already arrived, and they were either talking or already sitting down. Aemond guided her towards the left side of the table, where his family was, opposite to Rhaenyra’s. Two steps into the room, she could already feel the tension between the two families, especially between the Queen and the Princess.

“Oh, Myria!” Alicent said with delight, when she spotted her. “It’s so nice of you to join us, we weren’t sure if you were coming.” She then turned towards Rhaenyra’s side of the table. “Princess Myria gave birth to a healthy baby boy two nights ago.” She explained. 

“I know,” Rhaenyra smiled, “we crossed paths this morning. The baby is darling. Congratulations, Prince Aemond.” She added, staring at the man. 

He hummed in response, and looked down. “Thank you.”

Alicent stared at her son for a moment, before returning her gaze to Myria. “I hope you’re not overburdening yourself. You shouldn’t have come, darling, given your condition.” 

“Dear mother, my sister is much too nosy to do such a thing.” Aegon cackled. Myria not so discreetly nudged him in his ribs, earning a groan from the man. 

“I would never miss out on such an opportunity to be with family, my Queen.” She said, with a pleasant smile. She then turned towards Aegon, and stared at him with anger. 

Truth be told— she got along with the man, and she thrived on their quarrels. “That hit was pathetic, dear sister.” He whispered to her ear. 

“My apologies, I’ll make sure to carry a dagger next time. Is being stabbed enough for you?” 

“You could stab me in the face and I still wouldn’t look as wretched as you do as of now.” 

Myria stared at him in disbelief. She knew childbirth had taken a toll on her, and that she no longer looked the vivacious, charming woman she had been before. “Too far.” 

“Too far.” Aegon agreed. 

Their bickering was interrupted by the King’s entrance; four bodyguards carrying him in his chair only to place him between his wife and daughter. 

“How good it is… to see you all tonight… together.” He said, once everyone had taken their seats. 

“A prayer before we begin?” Alicent suggested. 

“Yes.” 

Myria glanced towards Aemond, and saw him close his eye and press his hands together, respecting his mother’s wishes, so she did the same. 

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love.” Alicent started. “May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the Gods give him rest.” Myria had her eyes shut, and was on the opposite side of him, and yet she could still sense Daemon’s smug expression. The cackle that came afterwards was embraced with quietude.

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems.” The King broke the silence. “My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further straightening the bond between our houses.” Myria was happy to see both couples smiling fondly at each other. Happy marriages should always be celebrated, she thought. “A toast to the young Princes, and their betrothed.” 

“Hear, hear!” Daemon chanted, as everyone raised their cups. 

“Lets toast as well Prince Lucerys…” Myria noticed Aemond tensing up by her side, so she searched for his hand under the table, and squeezed it, “the future Lord of the Tides.”

“Hear, hear.” 

Viserys then pushed on his cane, to give him strength to stand up, and continued his speech. 

“It both gladdens my heart, and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other… in the years past.” He then used his one hand to take the golden mask off, which fell with a thud on the table. Myria chugged down at the sight. “My own face is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me… as I am. Not just a King, but your father. Your brother. Your husband… and your grandsire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown can not stand strong if the house of the dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances, if not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all… so dearly.” As if talking had drained his remaining energy, the King plopped down on his seat, with Alicent’s aid to put back his mask. 

To everyone’s surprise, Rhaenyra then stood up, and raised her cup. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen.” Alicent turned her gaze towards her, with a sorrowful expression on her face. “I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with… unfailing devotion, love and honour. And for that she has my gratitude… and my apology.” 

The room waited unusually quiet, as whispers of truce wandered around the table. Neither Myria nor the rest had any way of knowing, but it was more than truce. Friendship, once forgotten, ruined by the vile strings of destiny. 

“Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess.” Alicent muttered. “We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common that we sometimes allow. I raise my cup to you… and to your house. You will make a fine Queen.” 

Myria reached once again for Aemond’s hand below the table, as Alicent’s words filled her body with warmth, and peace. She wouldn’t have to pick. The future she so dreaded, the one she and her husband had discussed that very morning, slipping away, leaving nothing but sour feelings, the kind a bad dream left. Frightening, but comforting by the fact that they would never become true. She brushed his hand, but her gesture wasn’t reciprocated. 

She glanced towards Aemond, who looked as calm as the next person, but Myria knew him better. He was angry, trying his best to prevent his emotions from breaking out. She couldn’t help but to think one last apology was overdue. How different things would’ve ended up otherwise. 

Everyone then sipped on their cups, and the feast began. Myria saw Aegon get up from her side, towards Jace, but didn’t think much of it. Only after getting startled by Jacaerys’ strong fist against the table did she look towards them. 

“To Prince Aegon and… Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may be friends and allies. To you and your families’ good health, dear uncles.” 

Myria raised her cup to that, and gave it a sip. She didn’t catch the look of betrayal her husband sent at her. 

Helaena was then the one to stand up, and raised her cup. “I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad, mostly he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.” Myria looked up towards her, and lovingly grabbed her hand. Above everyone in Aemond’s family, Helaena was the one Myria loved the most. The girl had become a sister to her, and she regarded her as one. She resented the way Aegon treated her. 

Myria didn’t realise, but both she and Helaena became targets of pitiful stares from the other side of the table. If only they knew what a wonderful husband Aemond was to her. Truth be told— she was prepared for someone not even half as great as he was to her. 

“Let’s us have some music.” The King asked, and instruments started playing. Both Jace and Luke rose from their seats, and walked towards the two girls at the other end of the table. 

Luke offered his hand to Myria, in an invitation to dance, and she couldn’t help but to take it. She knew her husband would feel betrayed by her doing so, but not accepting it would’ve been taken as a gesture of hostility… and she really loved to dance, an activity which Aemond rarely granted his company for. 

She accepted the boy’s hand with a shy smile on her face, and joined the other two on their dance. Her movements were sluggish and erratic, given that she still felt pretty sore, but Luke seemed to catch up on that, and corresponded with her pace. Helaena and Myria beamed and laughed at each other each time their paths crossed, excited for being able to endeavour in such a diversion. 

Only when the room went still as the King being taken away by guards, did she notice how carried on she had gotten. She looked towards Aemond, and found him staring at her, with a fervid glare tracing her frame as she danced. 

Guilt set on the depths of her stomach, and so she thanked Luke for the dance, and returned to her husband’s side. She tried grabbing his hand, not daring to look at him, but her advances were, rather painfully, rejected by him. She then raised her gaze, only to see him intensely staring at Luke across the table, as a pig was placed in front of them. She saw the boy’s grin, and knew that would be the last straw. 

She tried stopping Aemond from getting up, after he smashed an angry fist against the table, but he cruelly pushed her hands down. “Final tribute.” He announced. “To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… strong.” 

“Aemond.” She whispered, scared of the outcome his reckless words were doomed to have. 

“Come,” he continued, “let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys.”

“I dare you to say that again.” Jace threatened him, threateningly walking towards him. 

“Why?” Aemond cackled, approaching him as well. ‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?” 

Jace slapped him in the face, and Myria gasped in terror. Aemond stood still, rather amused at the boy’s effort. She tried grabbing one of his arms, but he gently shoved her backwards. 

Chaos broke in the room as Aegon pushed Luke against the table, and Rhaenyra and Alicent yelled for everyone to stop. Aemond knocked Jace to the floor, and turned around chuckling. Myria was petrified at the sight of her husband apparently enjoying all of it. 

She froze in panic, as her gaze reached his, and showed no remorse whatsoever in his semblance. She looked at him, unintentionally staring at him appalled, which she then regretted upon seeing his hurtful expression. She had done the one thing she had promised him she would never do: not being on his side. And for that, Myria could not forgive herself. 

Alicent ran past her, to approach him. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?” She whispered, with anger. 

“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother.” He replied, rather loudly, not reciprocating his mother’s attempt to keep their discussion away from everyone’s ears. “Hm, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs!” 

Jace bolted towards him, as to start a fight again, and he would’ve done so, if it weren’t for Daemon stepping in between the two. 

“Wait, wait.” He said, calmly. He stared at the man he believed to be the root of the chaos, and Aemond held his gaze for a couple of seconds, until he awkwardly looked away, and left the room. 

“Wait, Aemond!” Myria called him, but he didn’t turn back. He wasn’t running, but he was walking at a pace fast enough she couldn’t keep up with him, hard as she tried. “Aemond, wait for me.” She whined, earning no response from him. She kept following him across the hallway, until she couldn’t. 

The Maester had been right, she was in no condition to handle all of that. She should’ve stayed in her room. That way, she wouldn’t have caused that mess. Most importantly, she wouldn’t have caused her husband such pain. She leaned against a wall, heavily breathing, and closed her eyes. She was busy trying to calm her racing heart, when she felt a hand lay on her lower back. 

“Come on.” He said, grabbing her by the waist, and effortlessly raising her in his arms— yet refusing to meet her eyes. 

“I’m sorry.” She whimpered, a lump full of unspoken emotions choked her throat, as hot tears streamed down her cheeks. “Gods, Aemond, I am so, so sorry.” She threw her arms around him, burying him in a hug. He instinctively embraced her back, resting his cheek against her head. Her face was laying on top of his shoulders, and he could feel her relentless sobs on his neck. She didn’t deserve such kindness from him. 

He always savoured seeing those who he felt had wronged him in pain, but his wife could never possibly do wrong enough for him to enjoy her anguish. He felt as if he were the one being tortured instead, which wasn’t fair at all given the situation.

“Shh.” He calmed her, tenderly rubbing her back. “I am not angry at you.” 

“I—I know.” She hiccuped. “But I am m—mad at myself.” 

Aemond figured there was nothing he could do about that, so he simply kissed her forehead, and kept on carrying her towards their shared room. Once they reached it, he decided to drop on the plush chair by the bookshelves, with Myria still on top of him. 

She kept on quietly tearing up on the crook on his neck, while he reached towards the chair arm, from which her legs were dangling. He took each of her shoes away, letting them fall with a thud against the floor. 

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” She cried, finally lifting her gaze towards his. 

“I am upset with you.” He had no trouble confessing that. “But not as upset as you seem to be with yourself. Why?” 

“I danced with Luke. Wasn’t that the reason you got so furious?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t enjoy that, but I’d say I’m more angry at Lucerys because of it than you.” 

“That’s exactly what upsets me!” She sobbed. He stared at her in confusion, and disbelief. His wife’s erratic emotions weren’t that much of a thrill to him. “That I don’t know how you feel, or how you might feel. That I fail to understand why a childish quarrel that’s over ten years old enrages you so much! And I’ve come to realise it’s my fault. That I’ve never tried enough to force it out of you!” 

He drew his lips into a line, and stared out the window. 

“Did you get angry because of the pig, then?” She asked. He abruptly looked at her again, visibly bewildered. He had never told her that story. He was about to ask her where she had heard such a tale, when— Aegon. Of course. Myria wasn’t one to drink that much, but she did rather indulge in a few too many more cups than what she could handle when enjoying dinner with his brother. Most of those times Aemond didn’t pay attention to their blabbers.   

“Of course it wasn’t about the stupid pig.” He snapped, angry, and certainly not desiring to discuss such a topic. He tried to move her aside so he could get up, but she placed a hand on his chest and softly pushed him back. 

“Aemond… what really happened that night?” 

He looked at her, and grunted. He didn’t want to talk about it, not then, not ever. He didn’t owe anyone the reasoning behind his grudges. They were there. They stood there, as the angry, newly red scar crossed his face, and blamed him for it. Rhaenyra herself asked for him to be tormented for simply stating the truth. What everybody already knew. 

As she reached for the buckle behind his head, lovingly undoing it to then leave a kiss above the sapphire in his eye, he realised his poor wife didn’t deserve his cold temper. She hadn’t been there, she had no way of knowing. She didn’t understand it was more than a childish grudge, because he had never let her believe otherwise. Perhaps he was too afraid of being vulnerable. He looked up towards her, and found that if ever there was a moment to be such a thing, it was with her. His adoring wife. The woman who kissed his scar each time she caught a glimpse of it. The woman who put up with his temper with a loving smile on her face. The woman who had never, not even once, rejected any part of him, and instead embraced the whole of him, bad and worse. The woman who had honoured him with being the mother of his children. And then the words came flooding. 

He told her how the rest of the kids had ganged up against him, for claiming Vaghar as his own. He explained how he had never been serious about hurting them, and yet he still lost his eye. He told her how his mother had been the only one who had actually cared about him getting irreparably hurt, and the embarrassment everyone put her through that night. 

“I got angry because my father dragged himself from deathbed today to defend what my sister brought on herself and yet he couldn’t care less when I lost an eye.” He explained. “I am mad that my mother, the only person who stood by me, was put to shame that night, being treated like a crazy woman. I am mad that my nephews seem to thrive on it. And I am mad that no one seems to understand that.” 

“I understand, now.” She said, tearing up. “You deserve an apology, Aemond. Both you, and your mother. It’s not childish to want one, it's what you’re due.”

He very simply stared at her, softening his sharpened features as the sight of her tears, and kissed her hand. 

“I am sorry I didn’t understand before.” 

“It’s not your fault.” 

“Yes it is.” She said. “I am your wife. And I promised you I would always be by your side, but tonight I wasn’t. And I apologise for that.” She inhaled, bracing up in courage to say her next words. “I love you, Aemond. And I want my actions, all of them, to be a testament of that.”

He wasn’t crying, and he wouldn’t cry, such a gesture didn’t even cross his mind. Crying was a reaction long lost in him, it took too much of an effort. But he was moved— he wouldn’t deny so. He very subtly nodded, and buried his head against her chest, gripping on her back. They remained like that until Myria fell asleep, and Aemond carried her to bed. He laid down next to her, holding tight onto her body, and for the first time in a very long time found sleep with his mind at peace.

****

a/n: i hope you enjoy this! and i hope it's not too long lol. just a few notes on the chapter: Aegon is not as shitty as he is in the show, and also Viserys' illness doesn't progress as quickly. Thank you so much for reading!

@cherryaemond

[nyphacide]

flame lilies • aemond/lannister oc

story masterlist ──★ ˙ ̟

summary: "Dyanna was lucky. Or at least that was what everyone around her seemed to think. A Targaryen prince, her mother said, the most powerful man in Westeros, second only to the king himself. Then why, as he kisses her dryly on her lips and the Septon declares them wife and husband, does she not feel like it?"

or: The daughter of Johanna Lannister is married off to the vicious and cold-hearted Hand of the King and she couldn’t be more miserable.

tags: arranged marriage, explicit smut, grief, mourning, angst, politics, fix-it of sorts, war aftermath (the greens win).

chapter 1 (soon) | ao3 link (soon)

[thethyri]

𖦹. 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 *𖧧₊‧ In an effort to reconcile his family, King Viserys decides that his granddaughter, Jaehaena Velaryon, and his secondborn son, Aemond, shall marry and, with hope, mend the old grievances and rifts that have torn the family asunder for too long. Although they abide by His Grace's desire, Jaehaena and Aemond are reluctant and hesitant about this marriage, having grown up amidst the hostility and the bitter rivalry between their mothers. Yet, despite their prejudices and qualms, it appears that Jaehaena and Aemond were truly meant to be.

𖦹. 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒 ₊̇*⸼ Aemond Targaryen x Jaehaena Velaryon (Original Female Character), Aegon II Targaryen x Helaena Targaryen, Rhaenyra Targaryen x Daemon Targaryen, Haenar Velaryon (Original Male Character) x Daerys Baratheon (Original Female Character), Jacaerys Velaryon x Baela Targaryen, Lucerys Velaryon x Rhaena Targaryen. 

𖦹. 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 *𖧧₊‧ Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Non-Canon Compliant, Fix-It of Sorts, Original Female Characters, Original Male Characters, The Dance of Dragons Does Not Happen, Canon-Typical Violence, Slow Burn, Arranged Marriage, Marriage of Convenience, Targcest, Multiple Smuts (Ratings Specified In Concerned Chapters), Multiple Graphic Descriptions Of Eye Socket, Multiple Semi-Graphic Description of Childbirth, Way Too Many Banquets And Feasts Descriptions, Touch-Starved Aemond, Protective Aemond, Possessive Aemond, Aegon Is Not A Rapist, Helaena Needs A Hug, Helaena Is the Sweetest Of Sweethearts, Alicent Deserves Better, Rhaenyra's Redemption Arc, Old Valyria And Valyrian Culture, Myths And Customs.

𖦹. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 ₊̇*⸼ 2,171k.

THE MEADS MENU. + French Ver. + Archive Of Our Own. + Playlist. ₊‧ 

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐈. 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐒 & 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐈. 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒 & 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･ 

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄❟ 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added !  𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐍. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘. ⊰‧₊˚･ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 .𖦹 To be added ! 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 .𖦹 To be added !

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 & 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒. *𖧧₊‧  𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 & 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒. ⊹˖˚ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 & 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒. *𖧧₊‧  𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 & 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐈 𝐈𝐈. ⊹˖˚ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 & 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒. *𖧧₊‧  𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 & 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐈 𝐈𝐈. ⊹˖˚

𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐍-𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐒 𝐈. *𖧧₊‧ 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐍-𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐒 𝐈𝐈. ⊹˖˚ 

𝐉𝐀𝐄𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐍𝐀❜𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒. *𖧧₊‧ 𝐉𝐀𝐄𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐍𝐀 & 𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃❜𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒. ⊹˖˚ 𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐍 & 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐄𝐍𝐀❜𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒. *𖧧₊‧

©TheThyri. All rights content belong to @thethyri. Do not repost, translate or plagiarize my works in any way or on any other platform without my permission. Gif rightfully belongs to @hvitserkk.

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

Wylla Karstark is content with her life in the far reaches of the North, happy to be so far from the brewing war that threatens to tear apart the country. She has everything she ever thought she needed - her brothers, her mother, the land she loves. Then Aemond Targaryen tumbles from the sky, abandoned by his dragon and left at her mercy, pressing at her every nerve and opening her eyes to the possibility of life beyond Karhold.

But what happens when the tables turn and it's Wylla who finds herself under the thumb of the One-Eyed Prince and thrust into a war she has little hope of surviving? Can a fox endure the attention of a dragon?

You can find they say I killed you (haunt me then) on ao3. Updates every other Sunday (ish).

And all of my love to @emilykaldwen for making this incredible gif

[lola-writes]

One-Eye & the Dreamer

Part 5

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x O.C Aylana Velaryon

Word Count: 1,8k

Themes & Warnings: slow burn, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, violence, blood, targcest, sexual themes, tension, drama, angst, fix-it of sorts, eventual smut, sexual inexperience, forbidden love, high valyrian, dance of dragons, POV first person

Summary: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

More chapters

– AYLANA –

in the aftermath, she shines.

blue fire in her palms; bloody roses in her hair.

she rises out of the sea.

nothing burns as bright as she.

The heat was a relentless beast, even in the absence of the sun, clawing at me with its suffocating breath. Sleep remained stubbornly out of reach. I tossed and turned like a ship in a storm until I got a crick in my neck, the sheets twisting into a tangled prison. 

Finally, I heaved myself out of bed and stumbled towards the basin, splashing myself with its tepid water. It offered me a fleeting reprieve, but a blessed oblivion seemed miles away.

Resigned, I got dressed, twisted my hair into a messy braid, and approached the wall in the back corner of my chamber. My hands rummaged across the familiar nooks and crannies of its rocky facade. If my memory did not fail me, this is where …

The wall suddenly shuddered in protest as it ground open into a gaping maw of darkness.

Maegor’s tunnels.

I grinned with satisfaction and threw one look over my shoulder before I vanished into its jaws, the heavy stone door groaning shut behind me.

My ancestor, King Maegor Targaryen, had them built as a secret escape route, a spider’s web spun beneath the Red Keep itself. Legends whispered of treacherous passageways, some so narrow they forced grown men to crawl, some booby-trapped with deadly cunning. Some coursed right outside the royal apartments, allowing a hidden person to unravel the darkest secrets.

The darkness pressed against me, thick and alive with possibility. Wind wailed through unseen cracks and rats skittered across the floors. The oil lanterns, flickering like trapped souls on the rough-hewn walls, cast long, distorted shadows that danced at the edge of my vision. They grew scarcer the further I went. 

The lower I delved, the cooler the air became – a welcome change. Though, the rats appeared to grow larger down here. Or was my mind playing tricks on me?

I took a right turn, then a left turn, continued ahead forty paces, then turned left again, just as I remembered. It would not bode well to get lost in here.

After what felt like an eternity of wandering the ancient tunnels, a sliver of grey pierced the oppressive darkness. Relief surged through me, and I quickened my pace. The passage widened, and with a final heave, I pushed myself through the opening. 

The warm night air washed over me again as I exited onto a rocky ledge overlooking the Blackwater. Moonlight painted a shimmering path across its surface, the sereneness only disturbed by the pulse of King’s Landing’s unseen heart. The distant sounds of laughter, the clatter of carts, and drunken brawls drifted from above. 

I started down the stairs, raising my skirts as I went. The lapping waves whispered promises of cool relief, carrying a breeze in toward the land. The water - the singular antidote for my tenacious perspiration – looked so inviting I did not linger to shed my dress, allowing it to pool down my slicked body. The ground turned from rocks to sand beneath my feet, then, the seawater embraced me like a long-lost friend, its coolness seeping into my bones, washing away all the grime, tension and vigil that stained me. My arms churned, propelling me into the moonlit body of the Blackwater with long strokes. The Red Keep, a hulking silhouette against the star-dappled sky, receded with each powerful kick. Its lit windows like eyes, watching me full of judgement. But in that moment beneath the vast expanse of the night, my naked body submerged beneath the water, I was descended into pure, unadulterated freedom. I doused myself in the cool seawater and exhaled with relief. 

For the briefest second – no, rather five, I thought life as a common-born would be preferable to this gilded cage I was living.

A low rumble, like a distant drumbeat, sounded across the Blackwater. Thunder? I cast my gaze to the star-dusted canvas, unencumbered by clouds. It would be impossible. It rumbled anew, closer this time, a tremor that sent shivers down my spine and iced my veins. 

Then, a massive silhouette descended from the heavens, blotting out the moon with its immensity. My pulse leapt into my throat.

Vhagar.

Her great, tattered leather, stretched taut like sails, beat the air with a thunderous rhythm, propelling her colossal form towards the city. In the ethereal, silver-lit night she was a nightmare made real, a monstrous beauty, a morbid fascination that would’ve held me captive if it weren’t for the plaguing question at hand,

Was she carrying her rider? I wondered. The idea was disconcerting. Though, a strange quiver bubbled through my core as I watched her draw closer. 

And closer. 

Closer still.

Taking a deep breath, I submerged myself fully beneath the dark, counting seconds, listening to the eerie silence of the depths, until I watched Vhagar’s blurry form pass overhead through the water’s surface. 

Once I could no longer feel her thunder, I surfaced, filling my lungs.

The encounter left me adrift in a sea of uncertainty. The cool allure of the water now felt distant, replaced by a chilling dread.

Had Aemond seen me? The question hammered in my skull, a relentless beating that drowned out any remaining peace, leaving me perturbed.

Would that if he was mounted at all? Vhagar might have just been flying all by herself. 

But if she wasn’t, what would bring him out at such a time? It was well into the hour of the wolf. 

Questions spun endlessly in my mind as I got myself to shore, not ceasing as I made my way into the tunnels. 

I decided I would not care whether or not I’d been exposed. 

I am the princess, I thought, a feeble attempt to anchor myself. Soon to be the heir to the Iron Throne. I can do what I like. Yet, the words tasted like ash in my mouth.

I could’ve relished the defiance of being seen, a secret rebellion against the court’s watchful eyes. But the consequences were too dire. A single word from Aemond to his mother, and the gossip would erupt into a wildfire, consuming my mother’s claim and scorching my legitimacy. 

Shame burned hot in my throat. The risk I had taken, the foolish yearning for a sliver of freedom, suddenly felt reckless.

Stupid fucking girl. My thoughts echoed in the silent tunnels. Why don’t you think twice?

But defiance flickered once again, a stubborn ember I liked to breathe life into.

It doesn’t matter what people think. 

The internal battle raged on, mirroring the fight for control in my shaking limbs. Twice, I nearly lost my way, the darkness reflecting the turmoil within me.

Reaching the upper levels, I ghosted past identical doors, taking great care in choosing the one to my apartments.

The silence, only momentarily interrupted by my breathing, took a sudden turn when I passed one of the doors.

“Pass me that, would you?”

A muffled voice came from behind it, and I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. Without thinking, I pressed against the cool stone, trying to discern its owner.

“You’ve had enough.” Another voice, laced with vexation.

“Not nearly.”

A tremor of recognition shot through me, and nerves played beneath my skin.

“You drink more than a Braavosi Sealord.” Aemond’s voice was undeniable, a hint of resignation colouring his tone, a concession to his elder brother’s legendary indulge. 

Words or gestures were exchanged beyond my hearing.

“Don’t be a twat,” muttered Aegon, “You haven’t even touched your cup.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Suit yourself.” 

The sounds that followed painted a vivid picture: the scrape of a chair, a cup being drained with a heavy sigh, then a collapse back down.

“This Arbor gold has gone sour.”

“Dornish red,” Aemond corrected dryly.

Aegon scoffed. “Figures. Speaking of which, I’ve been told the so-called prince of Dorne graced us with his presence.”

“Indeed,” Aemond replied curtly.

“Cunt. Why is he here, anyway?” Aegon pressed.

“Private business, I believe.”

Aegon groaned theatrically. “Go on, brother, you always know more than that.” A playful edge crept into Aegon’s voice as he creaked in his chair.

“Find another source of gossip,” snapped Aemond.

Aegon groaned loudly.

“Mayhaps an abstemious habit might grant you access to firsthand information.”

Aegon mimicked him with slurred fraternal mockery, but Aemond did not retaliate, though the disdain that oozed from him was tangible.

“That’s why I have you,” said Aegon finally.

“Hmmph.”

“Not to worry, dear brother. I shall remain sober enough to mess with the Strong children.” Aegon rubbed his hands together vindictively, a grin in his voice. “The eldest one looked…”

My breath caught in my throat.

“Exceptionally tasty,” said Aegon salaciously.

Bile crept up my throat to his words, and my revolt was so strong I nearly retreated back into the tunnels, but a prickle of defiance held me rooted. Later, I’d curse that defiance.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” Aegon drawled, a cruel amusement in his voice, “I am merely reflecting your own… prior interest.” 

“You are mistaken.”

“To even think is to covet, dear brother.”

Venom poured into Aemond’s voice, “Aylana is as significant to me as a whisper in the Dragonpit.”

A strange ache bloomed in my chest.

“An illegitimate bastard styling herself as Velaryon,” he sneered. 

I could not bear to hear anymore. I pushed myself off the wall and continued my path forward, a curious emptiness hollowing me, a sticking feeling behind my eyelids. Aemond’s words, an endless echo in my mind, consumed me, to the point that I must have dissociated, for I could not recall how I reached my chambers. I had collapsed onto my bed, the emptiness and a bitter taste of betrayal warring within me, until blessed oblivion finally claimed me.

The press of bodies surrounded me endlessly, a pulsating mass that swayed to the relentless beat of the drums. As I filtered through their celebration, I found myself standing in front of the Iron Throne. Its jagged edges, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, seemed to drip with dark history.

“Your refreshment, princess.” Prince Marius Martell materialized beside me, offering me a goblet of emerald crystal, adorned with gold filigree. His dark gaze remained fixed on me as he took two large gulps of his wine. As I placed the rim to my lips, a choke tore from his throat. 

A crimson tide spilled from his mouth, and his eyes wept blood. Panic clawed at my throat. The goblet slipped from my grasp, clattering on the stone floor. Prince Marius crumpled into my arms, and I watched his slow, tremoring demise, infarctions webbing the veins of his throat, his eyes, wide and vacant, staring sightlessly through empty space as his body went still.

I awoke with a heart-wrenching gasp, clawing at my sheets desperately. The morning sun was pouring through the window like liquid gold and birds sang their performances. 

As my ragged breath calmed in my chest and reality dawned upon me, terror lingered, its cold, icy hands gripping my heart.

A shiver coiled down my spine. As much as I did not want to believe it, it would be foolish to ignore my heart’s indisputable warning. They had not come to me in years, yet this night I knew it to be true.         

It was a Dream – as clear as this room, as clear as my own name.

Something terrible was going to happen.

More chapters

[ladylaviniya]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐳𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 — 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟕

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟔 || 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 || 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟖

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 - 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤!𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐗 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 (𝐌𝐲 𝐎𝐅𝐂)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐄𝐚𝐭, 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭-𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐀𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝, 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐜𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 (𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐢𝐭)

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟖.𝟑𝐤

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬:

★𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 – 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐩𝐮𝐭𝐬, 𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐤𝐮𝐝𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐈 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐭, 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐝.

★𝐔𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐈'𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲/𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐬𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞!

★𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝟐 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐞𝐧𝐚 🥺😭 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧- 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭-𝐦𝐮𝐦.

★𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟖 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 - 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝.

𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: "𝐓𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫" 𝐛𝐲 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬

As she entered his chambers and beheld him again, she couldn’t help but feel a slap of apprehension, aware of the scantiness of her attire

Just as he said, the King was there, waiting for her with a fresh bundle of linen bandages and a silver washbasin. “Have a seat,” he said, his tone somewhere between a request and a command. Her eyes narrowed, wondering why the Maester was not present to tend to her wound.

She could feel his stare on her body as she walked over to the chair, the King’s eyes roaming over her form in a casual and intrusive manner. Trying to ignore his gaze, she sat down stiffly in the chair that he had indicated, her body rigid with tension and discomfort.

He lowered himself down next to her, their physical differences striking. While she was clad in a thin layer of fabric, he was comfortably clothed. Her bare toes scraped against the cold stone floor, in stark contrast to his sturdy boots. The difference between them seemed magnified by their respective attire, only further highlighting the power imbalance that existed between them.

“If it’s all the same,” she said quietly, her voice sounding small and tentative. “I’d prefer the Maester, Your Majesty.” Or a servant. Or even the knight standing outside your door. Anyone else would be more appropriate. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her eyes darting between him and the washbasin sitting between them.

 “Don’t be ridiculous,” The King’s pleasant tone cut through the tense air, dismissing her concerns with a wave of his hand. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t take care of my guests?” He extended his hand, his palm facing up and waiting expectantly. “Now, please shed your robe my lady, I need you to show me your shoulder.”

‘guests?’ she struggled not to roll her eyes, she was not a guest, she was a prisoner. His prisoner.

Despite her distrust, she sensed he was not looking to cause her more pain. She looked at his outstretched hand, hesitating before she finally gave up any thoughts of resisting. Carefully, she grabbed the edge of her velvet dressing gown, lifting the fabric over her shoulder, exposing her wet bandaged shoulder. His calloused fingers brushed against her skin, and she looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

Laviniya, struggling to distract herself from the uncomfortable situation, searched for a topic of conversation that didn’t involve completely ignoring Aemond’s presence. She fixed her gaze on his hair from the corner of her eyes.

“Your hair is now white, Ser Mart-” she quickly corrected herself, her voice barely above a whisper, “Your Grace.”

He lifted his chin and chuckled, a hint of arrogance in his tone. “It is still a light salmon shade,” he conceded, “but yes, I had been looking forward to washing out that putrid beetroot blend. I must admit, I make a fine red head, don’t I?” 

She felt compelled to agree, the power and authority in his voice leaving her no choice but to submit. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip as she nodded in acknowledgment. Despite his stunning appearance, his hair colour was not what she found particularly attractive about him. It was hard to be attracted to a brute, a kidnapper, a murderer and, a lying scoundrel like the King.

His grip was firm but surprisingly warm as he held her bicep, lifting her injured arm up and starting to unwrap the old bandaging. She felt a shiver run down her spine as his other hand started to expertly loosen the knots of the old wrappings. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but flinch under his touch, the memory of his rough treatment before her bath still fresh in her mind.

She winced involuntarily as she recalled his callous thumb digging right into her injury, the pain sharp and raw. But now, the King’s movements were markedly different, slow and meticulous as he skilfully unravelled the layers of bandage, drawing closer and closer to the wound. The care he was taking might have even been called gentle – if it had come from anyone else but him.

As the last coil of bandage was pulled away, revealing the raw, inflamed flesh of her wound, the King could not help but comment, feigning concern. “Oh dear me,” he said, his eyebrows raising in mock surprise. “All this blood, why, I do have to wonder how this came to happen.” His words, though spoken in a tone of concern, was flooded with sarcasm.

Aemond the Conqueror was looking more like Aemond the Cruel.

 “Your handiwork, I believe, your grace,” she said dryly, her words laced with venom. He knew exactly what he had done, of course, but she said it anyway, feeling the need to remind him of his brutality. She avoided looking at her injury overall, knowing it was likely an ugly and raw sight.

 “I couldn’t possibly know what you mean,” He continued in that same infuriatingly mild tone, a barely suppressed smirk playing on his lips. “I do hope you take better care of yourself.”

She felt a fire of vexation, burning hot between the urge to snap back at him and the desire to beg him to stop mocking her. Instead, she forced herself to take a deep breath and exhale all her fury and fire. She knew she couldn’t let him provoke her, as he was likely enjoying watching her being winded up. That was probably his intention from the beginning.

King Aemond was most definitely a bully.

She watched in silence as he picked up a washing cloth, dipping it into the basin before bringing it back to her shoulder.

He warned her softly, “This will sting a little, at first.” Then he began dabbing the cloth against her injury, his touch surprisingly gentle. The warm cloth against the raw, inflamed skin stung at first, making her reflexively flinch.

She could feel the faint prickle of pain as the cloth came into contact with her injured flesh, but it was relatively mild, considering the severity of the injury. She bit her lip to hold back a hiss or gasp, hoping not to give the king anything else to mock.

Her gaze was still averted as she gathered her thoughts, finally finding her voice again. “You really don’t think I was being reasonable, under duress?” her voice was still a little shaky from the pain of his ministrations.

 “Reasonable is a rather relative term Lady Laviniya,” She grimaced as he continued dabbing her injury, his matter-of-fact tone grating on her nerves. “Mayhaps it was most unreasonable under another’s authority in capture and confinement.”

 She clenched her jaw tightly, biting back the urge to reply with something snappish.

His voice became slow, “But you witnessed the befall of Ser Corwyn, you knew my terms. Did it really seem reasonable for you to tempt my fury?”

She said nothing, but her expression spoke volumes about what she thought of his explanation.

She sat there, feeling uncomfortable and uneasy as he continued to tend to her injury, his hands holding her shoulder in a firm but gentle grip. His proximity was overwhelming, his presence so close that she could feel the tension and wariness building in her heart. Despite this, she attempted to distract herself from his presence by looking anywhere but at him, her violet eyes darting nervously around the room.

“I didn’t know your anger was that easily tempted,” She let out a deep sigh, her voice coated with passivity, “Maybe I should have, even if you were a Hightower,” She paused, contemplating whether it would be wiser to remain silent. The King’s smirk widened at her words, and he continued tending to her injury with surprising gentleness, using the warm cloth to softly clean and soothe the raw, inflamed flesh.

She couldn’t deny that his hands and the cloth felt soothing to her.

“Well Lady Laviniya, it does seem that - throwing a goblet of wine at me seemed fairly reasonable to you. I do have to wonder about the respectability of your tutors who may have taught such bad manners,” his voice was light, teasing, “You are lucky, I suppose. I’ve killed for less,” but this time, it sounded more like a fact than a threat. His gaze met hers, and she could see a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He reached down and cupped her hand, “Come, let us put that behind us,” he said, a hint of playfulness in his tone. “I have faith you will keep all your lovely fingers if you but obey me.” He pressed her fingers to his lips, nibbling delicately at the tips of her nails.

Her lilac eyes shifted down to her knees to avoid meeting his. Her heart thudded in her chest as that familiar flush of warmth crept into her cheeks. She was aware of the subtle condescension in his tone, and it was a bitter wine to swallow – being treated as a child who knew nothing. She pulled her hand from his smoothly.

She felt his proximity as a heavy weight in the air, but she pressed on, adding, “I swear not to throw wine at you if you would refrain from… gagging and tying me up.” She paused, contemplating adding ‘kidnap’ to the list, but it seemed unnecessary.

The cloth he used had become stained with her blood, and he wrung it out in the basin before returning to her injury, patting it gently against her shoulder.

She felt him chuckling before hearing him.

“That is where our understandings diverge, fair lady,” he continued. His tone was still pleasant, almost instructive, but now there was no mistaking the warning in his words. “You are in my care, and you are by no means in a position to barter your situation. Should you...accost me... With more wine or any other item, I assure you, I can make your situation far more uncomfortable. Or did you not learn that the first time with Ser Corwyn? Who else needs die at the disobedient stupidity of a scared little girl?”

Her throat felt dry as tears burned behind her eyes.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “there is little you can do to me... beyond your small flares of defiance, which, while impressively inconvenient at times, can ultimately be stifled if I so desire.” There was a long pause, heavy with tension, as she sat there, bristling at his words and stewing in her own thoughts.

“So it’s too much for me to request not to be gagged, tied up or cut in the future?” Laviniya asked, her voice taut with frustration and suppressed anger.

Aemonds smirk returned, his expression almost mocking as he replied. “I didn’t say that,” he said, his tone light and teasing. “You can most certainly ask.”

He may not have said aloud, but even Laviniya predicted that King Aemond took pleasure and enjoyment from thing her up and gagging her, forcing her to be helpless to his power.

“Apologies, I will ask instead, is it too much to assume that I won’t be cut or gagged or tied up?” she retorted, attempting to clarify her point.

He replied, his voice was patronizing. “cutting is rather unlikely,” he answered, as though that was some great favour on his part.

“It was not my preferred method, I assure you Lady Laviniya, however during our encounter in the Godswood, the circumstances were, shall we say, unique and required unique handling. I will probably not deprive you of your voice unless you give me reason to like our time has been on the road,” he added, a hint of mockery in his voice. “How could I do without your sweet wit, darling girl?”

He pinched her cheeks and forced her to face him, his fingers pushed aside a single white hair away from her eyes as he stared at her lips, “My point is, Lady Laviniya, that the extent of your comfortability in my care relies entirely on my discretional constitution,” he paused, his expression almost amused, “and occasionally on my generous whims. So I can only advise, should you obediently behave to my pleasures, I will be a most generous caretaker. But do not misconstrue it as an equal bargain between us. You are merely a lamb with wings from the country,” he hummed, “I am the King who brought the seven kingdoms to its fucking knees, born blood of the dragon, rider of Vhaegar.”

‘But Vhaegar is dead my lord,’ is what Laviniya desperately desired to say.

She fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat, the urge to snatch her shoulder away from his grasp becoming almost unbearable. “So nothing is guaranteed,” she said, her voice laced with frustration. “Even if I behave, I’m still at the mercy of your whims.”

He smirked at her words, his tone light and almost mocking. “Generous whims,” he corrected her. “If you keep your flying cups to yourself.”

He finished cleaning her skin, the cloth softly running over the area one last time. “How does that feel?” he asked, his breath hot against her neck.

She suppressed a shiver, she felt ripples of warmth go through her. Laviniya considered that this caring role he played was an act for her betterment, just like how Ser Martyn during Cyvasse was all an act too.

“Better, your grace.” she murmured, her voice betrayed her weariness, “Thankyou, your grace.”

She bristled as he spoke, unable to resist mocking her yet again. “How fortunate that you have me taking care of you,” he said, his tone mocking and amused. She watched as he set the damp cloth aside and picked up a dry one, beginning to carefully pat her skin dry. “What would you do without me?” he hummed humorously.

She remained silent, keeping her gaze fixed on her knees, refusing to respond directly to his mocking tone.

The King seemed almost unsatisfied with her lack of response, his eyes betraying a hint of disappointment in her refusal to engage in his banter. He picked up a fresh piece of linen, neatly folded beside the basin, and began wrapping it around her shoulder.

He broke the silence, speaking casually as though they were engaged in simple, harmless small talk. “So you never suspected who I was, even after we spent so much time together?” he prompted her.

Her knees angled away from him, creating a small gap between them. Again, she refused to respond, her expression betraying nothing.

He paused in his movements and cocked his eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He took his time to pinch her chin, slowly tilting her head up to face him. “Obedience entails answering questions when I ask them, Laviniya.”

Her eyes fluttered, her hand reached up and touched his that pinched her chin. She cleared her throat lightly.

She finally answered his question, her voice reluctant but honest. “No,” she admitted, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps there was a chance I could have considered it, but it would have been unrealistic at the time.” 

She paused, biting her lower lip as she considered her next words. “You were pretending to be someone else, after all,” she added, her tone almost accusatory.

As she spoke, he continued tending to her injury, winding the linen around her arm with a careful, meticulous eye. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but notice the care and attention he was giving to her arm – a level of concern that seemed almost disproportionate to the situation at hand. It was not remorse but, she thought, he probably didn’t like his toys to remain broken. He most likely did not have the intention of marrying a cripple.

 “Surely a king would have better things to do than abducting a mere woman,” she pointed out, her tone laced with dry humour. She caught herself a second later, her expression immediately shifting to one of contrition as she bit down on her lower lip. She feared she was now being too bold.

Her uncertainty heightened as his eyes met hers, the intense look sending a shiver down her spine. It was impossible to predict what he might do next, his calm exterior masking the potential for explosive action at any moment. Like a sleeping serpent, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the moment of stillness was merely a prelude to a sudden, unexpected strike.

He continued to wind the linen around her arm, his soft chuckle startled her, “I suppose,” he cooed,  “But you weren’t just any mere woman, Laviniya,” he repeated, his eye lifted and pinned her down, “You are a Targaryen.”

She felt the bandages tighten around her arm as he finished the first set of wrappings, and she couldn’t help but flex her arm a little, adjusting to the new constriction. Despite the dull ache in her shoulder, she remained still, her expression betraying little of her discomfort.

His reply was candid and direct, his tone betraying none of his usual mocking humour. “It is,” he said, his words ringing with a certain kind of weight. “Your blood carries the last of the dragons’ potency,” he continued, “So yes.”

He paused, “It is scarce these days in this time after the ruthless war,” he stated, “There are dragonseed women who have tried to carry my children but all have failed. The Maesters believe the future Targaryens must be born of strict, legitimate Dragonlords blood. Do you understand Laviniya?”

She nodded. She was aware how he’d grown to calling her name without the respective title, she was not brave enough to continue him.

“Of course, your charming personality played a part in my decision,” he admitted, with a smile, “I have never seen someone play so ruthlessly on the cyvasse board.”

“You still owes me two facts about yourself, your grace.”

He continued winding the second layer of linen around her arm, his fingers moving with practiced ease and dexterity. He made a low sound of acknowledgment at her statement, his expression vaguely quizzical. “Hmm?”

She persisted, gently reminding him of their earlier agreement. “The wagers we took,” she pointed out, her gaze fixed on his hands as he worked.

It was likely that he had no specific thought in mind at the time, his words merely a ploy to draw her into the game, but she was determined to hold him to it nonetheless. She wanted to learn more about him, to understand how he operated, and this seemed a useful way to glean just a few more insights. There was much about him that she did not know, but every scrap of information felt like a small victory, a puzzle piece falling into place.

“You lost the Cyvasse game even if it was on purpose and promised to tell me something about yourself. Then you said if you did not find another hidden space in the gardens, you would tell me something about the king that no one else knew. And as it still stands, you are the King, your grace. So you owe me two facts about yourself.”

He appeared taken aback for a moment as she reminded him of his promise, but then a smile slowly spread across his face. “Ah, yes,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, “I seem to recall those wagers now. I will reveal my secrets to you in due time.”

Having finished wrapping her arm in the linen, he took a moment to gently smooth out the bandages, tucking in any loose ends with a careful, almost tender touch.

He gave her arm a gentle pat, his touch careful to avoid the bandaged part of her arm. “There now,” he declared, the pat almost too gentle for one who had been so ruthless earlier. “I think that should do, it might scar but it needn’t stitches should it heal well. Fret not, it will not scar like my handsome face.”

She allowed herself to look at him briefly, her gaze flickering toward him with a hint of uncertainty. It felt absurd to even consider thanking him for his efforts, and so she simply stood and curtsied, “Goodnight, your majesty.”

Before she could leave, his fingers grabbed at her arm.

He dipped his head in acknowledgment, and yet he didn’t move. His grip on her wrist remained, holding her in an invisible shackle. Her awareness of their proximity heightened, and she could see her own reflections reflected a hundred times over in his sapphire eye. She could see the rhythm of his every breath, the rise and fall of his broad chest.

His eye, that icy blue depth, seemed to gleam with a new intensity as he looked down at her from his towering height. And there lay within that eye darkened a hint of impropriety, an almost forbidden element as it lingered on her a moment too long. The desire was evident, a flicker of heat in his eye that suggested he was contemplating something entirely more intimate than mere bandaging.

Her heart raced within her chest, the beat of it growing louder and wilder by the moment. It was not far-stretched to imagine what he might do next, what he truly wanted and desired to do. There were practical reasons, of course, to wait for marriage, but such considerations seemed inconsequential now, in the face of his sheer determination. Who could stop him if he truly wanted to take possession of her in that very moment?

She stood frozen in place, her body feeling almost numb with anticipation. The prolonged moment stretched on, and it felt like an eternity ticked by before he finally rose to his feet, standing at a height that loomed over her. “You have not yet been dismissed,” he said, his voice a low purr that sent a shiver down her spine.

Panic began to set in, a cold, tight sensation of dread settling in her stomach. What was he planning to do?

The King leaned toward her, closing the gap between them, his nose softly touching hers in a gentle nuzzle. His lips hovered just above hers, barely brushing against her parted lips. His hot breath filled her mouth, bringing a wave of warmth to her entire body. She felt her knees trembling beneath her, a warm, almost primal feeling pooling in the pit of her stomach, like a hot stew on a cold winter’s night.

“Goodnight Lady Laviniya,” he murmured, before he withdrew himself from her, tearing himself away abruptly as he turned his back and strode towards the nearby window sill. As he moved, he grabbed a goblet of wine off the table, the cup full almost to the brim with a dark red liquid. He sauntered towards the window, taking a drink from the goblet before placing it on the sill with a soft thump.

She drew a deep, shuddering breath, her shock and arousal slowly melting away to be replaced by a wave of relief. His actions had been innocuous, mundane even, but she knew that he had intentionally led her astray – and that thought only fueled her anger. Still, her panic slowly receded, leaving only a sense of mild irritation in its wake.

She curtsied again, “Sire,” before she left his chambers on trembling footsteps.

Aemond was no stranger to hedonistic tendencies, some more depraved than others. But he also understood the value of controlling his impulses when it mattered. Patience, as it often did, proved to be a virtue in this instance.

It was restless night for him, despite his efforts. His thoughts were consumed by the image of her, her supple curves and porcelain skin, barely concealed in the mists of the bath. And later, her generous décolletage, veiled only by the thin fabric of her silken nightclothes, the slender, long legs curling away from his reach. Part of him had been reluctant to think logically, to resist the temptation. After all, she was his, and would be soon enough. It would have been so very easy to take her to the bed and have his way with her.

Laviniya was not unlike Aemond. She finished writing her letter to her cousin Lord Gunthor but the entire time she struggled to remember each word she wanted to write. By the time she had signed and sealed the letter, she was exhausted. Rain and thunder were on the wind outside her window.

 She too tossed and turned in her own chambers, her mind ran to the places she felt forbidden to go. Aemond was a unique specimen. His face was fearsome with the jagged scar and haunting with his sapphire eye, but there was a mystifying beauty to it just like how there was beauty in the sight of his shirtless torso gleaming with spilt wine.

His breath smelt like the a honey roasted meat from earlier, it had filled her mouth when he was so close to her. His hands had been gentle, firm, rough and torturous. She knew which touch she preferred the most from the King.

The lighting outside sparked, a cloud clap followed by the roar of the wind made her jump and shudder. The room was dark save for the candle beside her bed. It was cold and the fireplace had been out hours ago.

Heavy rain battered against the roof, a steady drumming that echoed through the vastness of Harrenhal. Outside her chamber window, tall shadows danced ominously against the stone walls, cast by the lightning that tore through the darkened sky. A crash of thunder rumbled through the castle, causing the stones of the room to tremble in response. She wrapped herself snugly in the blanket, seeking comfort from the dampness of the mattress. Nuzzling into the pillows, she closed her eyes, hoping for sleep to claim her.

She recalled the lessons from Myrielle, and the little trick she had learned to measure the distance of the lightning. "One bronze sheep, two bronze sheep, three bronze sheep, four-" she murmured to herself, counting out the seconds between the flash of lightning and the crash of thunder.

Another crash of thunder rumbled through the halls, jolting her awake with a start. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart beating rapidly within. She took deep breaths, trying to slow the racing pulse of her heart. Since she was a little girl, she had always harbored a fear of thunderstorms. She had thought that as a young woman, she would have grown out of this fear by now, that she would no longer be frightened by the storms. But she found herself just as afraid as ever.

The one thing that could provide her comfort during a storm was being held in the arms of Myrielle. Myrielle however was not there with her. Instead, she was back in the Runestones, safe and sound. Myrielle was strong, fearless – she did not have such childish fears as Laviniya did, fearing something as insignificant as a mere storm. In her heart she had never missed her friend more than ever before.

Laviniya was terrified. What if the castle collapsed while she slept in her bed? What if the winds picked her up and sent her flying? What if the lightning struck her down, searing flesh from bone? Was it the Gods themselves who were angry at her for not attempting hard enough to escape Aemond? Or did they rage at the usurper king for abducting her from the sacred refuge of the Godswood?

The whistling squeals of the wind that moaned the halls became too much, especially when she swore she could hear her name being called. Harrenhall was notorious for its ghostly sightings, but she did not consider herself to be visited by an ungodly apparition.

Tears fell from her blinking eyes. She couldn’t take it any further. She didn’t know what to do, but she knew company was better than total isolation in a haunted fortress. She slid from her bed quickly, totally forgetting her dressing gown as she scurried to the door and flew it open.

Ser Gilbar, who stood as her trusted protector, observed her appearance with a mix of shock and concern on his face, his cheeks flushing pink. “Fair Lady, are you alright?” he asked, his voice filled with genuine care.

Her bottom lip quivered, and tears began to prickle at the corners of her eyes. “I-I need...” she said, her voice cracking. “I need the King. Please, Ser,” she pleaded desperately.

Ser Gilbar’s brows raised high in surprise, his concern evident. Asking to disturb the king’s rest could be a dangerous proposition, especially given the king’s current state of unrest. But the Lady Laviniya was determined. “I need to see him, now,” she repeated, her voice firm.

The King was awake when he heard the commotion outside his quarters. He could hear her voice outside his doors, she sounded desperate as she spoke with another person.

The King was in a state of undress, save for the robe and pant leggings he wore to fight the cold.

He swung open his door and stared with shock that became bemusement as Laviniya stood in front of his door arguing with Ser Gilbar. Laviniya stood glad in only her night gown, her nipples fiercely pebbled under the white material. Her face was covered in tears and her hair stuck to forehead with sweat.

“What is the meaning of this indecency at the hour of the ghost Ser Gilbar?” he drawled tiredly, yawning into the back of his palm.

The guard sputtered, “Your majesty, the Lady Laviniya requested your audience but it is very late in the evening and I informed her lady that you required your rest foremost and to return back to her quarters.”

Ser Gilbar was not an intentionally difficult soldier, in fact he was possibly Aemonds most loyal man in these coming days.

He decided not to take his slights out on the poor knight, especially not in front of Laviniya, who looked like a frightened child. He turned his gaze upon her once more, taking in her trembling form with a critical eye.

“Back to your duties, Ser Gilbar,” he commanded firmly. “The lady is welcome to my chambers whenever she wishes. Come, fair lady,” he added, gesturing for her to enter. “You must have a pressing reason to interrupt a king’s rest?”

She entered the room cautiously, trying to hide her nervousness as she crossed the threshold. But a loud crash of thunder and bolt of lightning startled her, causing her to flinch and step quickly inside, jumping slightly in fright.

The King shut the door firmly behind them, his gaze never leaving her trembling form. She was fidgeting nervously, her fingers twitching as they picked at the fabric of her dress. Her eyes were closed, and he could see her whispering quietly, her lips moving as if counting something. He raised an eyebrow, a hint of disbelief on his face. Was she seriously counting the space between the storm and herself? Perhaps she was insane?

He chuckled softly, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched her flinch at the sound of another clap of thunder. “Oh sweet Lady Laviniya,” he said, his voice almost mocking. “Do not tell me it’s the storm that frightens you so?”

“Y-yes,” she replied timidly, her voice quivering slightly. “I’m sorry for the interruption, your majesty. I didn’t know what to do. I don’t know the castle maids like I would my own.” She swallowed hard as he began to approach her, slowly, each step deliberate.

He raised his hand to her cheek, his touch gentle as he cupped her face in his palm. He ran his thumb across her tear-stained skin, his gaze soft as he tilted his head to study her expression. “Now, why on earth would you need a maid at this hour?” he teased.

Her gaze darted down, her lips parted as she nibbled at them nervously. Her eyebrows knit together, her eyes suddenly becoming watery as she reluctantly admitted, “B-because Myrielle would sleep with me during storms. She made them not so terrifying.” The unshed tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks.

He guided her gently to the edge of his bed, his touch tender as he helped her sit down. “Myrielle?” he inquired, his voice still soft. “Is she your maid?” The king repeated again, his curiosity growing as he carefully chose his words.

Laviniya sniffled as she responded, her voice soft and hesitant. “And my friend,” she affirmed.

The king couldn’t help but smile at her sweet whimpering voice. He repeated her words fondly, “And your friend,” he echoed, amusement dancing in his eye.

She nodded, her gaze dropping to the soft linens on his bed as she spoke. “But now you have taken me,” she whimpered,  “and I cannot go to her.”

His hand traced along her collarbone, his fingers dancing across the edge of her bandages. “So, you come to me?” he hummed. His brows softened.

She stood up abruptly, her trembling hands swiping at her tear-stained cheeks to remove any lingering evidence of her fear. “It is...unorthodox,” she stammered, “My King,” she added, her voice hitching for a moment. “May I...request your company until...the storm passes?”

Surprise washed over the king’s face, his eyes widening at her unexpected request. In any other circumstances, no woman would have dared to ask this of him. It was insane, absolutely ludicrous. After all he had done to her, how he had mocked her, inflicted pain, threatened her, even maimed her, she still dared to seek his company in her fear. His expression shifted, softening slightly as he studied her trembling frame.

In any other circumstances, he would have swiftly dismissed a woman such as her and had her whipped for her audacity. But Laviniya was no mere dragonseed slut; she was a Targaryen born woman, sheltered from her own culture. She was a woman who had captured his attention without yielding beneath his touch. She brought him a sense of entertainment, intrigue, and perhaps even a modicum of fascination, without ever needing to succumb to the usual demands he made of his Noble mistresses and Whores.

Thunder clapped loudly outside, the sound reverberating through the castle halls. Laviniya jumped, a soft whimper escaping her lips as her hands flew to clutch at the king’s ankles, pressing her face against them.

She loathed the fact that she had reached this point, having succumbed to such fear of the elements that she sought refuge in the presence of the very person who had subjected her to unspeakable cruelty. She grappled with the conflicting emotions that stirred within her, caught between the knowledge of his vile deeds and her own vulnerability.

“Please,” she pleaded, her voice trembling as she gazed up at him from her place on the floor.

He had to remind himself that she was not a whore, that she was not just a toy for him to stick his prick in no matter how lovely she looked down on the floor, gazing up at him. He swallowed hard. He tried to regain his control instead of ripping her up by her hair and shoving her against the mattress so he might rut himself into her like some bitch in heat.

He bent down, his movements slow and deliberate, and gently patted her head, as one might comfort a frightened puppy. “Laviniya,” he crooned softly, his voice deep and soothing. “Get up,” he ordered gently. “Come to bed. The storm I fear is to last the night.”

He pulled back his blankets, gesturing with his chin towards the empty space beside him, a silent invitation for her to join him there.

She knew this was dangerous. She knew this would mean no returning back from any rumour if the maids walked in and found her in the mornings. She would be considered dishonoured, her virtue within question...perhaps the maester’s and septas would have to prove medically that she was still a virtuous virgin...

It mattered not when a strike of lighting struck a tree just outside the window and a lot bang and crack of the oak resounded loudly.

Her breath hitched in her throat, and she swiped away another tear as her bottom lip trembled. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice quivering. “Thank you.”

She scrambled up into the soft mattress, the sheets still warm from where he had lain earlier. He followed, crawling in beside her, his fingers tracing her cheek with a tenderness she hadn’t expected.

He tucked his arm beneath the pillows, encircling her slender waist with a firm grip. A stifled gasp escaped her lips as he pulled her closer, moulding her against his side. She had nowhere to escape, no choice but to rest her chin upon his broad chest. This close to him, she could hear his heartbeat, a steady and soothing rhythm that echoed against her ear.

His body was warm, like the sun, radiating a soothing heat that she eagerly soaked up. She allowed herself to relax against him, and suddenly, his fingers were lightly touching the top of her head, his touch soothing her like a loving mother would soothe her child.

His body was warm, like the sun, radiating a soothing heat that she eagerly soaked up. She allowed herself to relax against him, and suddenly, his fingers were lightly touching the top of her head, his touch soothing her like a loving mother would soothe her child.

“Hush now,” he commanded gently, his voice barely above a whisper. She hadn’t even realized she was crying, but she was, her tears falling silently onto his chest.

His deep voice hummed softly into a comforting tune until they melded into words.

“Drakari pykiros,” he hummed soothingly, his hand moving in small, soft circular motions against her back. And then, he continued, his voice softening with each word. “Tīkummo jemiros.”

The soothing melody seemed to wash over her like a comforting spell, her body almost instantly submitting to the calming embrace of his gentle touch.

“Yn lantyz bartossa,” he cooed, his tone filled with soft reassurance. “Saelot vāedis.”

“Hen ñuhā elēnī, Perzyssy vestretis,” His fingers carefully rubbed her back, avoiding the injured shoulder, while he continued to croon gently into her ear, “Se gēlȳn irūdaks. Ānogrose.”

As thunder growled loudly outside the window, Laviniya winced, a small whine escaping her lips as she burrowed her face into the crease of his chest and bicep, seeking refuge from the storm. In response, she heard him chuckle softly, his deep voice rumbling in his chest.

And then, she felt his lips press a gentle kiss against her creased forehead, his touch shockingly tender. “Perzyro udrȳssi,” he whispered, the words like a soothing balm against her frightened heart.

Though his body emanated warmth, she trembled, her body quaking slightly. He continued to sing the lullaby, the words falling from his lips like a comforting caress.

“Ezīmptos laehossi...”

He reached down and grabbed another blanket, holding it up against her shivering form before spreading it over their bodies, cocooning them in an extra layer of soft fabric and warmth.

“Hārossa letagon,” he whispered, his voice soft and gentle, its melody soothing her frayed nerves. “Aōt vāedan.”

She felt her breath slow, her hiccups fading away almost as if by magic. Heavily, she raised her gaze, her eyes meeting his in the dim light, able to catch only a glimpse of his good eye in this new angle.

He seized her hand beneath the blankets and carefully pulled it up, pressing her palm flat against his chest. Her heart skipped a beat at the contact, and she could almost feel the thunderous rhythm of his own heart beneath her touch.

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he continued singing in Valyrian, his voice low and smooth. “Hae mērot gierūli,” he crooned, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Se hāros bartossi.”

“Prūmȳsa sōvīli,” he finished the song sweetly with the last dragged notes of his voice, “Gevī dāerī.”

His melody ended on a note of warmth and reassurance, and she took a deep breath, a sigh of relief escaping her lips even as another loud burst of lightning flooded the room with light and shadows.

His finger tapped her nose, “See, you are safe.”

Her head bobbed slowly in agreement, her fingers twisting and tugging at the fabric of his dress shirt. His legs pressed against hers, his knees gently spreading her thighs apart. The intimate contact between their legs made her breath hitch and her heart flutter, but she reminded herself fiercely that she was his wife-to-be. Why then should she worry over such trivial matters?

Her curiosity was piqued by the beautiful yet unfamiliar words he had sung so tenderly. “What do the words mean,” she queried, her cheeks aflame with a hint of a blush, “in your song, sire?”

He blinked hard. ‘No, surely not’, he thought. He chuckled in disbelief, pulling back slightly so he could see her face better. His hand came up to clasp her chin, gently lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. He then moved his hand to grasp her own, stilling her nervous fidgeting.

“Did your father never teach you High Valyrian?” he asked, his tone teasing a bit. “Those words are rather basic. It’s a dragons lullaby. I sing it to another little girl who has nightmares and fears storms.”

Her delicate brows drew together, her pout forming across her lips as she spoke. “My father never really taught me anything much,” she admitted quietly, a hint of sadness edging into her voice. “Even to this day, if it were not for my hair and eyes, I would hardly think of myself as being of Valyrian blood,” she confessed, her words tinged with a hint of melancholy.

The king’s eyes flickered as he listened to her explanation, a bemused smirk playing at his lips. “Very well,” he acknowledged, his tone dry and sardonic. “So he did not teach you our proud language, but surely he shared our customs? He must havs placed an egg in your cradle?” 

“You truly believe my father cared for dragon tradition as such?” Her laughter trailed off, leaving behind a bitter taste on her tongue. “When my mother was of First Men and Andal blood?” She shook her head, “He did not care for me. There was no dragon egg for me.” A sense of loneliness enveloped her like a dark shroud, the absence of a connection to her Valyrian heritage a stark reminder of her father’s indifference.

“Laviniya,” Aemond purred gently, his voice a soothing whisper in the quiet of the room. “Laviniya, look at me.”  

She stirred in the bed, sitting up and turning on her side to face him, resting her cheek in her hand. He mirrored her position, rolling onto his side to face her, his gaze meeting hers in the dim light. His fingers reached out to touch her bandages, his throat bobbing as he cleared it, as if searching for the right words to say.

His mother was Alicent Hightower, and she was the same as what Laviniya’s mother was. First men and Andal flooding her blood, as she came to be with her father Daemon who was Valaryian. Were not their fathers brothers?...she was Valaryian. She just couldn’t accept it because no one had accepted that side of her. 

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if sharing a dark and forbidden secret meant to be kept from the eyes of the gods old and new. “I will teach you Valaryian words right now. So, when you are angry with me,” he murmured, his tone soft and intense, “when you despise me, when you think me deplorable...” 

‘Since the moment you kidnapped me,’ she wished to say.

She leaned closer, her breath catching in her throat as she listened intently to his every word. 

“You must say this aloud. Listen carefully,” he urged, his voice barely above a whisper. “Avy jorrāelan.”

“Ah-vee Your-righ-your-lung?”

Her pronunciation of the ancient Valyrian phrase was, generously speaking, a butchery of the language, eliciting a soft giggle from Aemond as she stumbled over the syllables. “Avy jorrāelan,” he corrected, his voice tinged with amusement. 

She repeated the phrase, determined to master it, until her tongue finally wrapped around the foreign words with more ease. As if to test her, he nodded, satisfied. Her brows furrowed in puzzlement. He wanted her to say it when he angered her. Why would he teach her something so seemingly negative?

He took a deep breath, his teeth clenched as he chose his words carefully. “It means something...horrible and disgusting,” he murmured, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Something you might only say to someone you truly detest, something you should never say to just anyone. It is something you must only say to me.”

Her eyes widened, and she leaned closer, her expression a mixture of confusion and surprise. He continued, “If you say it to me, I alone will understand.”

She sat up in the bed, her expression stern as she regarded him. She could only imagine the gravity of the words in the ancient language of her people. Her expression darkened as she spoke, her voice trembling slightly. 

“You know...” she began, her voice laced with a hint of bitterness. “I wish I knew how to say ‘Avy jorrāelan’ back then...when you had me locked in that carriage, or when you tore up Ser Corwyn, when you fed me like a dog on the floor, especially when you barged into my chambers as I bathed...”

Her brows furrowed, her lips pouted.

He chuckled softly, his smirk widening as he saw her expression. “Say it, then,” he urged, his voice dripping with amusement. “Go on, say it now-“

“Avy jorrāelan,” The words spilled from her lips without hesitation, a repetitive murmur that seemed to hold a hint of desperate catharsis. “Avy jorrāelan,” she breathed, her voice growing stronger with each repetition. “Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan.��  

Her fists clenched as she recalled everything he had put her through. Her hand rose up and he grabbed her wrist before she could hit him, she began yelling the Valaryian phrase until his other hand launched up and clamped over her lips, her eyes wide, his lazy with heat.

He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, “Avy jorrāelen, Laviniya.” His tone was stern but soft, a reminder of the power he held over her. “Remember,” he continued, “Behave, or your comfort may change very quickly.” 

She swallowed hard, her eyes misting with shame as the realization of her actions sank in. “But you told me to-“ she protested weakly, her voice quivering with a mixture of embarrassment and vulnerability.

“I told you to say the phrase,” he breathed, his lips brushing softly against her cheek as he released her wrist. “Not to pummel me as you flew into hysterics.” His eye was wide, “Now apologise.”  

 “I am sorry,” she whispered again, her voice trembling as she spoke, “please do not abandon me to the storm.”  She looked up at him, shame and guilt written across her face.  It was rather pathetic.

He softened at her words, a hint of tenderness showing in his expression. “I forgive you,” he replied in a strong voice. “But you must lay back and go to sleep now. We both need our energy for the journey ahead.” 

Her mind continued to worry, the weight of her current predicament heavy on her shoulders. She wondered aloud, her voice soft and filled with concern. “Do you think we will have to travel through the storm?” 

She frowned as a thought crossed her mind. Or would they remain here in Harrenhal, giving her Lord Cousin a chance to send a raven to the Vale and ride out to find her?

The idea of being saved by a kinsman stirred a mixture of conflicting emotions within her — relief, hope, and unease all blending together into a tangle of uncertain feelings.

The king sighed tiredly, he kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Sleep Laviniya.” Ignoring her question entirely. His hands rubbed her back until he felt her jittering heart slow down and a symphony of her sweet snores mixed with the thundering rain storm.

He too fell into a rather relaxed sleep. A warm body at his side- It was a pleasure he had gone without for some time, and the feeling of her presence brought a sense of contentment that surprised him. He savoured the moment, silently appreciating the unexpected warmth and companionship that had found its place at his side.

Aemond closed his eyes, his mind wandering into a realm of sinful fantasies. He imagined with relish the things he would do to his fair lady. He saw himself running his fingers through her soft, white waves of hair, the silky strands tangling around his fingers. He envisioned himself kissing her delicate neck and the swell of her pretty breasts, leaving a trail of passionate kisses in his wake right down to the bright white curls between her legs.

His hands would wrestle those slim legs, spreading them either side of his hips, He relished in the thought of her being at his mercy, rendered powerless as he took what was once her own, the innocence that was now to be his alone. Her wide lavender eyes as they beaded with tears and rolled back into her skull. He wondered then how she would moan and tremble as he sent her into a wave of pleasure. How would her lips move. How would her skin blush and where would it plush. He knew her nipples were rose and cream in colour, surely her cunt was the same shade or maybe a pretty mauve. 

Time would tell what his bride would be like on their first time, whether they were legally married...or not.

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒:

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬. 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬.

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[castle-in-the-air0]

Abandon All Hope - Prologue

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Summary:

A dream has King Viserys making an olive branch of his granddaughter and son in a bid to bind together the two halves of his family, torn asunder by love, whispered lies, and daggers in the night. But dreams are fickle things. One missed step in a dance, and a new path to madness enters the game.

Her mother once said she named her for the dreamer, out of a hope that she'd bring a new dawn upon their house just as their ancestor did so many years ago. Daenys the Dreamer, who dreamt the Doom of Valyria and led House Targaryen across the narrow sea to spare them.

Daenys does not dream of things yet to pass, and she rather thinks herself destined for her own doom. Her Uncle Aemond will make certain of that.

Rating: M, minors I will throw rocks at you if I find out you read this

Word Count: 3.6k

If one were to ask Daenys who amongst the men in her life she loved the most, she might have answered her eldest brother Jacaerys. For he was a man by all the laws of the realm, and had always chased away her tears and kissed her scraped knees. She might even answer that her grandfather, Lord Corlys Velaryon, was the man she loved most. He was always gentle with her and delighted in showing her the treasures he’d collected from his many voyages, and he always had time for her when others didn’t. 

Above all Daenys might have answered that her father, Laenor Velaryon, was the man she loved the best. Her father and his laughing eyes, his gentle hands and bone-crushing hugs; he always told her he loved her best out of all of his daughters, and though Daenys was his only daughter, she clung to his words all the same. Her father always stuck up for her in the face of her brother’s teasing, and he always drove away her nightmares with soft songs or old legends of the sea, passed down from Velaryon to Velaryon.

Even now, she fiddled with the necklace her father gave her on her tenth name-day. She wore it more oft than not, even when it didn’t match the dress she wore. It was, at the time, the finest of all the jewelry she owned, and it was the first necklace that made her feel like a proper lady. A necklace for a woman, not a child. It was a delicate thing of silver, with five, sparkling, aquamarine gemstones that reminded Daenys of the sea. 

“Silver and aquamarine,” her father had said when he gave it to her. “So you might never forget our house. Or me.” She’d thought her father silly to say such a thing, to think she could ever forget that she was a Velaryon or that he was her father. Daenys was proud to be a Velaryon, and she was proud to call Laenor Velaryon her father. 

But Daenys could not answer that her father, Laenor Velaryon, was the one she loved best out of all the men in her life. For her father was dead and had been for almost a year now. And she couldn’t answer her brother Jacaerys, as he was barely two years older than her, and if Jacaerys was a man then she must certainly be a woman, and Daenys did not feel like a woman grown. Nor could she answer that her grandfather Corlys was the one she loved best, because he’d left them all to go fight in the Stepstones once more. 

She most certainly could not answer that her other grandfather, King Viserys, was the man she loved most. He had decided to be the king instead of her grandfather, and Daenys did not love the king.

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