#Dance of Dragons - AU

[thaliajoy-blog]

Different ending for the Dance of Dragons AU (part 2) - "Three Green Queens" :

Alicent Hightower, regent for her daughter Jaehaera. Her Hand is the mutilated but able Tyland Lannister, like the is Aegon III's in the canon. Alicent reigns over a troubled kingdom still filled with dissent, notably in the North and in the Vale. The first one goes through a difficult winter and is not strong enough to attack her while the second is defiant but too isolated in its defiance to be a great threat. The Riverlands and the Iron Islands are dissenters in spirit, but held in respect by the Lannister and Tyrell armies, and wrecked by war in the case of the first one. And thus, forced to mostly comply to Alicent's rule.

👆 has just condemned Rhaenyra (who was imprisoned for life) to death. Her necklace symbolizes her final triumph over the woman who caused the death of her sons and grandsons, a sword bearing the emblem of the Faith cutting through a black heart. Although since it's over Alicent's own heart, one can read something entirely different there, unintentional.

The emblems on her shoulder also show that Alicent has remarried twice. Once with Roland Westerling, lord of the Crag and father of one of Alicent's powerful allies, Johanna Westerling-Lannister of The West. The second time with Royce Caron, father of Elenda Caron, Baratheon widow and ruler of the Stormlands. Both older men with powerful connections who serve as her advisors and are tractable enough to be her loyal servants as well as her husbands. Ironically, as Alicent fought to seat her son on the throne using laws excluding women from the succession, Alicent's power is now tied not only to a young regnant Queen, her grand-daughter Jaehaera, but to powerful female regents in the South who are her allies - in Casterly Rock, in Storm's End, and in Highgarden.

Alicent's great fears come from various sources : at first Rhaenyra and her son Aegon the Younger, that she kept alive out of reluctance to kill them. Once Rhaenyra is executed, Alicent still worries about a sixteen years old Aegon, now legally a man, and whom she married to Jaehaera as a consort (and nothing else) to honor the pact made with Corlys Velaryon and present an appearance of unity (that no one really believe in). The male supremacy she once used now haunts her as she worries about the fate of the governance and the ambitions of the men around her (to possibly support Aegon over Jaehaera). She also fears Rhaena and her young dragon Morning, who could attack the young Jaehaera, the only green capable of riding a dragon (though she holds Baela against her potential attacks).

Alicent also had children with her elderly husbands - she affectionately called them Otto (Westerling) and Gwayne (Caron) after the father & the brother she lost. She also thinks of them as replacement of sorts for her lost sons, given to her by the gods as she was able to conceive at a relative old age.

Previously 👇

[mythals-whore]

If i had the power to draw i would draw Davrin in regency wear with his fancy tie undone and his shirt all unlaced/unbuttoned okay bye

[maesonc-artistic-adventures]

Playing around with half-dragon Warriors. Inspired by chapter 23 of @skyward-floored’s whumptober fic.

Just wanted to play with Warrior’s dragon features and what his “performance” would be in his and Legend’s uh new job 😅

Also had this AMV on repeat most the time I was drawing this so you can get a vibe of what inspired Warrior’s “dragon dancing”

[taddymason]

two sillies dancing

[hitwiththefandomz]

Dragon dance!

(Thank you to one of the asks I got for a lil dragon dance. Tumblr wouldn’t let me answer the ask and ate it so hopefully you find this post who ever gave me the idea!)

[chelireads]

Unfortunately, Egg has his own issues Viserys

[Inspired by a very cute scene in The Blacks & The Greens by @sweetestpopcorn ]

[iron-sparrow]

祝您 ⸺ wishing you ⸺ 新年快樂 a Happy New Year in good health 身体健康 and prosperity year after year 年年有餘 ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

ft. @lionheartdancers

Lunar New Year is upon us, and while I currently live in a place that does not give us weeks of PTO to celebrate accordingly, I've been eating pineapple cakes and sticky rice cakes for well over a week now. Yum. (Mooncakes are notably not consumed on LNY but during the Mid-Autumn Festival.)

I've not been feeling especially celebratory. Between the fires in my backyard and the current admin holding my passport hostage, the start of the solar calendar year has sent me spiraling into survival mode almost immediately. I am doing my best to draw from the well of my support systems, from kindred spirits to a very good (and expensive) therapist I've finally reached out to again.

Lunar New Year. Spring Festival. Chinese New Year. Whatever you and yours call it, the holiday is meant to be a hopeful time, when we anticipate the eventual transition from winter to spring. I will give hope where I'm able, and I will persist. I hope you will also hold onto yours and persist.

I am determined to hold hands with my anger, and to continue knowing it. We will go into the New Year together as allies. Still, I want to offer you this famous poem about hope, written by historical figure Yu Qian.

《除夜太原寒甚》 寄語天涯客，輕寒底用愁。 春風來不遠，只在屋東頭。

"An Extremely Cold Night in Taiyuan on New Year’s Eve" Please tell the friends living afar, the weather is chilly but no need to worry. The spring wind is arriving and quite close to us, touching the eastern end of our house.

[the-daydreaming-show]

Concept/Sneak Peek: Aegon II Targaryen x OlderSister!Reader.

(UPDATE JUNE 2: I haven't forgotten about this, half of it is already written, but I'm having exams, so until the beginning of next month I won't be able to sit down and write, BUT I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN I'M GOING TO FINISH IT I SWEAR! !!)

“Do you love me?” Aegon asked in a tearful whisper. He looked angelic, in his white pajamas and his violet eyes filled with tears that refused to fall but were clearly there. The question had come out of nowhere, but you still answered it without any hesitation.

“Of course I love you, Aegon,” you told him, whispering back and making him feel like it was just you and him in the world. He looked at you surprised, perhaps a little relieved, and a tear slid down his cheek. “You are my brother, my blood. I love the bones off you, husband.”

The need struck Aegon suddenly, just with that, and he began to pray in his mind to the gods that you would take his offer. Well, now he did not want for anything in the world that his mother would fulfill her mission and annul your marriage. There was nothing more in the world than he wanted to stay by your side for the rest of his life, now he understood that.

Or

Where you, the youngest daughter of Aemma and Viserys, married Aegon, the eldest son of Alicent Hightower, after the incident of the eye of Aemond in Driftmark. Years after your marriage, you fulfill your duty as Hand of the King. Since no children have been born from you union, your stepmother plans to request the annulment of your marriage, to marry Aegon to a daughter of the Baratheon. This is to ensure the support of that house when Viserys dies.

Aegon, who has enjoyed suffocating freedom since he married you when he was only fourteen, doesn't want that, and for the wrong reasons. He resigns himself to doing his duty in order to remain free, you two need a child, but he finds himself with something much better than freedom: a life tied to you.

(Let me know if you're interested in a fanfic like this, I could make it a series, because I love the concept, but I don't know.

Edit: Let me know if you want to be tag in the the post)

[digitaldoeslmk]

today, i bring you more Lion Dancer Team!Mk and Mei. tomorrow, who knows?

[alienoryva]

Queen Jaehaera Targaryen (au) 🦋✧

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fc: Elizabeth (The pillars of the earth)

[thaliajoy-blog]

New Dance of Dragons AU.

Au where Rhaenyra is a deposed queen imprisoned in some place and heavily guarded like Mary Stuart or Katherine of Aragon. The Greens have nominally won, but Aegon II died poisoned, and Alicent managed to get Jaehaera to be crowned. There are two Queens in the kingdom (Helaena is also still alive, though deep in madness & confined). The Kingdom is somewhat unstable despite the greens winning more battles than in canon & the North being seriously occupied by raidings and famine.

Aegon the younger is still alive & Alicent wed him to Jaehaera as a consort, to unite the lines and pretend to some form of resolution of the conflict. Rhaenyra has been shown mercy & is permanently imprisoned in the Reach, also her dragon Syrax has been disabled (a wing cut off) and is chained in King's Landing. But after some years and evidence of plotting, Rhaenyra's death warrant is signed and she is sent to the scaffold, like Queen Mary Stuart.👆 Rhaenyra wears a dress of Targaryen red and black on her way to her sentence, proudly affirming her identity and resistance to Alicent's minions. (Her pendant is an anatomical heart)

Her execution happens at a junction - Jaehaera and Aegon are teenagers at odds with one another and Rhaenyra's death makes things all the more tense.

👇 modeled after :

The kingdom seems ironically on the way to women having more power ; the nominal ruler is a Queen, the effective ruler is another Queen, and several other female regent control important parts of the kingdom. Jeyne Arryn, still defiant of the Greens & out of King's Landing power, rules the Vale, where Rhaena is. Johanna Westerling is an ally of Alicent & rules the Westerlands as a regent for her son. Elenda Caron rules the Stormlands, and a Tyrell widow also rules the Reach.

The dragons are not soon to be extinct, also : several have survived the Dance. Stormcloud, Morghul, Shrykos, Dreamfyre, Moondancer and Syrax are still alive (and Morning has hatched), though most are in a sorry state at the beginning of this AU.

[sweetestpopcorn]

Mama Rhaenyra and the Dragon Twins by @ammmyturtle

[silverspotted]

daemon scenes expect he’s a collection of oil paintings

[rocknroll7575]

Knight of Olympus

*Hestia "Died" and Jaune is seeing Vesta for the first time*

Vesta: I know your mad, angry, Furious and I won't say you're wrong because I am so just say it

Jaune:.....

Vesta *Tears in her eyes*: TARTARUS SAKE JUST SAY YOU HATE ME, THAT MY PHYSICAL PRESENCE DISGUSTS YOU, HOW I ABANDONED OUR DAUGHTER, HO-

Jaune*cuping her cheek and wiping a tear away*: Your as beautiful as the day I lost you

Vesta sat close to the fire, her amber eyes reflecting the flickering flames as she watched the food cook, the scent of roasted meat and herbs mingling with the crisp night air. The steady crackle of burning wood was a comforting rhythm, one that she had grown used to during these long nights under the open sky. Yet, the peaceful moment was disturbed by the soft sound of approaching footsteps.

From behind her, Jaune strolled closer, his presence made known not just by his footfalls but by the gentle tune he whistled—a familiar melody, one that carried warmth and nostalgia. For the Dancing and the Dreaming.

Vesta flinched, her shoulders tensing for just a moment before she forced herself to relax. She didn't turn to face him, though; instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the fire, willing herself to stay composed.

Jaune, unfazed, eased himself down beside her, his voice carrying the song’s opening verse in a soft, lilting tune.

"I’ll swim and sail on savage seas~ with ne'er a fear of drowning~ And gladly ride the waves of life if you will marry me~" His voice was gentle, soothing even, as he let the melody drift between them like the wind stirring the embers. "No scorching sun~ nor freezing cold will st—"

"WILL STOP ME ON MY JOURney…!"

A second voice suddenly burst in, far louder and more enthusiastic.

Jaune and Vesta both turned just in time to see Leo, grinning wide—until realization struck. His face turned red, his bravado melting into sheepishness. "Sorry…" he muttered quickly before dropping back into his seat, suddenly very interested in the dirt beneath his boots.

Jaune sighed, shaking his head with a chuckle before picking up where he left off.

"If you will promise me your heart~ And love…"

He trailed off, his voice quieting as his eyes flickered to Vesta. She still wasn’t looking at him. His singing faltered, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against his knee. Maybe he’d pushed too much—

"And love me for eternity~"

Jaune’s breath hitched as Vesta’s voice joined his, soft but sure. Finally, she turned to him, her lips curling into a smile.

"My dearest one, my darling dear, your mighty words astound me~" Her voice carried a warmth that made Jaune's heart thrum. "But I’ve no need of mighty deeds when I feel your arms around me~!"

Jaune grinned, the hesitation in his heart vanishing. In one swift motion, he jumped to his feet, taking Vesta’s hands in his own and pulling her up with him. She let out a surprised laugh as he twirled her, the firelight casting dancing shadows around them.

"But I would bring you rings of gold, I'd even sing you poetry!" Jaune sang, lifting her effortlessly before guiding her into a sway.

Vesta giggled, her laughter light and unguarded. "Oh, would you?" she teased, her eyes shining.

Jaune rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Shaking his head in amusement, he continued to sing, his voice rising with playful intensity. "And I would keep you from all harm if you would stay beside me~!" he cried, his tone filled with conviction as he twirled Vesta once more.

She laughed, the sound light and free, before falling into step with him, moving effortlessly as if the dance had been written just for them.

With a teasing smile, she took the lead, her voice weaving through the night air as she countered his verse. "I have no use for rings of gold, I care not for your poetry~! I only want your hand to hold~!"

Her words were met with a beaming grin from Jaune as he stepped in close, keeping in perfect rhythm with her. "I only want you near me!" he sang in response, his voice carrying a sincerity that made her heart skip a beat.

With a sudden spin, Vesta found herself pulled into Jaune’s arms, her laughter mixing with the warmth of his embrace. He held her close, his grip steady yet gentle, as if anchoring her to him. The fire crackled beside them, casting golden hues over their entwined figures, but neither seemed to notice—lost in the music, in the moment, in each other.

Then, voices rose around them, blending into the song. Jason, Piper, and Leo, unable to resist, joined in, their harmonies filling the night with a joyful chorus.

"To love and kiss, to sweetly hold~! For the dancing and the dreaming~! Through all life’s sorrows and delights, I’ll keep your laugh inside me~!"

The melody carried through the campsite, a celebration of life and love beneath the starry sky.

"I’ll swim and sail on savage seas with ne'er a fear of drowning~! And gladly ride the waves of life If you will marry me~!"

As the final note faded into the night, a peaceful hush settled over them. The song had ended, but the warmth it left behind lingered.

Vesta tilted her head up at Jaune, her golden eyes alight with something soft and fond. That same lovely smile, the one she always wore around him, graced her lips—effortless, natural, and breathtaking.

Jaune returned the expression, though his own was laced with something deeper. His gaze lingered on her, drinking in the sight of her face, her warmth, the quiet joy in her eyes. For so long, he had thought this feeling lost—thought he would never see such beauty again. But here she was, standing before him, illuminated by firelight and starlight alike.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he saw the most beautiful sight he had ever known.

[yenich]

~ Space Girl, show me the stars ~

☆ You know the galaxies of my heart ☆

i wanted to draw her in a cute dress for so long omg

[damneddamsy]

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part ix)

a/n: Silverwing being ride-or-die is my new favourite trope

Princess Aemma Velaryon's death reached Dragonstone only after her forlorn brother, Prince Lucerys, feverishly searched the seas and skies alike for any sign of her or Silverwing. All he came upon of her was the shredded length of her velvet cloak by the shores of Shipbreaker's Bay, his sister's sweet lavender perfume lost to the salt of the sea. He had clung to it like it was his lifeline, and that's how they found him in the Sea Dragon tower, within Aemma's chambers—crying his eyes out and calling out to her.

Luke sobbed deeply, pulling at his hair. "It should've been me."

Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon walked in on Luke, eager to see her children again, and eventually registering his undone suffering. Once the mother noticed the familiar article of clothing—formerly her own—she went insensate. Her shoulders shook, composure gone to ashes, and sank to her knees. Daemon was stoic to the scene, save for his hand that went to direly fist at his sword.

The older prince spoke first, relieving the tension. Despite his grave face, his tone was forbidding, intending to burn. "Who the fuck did this?"

Luke's upper lip curled, his hands clenching at his sister's cape. "Him."

Nothing else needed to be said. The reality of who was capable of executing such treason was well understood, though uttering his name was like spitting venom.

Rhaenyra roared out with the visceral fury of a dragon, and once that drained, she was but an empty vessel. She heaved a solemn breath, palming at her abdomen. The misery that wracked her labours was far less cruel than whatever this was, the anguish overwhelming, her chest aching with the burden of mourning two daughters, their deaths igniting the flames of war.

When she tearily looked to her side, Daemon had disappeared.

Prince Daemon had been conditioned to barbarity and grief, so much they were welcome drinking companions of his. Aemma was no different to this addition. In her, he saw echoes of his own turbulent youth—the same steely determination, the same unpredictability, the restless drive to remain an enigma to those around her. Perhaps it was this reflection of his own wild spirit that spurred him to seek out grisly revenge.

Daemon's warpath toward Caraxes suddenly stopped as he saw him standing before the painted table. The hollow swordsman. The one-eyed kinslayer. A mirror of Daemon's worst motivations. Here stood the rider of the beast that had slain his daughter.

Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister without hesitation, the Valyrian blade slicing through the air with a menacing swish.

"Poetic justice or self-destruction?" he muttered, masking his fury.

Aemond bore a black smile, barely lifting his lips. "Depends on which of us you ask, uncle."

X

Rumours had begun to spread that Aemond Targaryen had defected to the Blacks. Some even called it a surrender. Perhaps it was the stabs of a prickling conscience, the blood stains of love in his hands, or the affliction of sorrow that had overtaken him, making him ready to face the wrath of a grieving mother—and his own death. Bereft of his truest calling, shattered by dreams he had destroyed with his hands, the one-eyed prince swiftly concluded that life held no meaning without his princess. He intended to follow her footsteps soon enough, to fulfil the conclusive detail of their promise: never to part from Aemma henceforth.

Without Aemond and Vhagar, King’s Landing had become perilously vulnerable. The soaring pall of the largest and most terrifying dragon no longer loomed over the capital, and it was clear to all that their strongest defence was now absent. The Greens' was evidently morale staggered. With Vhagar’s absence, Rhaenyra’s forces could bring the fire with seven dragons and fewer consequences, and rumours of dissent spread throughout the city. The Greens were losing their grip, outmatched in numbers and firepower, leaving the smallfolk exposed and the city teetering on the edge of defeat.

Terrible fables spoke of King Aegon and Aemond One-Eye’s grandiose schemes to slay the false queen under the guise of begging for mercy. But these tales were discredited when it was revealed that Aemond had been imprisoned in the chambers of the late princess—a ruthless move orchestrated by Queen Rhaenyra. It was, in every sense, a final sentence.

“If that savage snake truly loved her,” Rhaenyra had said vengefully to her husband, “then that place will drive him mad. Let his evil haunt him. I want to see the fear in his eyes when I burn him.”

Yet fear was not something Aemond would entertain. He would sooner fall on his sword than show terror before his wretched half-sister.

Over time, however, he did fall—deeper into madness consumed by the unfamiliarity of being locked in the space that had once been Aemma’s. The burden of memory became the iron bars and chains of this prison. Numb to everything else, he wandered her chambers aimlessly, haunted by her absence. She was everywhere and nowhere at once—in the vanity, where strands of her hair clung to her hairbrush; in the bureau, where her meticulously folded maps and lists remained undisturbed; and in the faint perfume that lingered in the air, forever scenting her dresser.

A full moon's cycle passed before Aemond began hearing her voice. A breathy echo, a laughing whisper, a figment of his broken mind. With each crash of the waves against the jagged rocks beneath her balcony, he would catch that soft, familiar sound: My friend.

The echo eased him in ways nothing else could, drawing a smile to his face. If this was madness, it was madness he welcomed. My love, he thought, and in that moment, he would’ve gladly surrendered to it.

Jace was the one who finally confronted Aemond, his vengeance boiling over upon his return from the Vale. Sword in hand, he cornered the one-eyed prince in his sister's chambers. What was surprising was how the captive did not baulk at the sight of the angry prince. He simply tilted his head, offering his neck and awaiting the onslaught.

"Fucking murderous cunt," Jace spat, barely above a whisper, trembling with restrained fury.

Aemond was inured now. It resounded in his mind with every breath, a constant reminder of what he'd become. His gaze remained distant, vacant as he met Jace's stare.

"Mount your dragon," Jace ordered, dripping with disdain. "I only spare you this avail because of how dearly Aemma loved you."

Aemond didn’t even blink. It took more effort than expected to form words after days of silence.

"I will not fight you," he muttered, voice gravelly from disuse. "So, get it over with. Finish me."

But Jace wasn't about to grant him that release.

"You're coming with me," he growled, eyes blazing with wrath. "I won't believe my sister is gone until I see it with my eyes. Find me Silverwing, and only then will you get what you so desperately crave."

Aemond turned away, blinking back a rare sting of emotion clouding his vision. He had been so benumbed, that the sensation sliced him raw. His jaw clenched, forcing his voice through the anguish tightening his throat.

"Silverwing sank beneath the waves."

"Then she should've washed ashore by now," Jace snapped, his tone sharpening. "Or been spotted near Storm's End, or found by sailors off Driftmark. Someone would've seen her. I will not grieve with my family until I know for certain. Until I’ve seen damning proof."

Aemond’s teeth ground together in frustration. "My hope ended with her."

"Hope?" Jace sneered, the word wresting bitterly in his mouth. "Know this, uncle—gods forbid I find what I seek, you won’t just be dead to the realm, you’ll be nothing more than a relic of a prince no one will remember."

X

We cannot know the ancient minds of dragons. They were not merely instruments of war—they were beasts of chaos, as unreliable as the gales they rode. A bitter reminder of how little command Targaryens truly held, even over their own beasts. Yet, the Good Queen's Silverwing had always been distinct from the others—gentler, some would say, with a serenity that belied the strength coiled within her shimmering, pale-scaled body.

Her loyalty to her peaceful rider ran deeper than bloodshed or battle, for it was not assumed upon command or duty but of a friendship that transcended power. It was instinctual, a mutual loneliness that they shared. Silverwing had intuited Aemma’s presence since her first touch upon her scales, the soft whispers of affection, the implicit trust.

Following Aemma's descent from her dragon's saddle, the waters hit her hard, churning her into the abyss. Just as the waves threatened to pull her deeper, Silverwing cut through them, her talons outstretched, and in a swift, precise motion, she plucked Aemma from the depths before the sea could claim her entirely. Silverwing’s grip was painstaking, cradling her rider’s limp form between her sharp talons, ensuring she was protected. With a great struggle, Silverwing battered her wings against the storm, fighting the ocean’s pull, lifting them both back into the air, finding cover above the storm clouds.

And now, in the quiet of this remote sanctuary, camouflaged against rocks, their bond held firm, even as Aemma lay unconscious amidst the mud and grass, suspended between life and death.

The old dragon sensed more than the warmth of her rider's skin when she nudged her snout against her constantly, letting out a low, concerned rumble. She felt the pulse of her heart, flimsy but steady, the rhythm of her breath, shallow but resilient. Every beat, every rise and fall of Aemma’s chest was a call to Silverwing, one that she refused to neglect.

Silverwing would shift her body closer at night, nestling Aemma to the earth, her massive wing folded protectively over the young princess' limp body like a shroud of safety from the bitter storms and the chilliness of dusk. Her fiery breaths ghosted over Aemma, keeping her warm.

Days turned into nights, and nights into days, but Silverwing never left, only venturing far enough to find sustenance, returning quickly, her eyes scanning the skies for any threats that might approach. But none came. The world remained unaware of the little hidden firth by the hills and the fragile life it cradled.

Silverwing’s troth was not just an animal instinct—it was a devotion to the one person who had never treated her as a mere beast. For nigh on a week, Aemma had doted on her, spoken to her in the tongue of Old Valyria, just as Alysanne did, with the same reverence and care, and Silverwing, in turn, had taken her into the skies, free from the burdens of the mortal realm.

In this isolated place, far from the throes of war, Silverwing held the last vestige of hope for her rider’s survival. It wasn't until a dark-haired sailor had stumbled upon their refuge that the mighty she-dragon let out her first roar in a while.

Addam of Hull hadn't expected much that day. He had set out on his small boat with nothing but the hope of catching enough fish to feed Driftmark's shores. The oceans had been restless ever since the bloodshed over Shipbreaker's Bay, and his mind had drifted as the waves lapped at the sides of his skiff. He cast his net, whistling a well-known sea shanty, letting the salt air fill his lungs, when something unusual caught his eye, beyond a small inlet of water rambling away from the beach.

A flash of silver. A rustle in the trees.

As his little skiff crept closer and into the currents of the slight strait, Addam’s heart surged. There, nestled within the protective embrace of the rocks, lay a great silvery-blue dragon that was the name on everyone's fuller lips—Silverwing. Her glittering hide was unmistakable, though it bore the wear of days spent at the mercy of the weather. She lay low to the ground, her immense wings tucked tightly around something as if guarding a prized jewel.

Addam wasted no time. He rowed forth, with all the strength he could muster, his mind racing. Could it be? Could Princess Aemma have survived the hand of fate, the cruel sea, her murderous husband, and the relentless storm? Could it be that Rhaeynra's heir was very much still alive?

As he drew nigher, disembarking his boat and clambering up the rocks, Silverwing raised her head, her auburn eyes locking onto him with a vicious intensity. She cautioned him with a low rumble, ready to spew out her ire.

For a moment, Addam feared she truly might lash out, mistaking him for a foe, but she did not move. Instead, she took a prudent sniff and juddered her head, softening almost.

Eventually, she unfurled her wings narrowly, revealing the motionless form of Princess Aemma cradled beneath her. She was drenched, emaciated, tattered, bruised, and her silver hair matted to her gaunt face, but her chest rose and fell.

There was yet life in her. Barely. All alone. No one else. Just Silverwing standing vigil over her as if she’d been guarding the princess all these days. Ten days.

"Gods be good," Addam murmured.

Silverwing shifted away, stooping into the rocky niche, as if to offer her rider to him, but kept her weather eye on him. Addam made quick work of it, lifting her carefully into his arms off the wet ground. She was light, too light, but she stirred faintly at his touch.

"Princess?" He was unsure if she could hear him.

As he carried her back toward the boat, shrouded her in the coils of his nets, her fiery guardian observed the sailor, her vigilant eyes never leaving Aemma’s form.

She pierced a startling trill at her rider's saviour.

Addam jerked in shock, nearly dropping his docking ropes.

Silverwing rose off the ground, and shook herself off, wings beginning to unfurl as if preparing to take flight.

"You—er, stay," Addam stammered, desperately gesturing with his palms, trying to convey some form of command to the dragon.

He knew full well he was speaking to a creature that answered to no man but her rider, and she was not going to let just anyone snatch the princess away unless she was certain they meant no harm.

Carefully, Addam took a step closer, heart thudding in his chest as he bowed his head to the dragon.

"I'm not here to harm her," he said softly as if Silverwing could understand his plea. "I want to save her."

For a long moment, the dragon stayed unmoving, watching him closely, casting her own unfamiliar judgement. Then, with a slow and deliberate movement, she backed away scarcely.

"Thank you," he whispered, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was thanking the dragon, the gods, or fate itself.

X

Returning Princess Aemma in such a state to her kin on Dragonstone would have them questioning Addam's heartening intentions toward her. Rather than have them cast their vile aspersions on him and taint his shoddy name further, the brothers knew it was only proper to nurse the princess to health before anything else. The secret of Aemma's survival would remain closely guarded for a while longer.

"She thinks I'm her father," Addam quietly shared with his brother, Alyn, upon the fifth evening of secretively nursing Princess Aemma in their meagre home. It had been a total of sixteen days since she was believed deceased.

Alyn raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the small, makeshift room where their heir to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms lay in a thrifty cot, wrapped in linen blankets and tended to with great care. Her condition had steadily improved, but she remained barely conscious and frail.

"What do you mean, ‘she thinks I’m her father’? Is she delirious?" He asked.

Addam leaned against the doorframe, picking off the herbs from his thumb. "Perhaps she seeks comfort. And she finds it in the late Laenor."

As they spoke, a soft groan emanated from the cot, interrupting them. Aemma stirred, her dark eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again. Her lips moved silently, murmuring incoherent words. Addam and Alyn exchanged a glance, their choices harshening.

Alyn's brow furrowed. "How is she then?"

"Better than expected," Addam replied, shaking his head. "Her fever broke, I've stopped feeding her milk of the poppy. She recalls her mother often. The poor thing had nearly cracked every rib in her chest, the healers had to brace her spine with wood until yesterday. The blood of Old Valyria heals quick, I suppose."

Alyn nodded, absorbing the solemnity of his brother’s words. "And the dragon?"

"Stays close, hovers around the Driftmark groves. I've been feeding her, too," Addam said, shaking his head with a small, wry smile.

Alyn clapped his brother on his back, grateful for him. "How are you faring?"

Addam shrugged casually. "I’m doing what I can."

"Good. Keep watch," Alyn instructed, nodding at him. "On the morrow, I’ll prepare a fresh supply of herbs and check on the guards. There's only so long that we can keep her out of prying eyes."

Addam sat by the firelight in the hearth, his eyes constantly drifting to the young girl as she lay nestled beneath the heavy blankets, adjusting them around her again, his movements careful, almost tender. Every now and then, Aemma would stir, her brow twitching in her sleep, speaking illegibly. The flicker of the flames stained her face in hues of gold and shadow, silvery hair glinting, making her seem almost unearthly, untouchable. She could not have been older than fifteen, an age no child should have to raise battlements in a war.

“She’s strong,” Addam murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular. “Stronger than I imagined.”

"A future queen," Alyn said. "There's hope for her yet."

X

The second sons of the Blacks and Greens, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen, were unlikely allies as they scoured the realm despite their bitterness, united on a front to find a whiff of Aemma or Silverwing, searching high and low, from the misty mountains of the Vale to the shadowed peaks of Harrenhal and the foggy forests of the Riverlands. Every whisper of a silver-blue dragon sighting raised their hopes, only to be dashed moments later.

The weight of Aemma's absence dangled over them like a blade. Jace was fierce, relentless in finding that damned dragon himself, dead or alive. Maybe they were on a wild goose chase, led astray to not confront the reality that awaited them. Every dead end with clueless lords and fishermen was a new wound, yet he never yielded.

Their unwavering trepidation whenever the folk and lords saw Aemond cut deeper than a lash of a thousand scorpions. Each glance was a reminder, a searing echo of his own words to Aemma that fateful night: "Better to be feared than scorned." But now, as their suspicions pressed down on him, the question gnawed at his memory—was it really? The cold satisfaction he once sought had curdled into something far more bitter, and he found himself wondering whether 'fear' had ever truly been the answer, or if it had only left him more isolated, more empty.

Aemond, however, wore a stoic mask over his understanding of the truth, though beneath it, the torment tore at his soul. If Aemma's room had been perfect chaos, this was his purgatory. His nights grew sleepless, plagued by the recollections of his mistakes, the sight of her empty saddle still burned behind his eyes. He carried the guilt like a second skin, abrading when it got too thin. A little part of him was driven to heed Jace, an insignificant confidence, not by burden but by desperation—a need for redemption, to see her alive, to prove to himself that she had somehow survived.

Now, close to five nights, it had become custom for Jace, drunk on grief and rage, to drag his feet outside Aemond's pitched tent, embracing his shining sword, fighting his morals. Fighting the inevitable. Jace never spoke to Aemond directly, but his accusations found a way into his earshot.

"Aemma was good. Peaceful," he would hear Jace lament. "She had dreams. She was our sunshine. Now she’s out there somewhere, alone in death. Or worse. And you, of all people, claim to be the one who loved her? You never did. You fucking murderer. Selfish cunt."

This night, a familiar darkness flickered alight in Aemond. Unfailing despair powered him to react. He walked out of his tent, stepping forward in a threat until Jace's raging face was inches apart, his sword slipping from his grasp. His single eye narrowed.

"Say it again," Aemond dared, his voice low and cold. "Say that I do not love her. Say it, bastard."

Jace shoved him by his chest, his rage boiling over. "You threw her away like she was nothing! For your treacherous family! You never gave a fuck about her, and that is the truth!"

Aemond stumbled back but didn’t fight back. How could he, he had nothing left to withstand. His mouth twisted in pain, but his voice remained hard.

"Hate me all you want. Blame me. Strike me down. Your words hold facts. But don’t think for one second that your fury burns hotter than mine. Or that your love for her transcends mine own."

"Fuck you!"

Jace shoved him again, shouting out his rage, this time harder, the power of his wrath pushing Aemond back a step. And again and again, until Aemond fell back into the mud. Back again to ten years ago, when a spiteful Aegon had towered over him, Sunfyre peering over his shoulder mockingly.

Jace met his gaze, the two facing eye to eye, the consequence of years of rivalry and betrayal still fresh between them. But beneath it, there was something else now—shared desperation, grief that only they could understand. The closest brother of Aemma and her husband.

Aemond's breath hitched, bearing himself with his palms, the words barely escaping through his gritted teeth. He looked Jace in the eye, his jaw tight.

"I have nothing left. Seize your sword and end it all."

Jace leaned down, seething, his voice trembling with scorn. "Look at where your absolution got you. Begging your foes for death. Pathetic."

Aemond’s hand twitched toward his dagger on instinct, his face a storm of rage and remorse. He had been so accustomed to being on his back, bearing through the punches thrown, facing defeat, now when he was made to encounter this yet again.

"Yes. That is all you see," Aemond agreed, his expression darkening. "All you ever see. Aegon, Rhaenyra, you. A pathetic boy too sightless for power. I've belonged nowhere but with Aemma all my life"—his voice cracked—"and now she's gone, too. And I am left trapped in this resenting world."

Jace stayed quiet, breathing deeply.

"I could not save her," he whispered, the words hollow as they left him. "No atonement will ever free me from this, even while I chase forgiveness from a ghost. I will never know peace again until my last breath."

His trembling fingers unsheathed his dagger and threw it to Jace's feet. "Make your shot count, nephew. Plunge it into my other eye, and take what is due. I do not care anymore."

Jace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He took a step back, torn between fury and pity, his expression unreadable. He looked away, blinking back tears as if the significance of Aemond’s words was too much to bear. He couldn’t bring himself to speak—there was nothing left to say.

"You don't deserve peace, not even in death," Jace eventually whispered before walking away.

X

The air was dense with the scent of salt and damp wood as Aemma lay in a bed draped with soft linens, the faint sounds of the lapping waves against the rocky shores of Driftmark echoing in her ears. Her body felt heavy, as though weighed down by an invisible force. Pain coursed through her like a vicious tide, abrupt and relentless, yet there was a warmth surrounding her that whispered of safety.

Fingers of consciousness began to weave their way through the fog enveloping her mind. Flashes of memory flickered like distant constellations—Silverwing’s fierce wings, the chaos of the storm, and Addam’s urgent voice calling her name. She struggled against the haze, her heart pounding with the remnants of fear and desperation.

"Aemma." The voice broke through her reverie, softer now, tinged with concern.

She fought to open her eyes, the effort feeling monumental. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered, and the dim light of the stuffy room began to emerge. A figure stood at the foot of the bed, cloaked and hooded, shrouded in shadow.

A wave of shock washed over her, and before she could fully grasp the situation, he lunged forward, pressing a warm hand to her lips to silence her gasp. Heart racing, Aemma’s gaze narrowed, the edges of her memory sharpening.

"Ssh, my love," he shushed her.

She recognized the intensity in his gaze, even from beneath the hood. He hovered close, his presence both alarming and strangely familiar. His silver hair rolled off his neck and shoulders, catching the light and casting shadows that accentuated the depth of his expression. One striking violet eye shone through the darkness, piercing and filled with emotion, while the other was shrouded in shadow.

“Aemond,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, like the faintest breeze. It felt like a lifetime since she had last spoken, her throat dry and cracked.

He flinched at the sound of her voice as if she had struck a nerve. Slowly, he lifted his head, an indigo eye swirling with a charged storm—pain, regret, and something darker lurking beneath the surface.

His voice was as firm as steel, yet equally gentle. "We've done our parts here. You’re coming with me, and this time, forever."

X