#HOTD aemond

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Shut Me Up - Teaser

summary: years after falling out, her, Aemond and the friend group take a summer trip to their Dornish villa, where real intentions make themselves known | word count: TBC | warnings: oh boy, deffo smut, enemies to lovers ig idk, they don't like each other then they shag ok

She bit back a laugh, and was about to ask where the last passenger was, always late but hey, reliably late. But he appeared before she had the chance to utter the words.

Aemond.

He walked towards the van with the usual effortless arrogance, duffel bag slewn over his shoulder, silver hair pulled into a lazy knot. He was dressed in all black because of course he was. Even if it was nearly 40 degrees Celsius and hot enough to fry an egg on the kerb.

To be fair, she'd not seen him in a while, so she looked him up and down, and he was, if not a little bit taller than the last time she saw him. And the scar that lined through his brow, through his eye and down his cheek was almost silvery in the midday sun.

Aside from that, he was still the most raging twat she'd ever met.

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[flowerandblood]

The Song of Promises [1/3]

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: loss of virginity (both characters), sex content, unprotected sex, oral sex, targcest stuff, smut, angst, abduction, description of eye loss, mourning, child abuse, Aemond being a self-absorbed, vain guy ]

[ description: Aemond's childhood is filled with loneliness and regret until Daemon arrives in the Red Keep with his first-born child, daughter of Rhea Royce. The fact that neither of them has a dragon of their own binds them together with a thread of understanding, and their slowly developing relationship gives birth in the young prince's mind to a plan of which she is a part. Slow burn, childhood companions to lovers, first intimacy, rude, insolent, arrogant Aemond with big ego. ]

This is story that describes the events of what would have happened if Aemond had met Daemon's daughter earlier (i.e. as a child). The characters are exactly the same as in the original The Price of Pride, but still, this is a standalone story that can be read separately: you don't need to know that story to read this one.

I have tried to show how the need for closeness matures in adolescents as they get older until they fully understand what they want and how to achieve it. Decide for yourself what happened between them when and at what age so that you feel comfortable with it (let's agree that the ages from the books and the series do not apply here, because at the end of the chapter we are still before Helaena and Aegon's wedding: everyone is simply older than in the source material, decide for yourself by how many years).

A big inspiration for me to wrtie this story was my relationship with my husband (everything was going very slowly for us and each new base was an achievement and a great event). That said, this story you will read alternately from two perspectives (not the same events tho).

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Aemond

That night he slept exceptionally badly: he wriggled in his bed for a long time, struggling to hold back tears of anger, thinking of what Aegon and his nephews had done to him. His older brother was spiteful by nature, but until now he had believed that they would support each another in the presence of the Strongs.

He was mistaken.

The pig with wings he had been given by them – according to Aegon's assurances, as a consolation prize – was eye-watering proof of the humiliation he had suffered at his hands for years. The way they all laughed out loud while he stood completely petrified with shame and the fact that they considered it amusing made his whole body begin to shake.

He wished the sun would never rise again.

When he woke up the next day, his meal was served as usual: to his delight, his mother, although she did not usually allow it, ordered his favourite sweet cinnamon rolls to be brought to him. While he still felt miserable, eating them made his spirits lighter, as the pleasant thought went through his head that his mother loved him.

During the sparring, Aegon acted as if he had forgotten what he had done to him the day before: he said something to him and laughed, as if he expected him to feel like replying to him after the humiliation he had suffered at his hands.

His silence, unfortunately, was not met with understanding from his brother either.

“Must you always be such a twat?” Aegon asked.

Again he did not answer, pressing his lips into a thin line with rage, and hit one of the targets with all his strength with a wooden sword.

He did not utter words that Aegon or his nephews could use against him.

He thought he would never give them a reason to mock him again.

Silence was safe.

However, he was snapped out of his reverie by the voice of Jace, who had been speaking to Luke during one of their short breaks.

“Mother said they would be arriving today. Daemon and his firstborn daughter. He killed her mother.” His nephew spoke in a whisper, clearly excited, but he stood close enough to understand what he said.

Daemon's firstborn daughter.

It was true that he had heard of her and knew that she existed, however, her person did not particularly concern him: she had no dragon and she was a girl, so she did not threaten him in any way, yet she also had nothing that would make him find the subject of her arrival interesting.

Or at least that's what he tried to tell himself, as he involuntarily strained his hearing, standing with his back to them, pretending to stretch before his next routine, paying no attention to the fact that Criston Cole was shouting something to him and Aegon.

“He killed her mother?” Squealed Luke, and Jace shushed him and tapped him on the head, clearly wanting his little brother to be quiet.

“It's gossip. Mother says we have to be kind to her. She won't have here anyone but us.” Jace explained to him.

Although he kept telling himself that he didn't care about some pathetic little girl without a dragon, the next morning he sat with his face pressed against the window, waiting for them to arrive.

He didn't know what he was actually waiting for: Daemon had always seemed intriguing to him. His uncle was confident and ironic, on top of which there was no one, except perhaps Ser Criston, who could match him in wielding a sword.

Deep down he admired him and the possibility of seeing him again thrilled him.

He twisted in his seat, rising higher on his arms as the gates to the courtyard opened and indeed, he saw his uncle on a white horse and a little girl with long, dark hair sitting before him in the saddle.

He snorted at the thought that, like his nephews, the gods had not bestowed upon her the Targaryen colour that he wore proudly on his head.

However, she was a legitimate child and had certainly inherited the colour of her hair from her mother, so he felt that this was not reason to mock her.

After all, his mother also had dark hair, and he held her in high regard and respect.

Daemon jumped off his mount lightly, then grabbed his daughter under the arms and helped her down, without waiting for the servant to run up to them.

He saw that she had started to look around – he thought that she was certainly enthralled and overwhelmed by the beauty and grandeur of the Red Keep, but when she turned her face towards him he recognised that her facial expression was more one of uncertainty and fear.

She will have no one here but us.

He killed her mother.

For some reason, for a moment, but only a moment, he felt pity for her.

Although she was not a princess or anyone special, news of her arrival and the reason for it had spread through the fortress very quickly; he usually preferred to stay in his chamber or in the library, but on this day he had left his safe places to stroll the corridors and the castle, hoping to see her.

He wanted to judge her carefully in his mind: he had formed an opinion about everyone, and she could not remain an exception.

A sting of disappointment spread across his chest when, to his displeasure, he did not see her until the next day during sparring, in the company of Jace and Luke. They spoke to her, gesturing vividly, apparently showing her everything they could, she, however, simply looked at them with big eyes, terrified, and said nothing, looking where they told her to.

“My Princes. Come over here. Let's begin.” Criston Cole called out towards them, clearly impatient.

He grinned under his breath with satisfaction, feeling a pleasant pride at the thought that Ser Criston preferred them to the Strongs and was clearly showing it.

Jace and Luke stepped closer, and Daemon's daughter approached with them, her eyes wide, her small hands clenched into fists from anxiety.

Looking at her closely, he decided she was not ugly: her face seemed pleasant to him, her eyelashes and eyebrows long and dark, accentuating her skin tone in some interesing way. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, as were her lips: she was a little shorter than Jace, but like them, she was dressed in a training garment.

“Our cousin used to practise archery in Runestone. We thought she could do it here too.” Luke said.

Cole straightened up and sighed, clearly frustrated.

“Consent would have to be given by Prince Daemon himself. I cannot make that decision alone.” He replied matter-of-factly, causing the girl to lower her head, disappointed.

Jace, however, was not giving up.

“Then we'll ask him.” He said with vigour, glancing at his cousin, who shook her head.

“I don't know where he is. I can't find him anywhere.” She muttered.

“Prince Daemon, from the information I have, set off to Essos before dawn. Without his permission, I cannot take responsibility for your safety, my Lady.” Ser Criston explained, already a little softer.

An uncomfortable silence fell around them, one he'd experienced for the first time in his life: it wasn't filled with irritation or rage, but with the fact that it seemed to him that neither of them knew how to act in such a situation.

Usually when Jace or Luke didn't know or couldn't do something, it was a source of pride and mockery for him and Aegon: their nephews reacted similarly to failures on their side.

However, he didn't know what he should feel or think upon hearing that a little girl didn't know that her father was now with his second family.

He looked at her to witness her reaction and felt a strange squeeze in his throat seeing that she obviously did not know about it – her lips were slightly parted in disbelief, her gaze wandering from one person to the next, as if she felt humiliated and abandoned, left alone in a place foreign and frightening to her.

“With your permission, I will return to my chamber.” She mumbled and bowed, only to turn and move towards the cloisters, disappearing into one of the corridors.

“Did you see that? She is crying like a little baby. Would you like to join her, brother? You two fit together.” Said Aegon and patted him on the shoulder, making his cheeks flush scarlet with shame.

“That's enough.” Cole said. “Get back to practising.”

Although he occupied his head with various activities for the rest of the day – mostly reading books on Westeros history – his thoughts kept returning to her face then, when she found out her father was gone.

She wasn't as annoying and provocative as Jace and Luke, of that he was sure – nor had she inherited Daemon's aggressive manner, at least not in the way he'd expected. As much as he wanted to assign her to the Black party, as Daemon had always supported Rhaenyra, he wasn't sure she was even aware of the division between them and that she had to choose.

She was thrown between strange walls and strange people, left alone.

Even for him, it was quite cruel.

But it was not his concern, he consoled himself in spirit, trying to start a chapter concerning Winterfell.

For the first time in a long time, he looked forward to the supper with excitement: he knew that his father-king would surely invite his niece to it and say a few warm words to make her feel at home.

He hoped she would be seated close to them and not next to the Strongs.

She shouldn't spend time with the bastards, but he didn't blame her for doing so – he guessed that she simply didn't know who they really were.

Perhaps I should tell her about it, he told himself in spirit sitting down at the table in his seat, recognising that, in fact, he would be doing her a favour by doing so.

Indeed, there was one more chair placed at the table than usual. His cousin walked into the chamber, accompanied by his mother and sister. Helaena was saying something to her, and Daemon's daughter was smiling, looking down at her feet, apparently trying not to fall over in her long, brown gown.

Once again he felt a sense of pride, for it was his sister and not his nephews who had made their guest feel better.

To his satisfaction, which, however, he did not give expression to, trying to keep a stony face, his cousin took a seat next to his sister, that is, opposite him and Aegon. When she looked in his direction he did not leave her gaze for a moment – however, when she smiled, he turned his face away, feeling embarrassed.

He felt a sense of distinction because she had paid attention to him.

No one ever did that, because he was a second son without a dragon.

But she didn't have a dragon either, he consoled himself in his mind, and for some reason he felt relieved.

They were alike.

As he expected, his father greeted her in the presence of everyone, apparently wanting to give her courage.

“As I'm certain you all know by now, we have a guest. It is my brother's daughter, whom I welcome with great joy and love. From now on, the Red Keep will be her home and I ask you to treat her with kindness and understanding. A strange place, even more so for a little girl, can seem frightening. I trust each of you to care for her as best you can.” He said, then nodded and allowed everyone to begin their meal.

One more interaction occurred between them that evening: when he tried to reach for a pate that was too far away from him, she helped him by handing him a platter. She smiled at him again then, and he reciprocated the gesture awkwardly, feeling that for some reason his palms had started to sweat.

His king had said they should be kind to her, so he simply followed his order as any good son would do, he assured himself in his head.

Then Jace suddenly spoke up.

“My King. Our cousin is an excellent archer and we think she should be able to practice with us in the Red Keep as well. Ser Criston said that without her father's permission this is not possible. Wouldn't the King's order be more significant?” He asked, and all eyes fled towards his father.

“Little girls shouldn't be involved in such things.” Said Queen Alicent, taking a sip of wine, for some reason casting a long look at Rheanyra, sitting across the table.

“Why?” His half-sister asked. “Are all women in this world the same?”

His father decided to put an end to this brief argument by giving his own opinion on the matter.

Viserys decided that she could practise archery during their sparring, if it didn't interfere with their training.

She usually stood on the side and shot her bow at targets standing in a completely different part of the courtyard, so everyone quickly forgot about the dispute and stopped paying attention to her.

Or at least that's what he tried to convince himself.

He often looked at her, because when their gazes met, she usually smiled.

It was a warm smile, devoid of prejudice or malice: he did not usually reciprocate the gesture, fearing that Aegon would see it and find another reason to mock him.

She spoke to Jace and Luke, also occasionally smiling in their presence, but when she did so while looking at him, she looked different.

Perhaps it was just his childhood desire to be special to someone, to be noticed, that made him live in the belief that his cousin wanted to know him better.

He craved it too: confirmation of his suspicions, of the fact that, indeed, he had caught her attention. The reason, after all, could have been any feature of his personality that no one had noticed before: his intelligence, his knowledge, his rhetoric, his calmness and composure, how different he was from his brother and nephews.

His pride, however, prevented him from taking the first step: he knew that if anyone found out he was seeking her company, his brother would again call him a twat and say that he liked to play with girls because he was one himself.

That left him internally torn.

The opportunity fell upon him like a thunderbolt from a clear sky when one afternoon, as always eager to search the library for more reading for the dull, monotonous evenings, he saw Daemon and his daughter sitting at the table, bent over a thick, old volume that he knew intimately.

High Valyrian.

His cousin lifted her head upon hearing someone enter the room and bestowed upon him a broad, soft smile – Daemon's expression was not as friendly and expressed boredom.

To his relief, she spoke up first.

“My father is teaching me the language of our ancestors. Would you like to join us?” She asked, surprising both him and her father.

Daemon sighed, but did not protest, spreading out comfortably in his chair, giving him a look as if challenging him.

On the one hand, he was terrified and just wanted to run away, but on the other, this was his chance to get closer to both of them.

He nodded, embarrassed, feeling his hands involuntarily clench into fists.

The fear of humiliation was greater than the excitement.

“Sit down.” Daemon commanded.

No one had ever spoken to him this way, not even his own father; for some reason, however, it did not frustrate him, but made him feel even more respect for his uncle.

I want to be like you, he thought in the back of his mind.

Confident and fearless.

So he sat down on the other side, in the empty chair next to Daemon, and moved closer to the table – he was ashamed that his legs still didn't reach the ground, but he hoped it wasn't apparent yet.

Just a few more years and he would become a man.

He felt much more confident when he saw that they had just reworked a chapter he had already read before.

“Perzys zaldrīzī ossēnagon daor.” Said Daemon, glancing at his daughter expectantly, apparently wanting her to translate the sentence.

“Fire cannot…” She started, but fell silent, clearly not knowing what one of the words meant.

“Fire cannot kill a dragon.” He spoke up, proud to show his uncle how broad his knowledge was.

“Good.” Daemon said.

He swallowed quietly, glancing at his cousin: her downward gaze and her hunched figure told him that she was sad that he hadn't even given her time to think.

He decided that perhaps he shouldn't come out in front all the time, lest he come across as vain.

“Zaldrīzo ānogar.” Said her father – he stirred in his chair, excited, knowing exactly what it means and that it is a fairly simple, even obvious phrase.

Daemon did it so she could respond too.

“The dragon…” She muttered, incorrectly constructing the sentence syntax.

When she looked at him, his lips uttered quickly the soundless ‘blood of the dragon’. She drew in a loud breath, an expression of relief flashed across her face.

“N-no. Blood. Blood of the dragon.” She quickly changed the order of the words, and Daemon nodded, moving on.

He didn't know why he had helped her then, but he liked the way she looked at him from then on.

With curiosity and gratitude.

In secret from his mother, grandfather and brother, he would sneak off to the library to learn with his uncle and his daughter about what he had been studying with the Maester earlier. He didn't admit that he had a kind of advantage over her, but he would sometimes pretend that he didn't know something in order to give her the opportunity to prove herself to her father.

Daemon seemed to him the embodiment of everything he himself wanted to be. Unlike his father, who did not find the strength or time to teach him about the history of their lineage, his uncle shared it extensively with him and his daughter, seeming indifferent and matter-of-fact at the same time.

Daemon was a demanding teacher, but this made him turn on his natural desire to compete: his cousin, however, did not have as much knowledge as he did because she could not have it, so he did not treat her in the same way as Jace and Luke.

They did not speak with each other outside the library; sometimes she smiled at him, but he only reciprocated this expression when the others could not see it – the corner of his mouth then lifted slightly upwards in an attempt to present some pathetic caricature of cordiality.

He wanted to be liked and admired, but didn't know how to achieve it.

One day, to his surprise, his cousin visited him in his chamber when the sun had long since set – he was already lying in his bed while reading a book.

He didn't like anyone invading his private space, but he couldn't say that the sight of her made him uncomfortable either.

He remained silent, deciding to listen to what she had come to him with.

“Tomorrow I am leaving to Essos. My father wants me to meet my sisters and stepmother.” She muttered, lowering her gaze as she spoke the last sentence.

She didn't want to see her replacement.

He grunted quietly, fiddling with the page of the book he held in his hands, feeling some kind of regret and disappointment.

“I see.” He replied, not knowing what more he could add.

She, however, was still standing in the same place, as if expecting to hear something more from him.

“I want to thank you for... for helping me then. Before lessons with my father, I repeat everything he taught me, but when I sit next to him, I suddenly forget the words. My head is empty.” She choked out finally, making him involuntarily look at her, surprised.

He felt a pleasant wave of pride and self-satisfaction ripple deep into his chest.

He lifted his chin higher, wanting to look more mature and dignified.

“You're welcome.” He hummed, hoping to hear even more praise from her lips.

“Sleep well, cousin.” She said and turned away, leaving him once again with a cold feeling of disappointment.

He realised that he hadn't asked her when they were coming back.

As she and his uncle disappeared, he felt with redoubled intensity how invisible he was to the inhabitants of the Red Keep: or at least that was how he perceived it. Even if he had wanted to, he no longer had anyone to show his intellect and knowledge to, no smile waiting for him when he sat down to supper in the company of his loud nephews and his half-sister, whom he deeply despised.

He was the embodiment of all his father's dreams, he was the reason he opened the womb of his first wife while she was still alive: he was the son he was always waiting for.

But his father could hardly eat on his own, let alone pay attention to him or the other children Queen Alicent had given him.

“Pass me the porridge platter, sweet Aemma.” He said to her once, pointing his blue finger at the dish he was thinking of, causing everyone around him to freeze.

He felt some kind of constriction in his throat when he saw his mother swallow this humiliation with difficulty, reaching for the platter and handing it to her lord-husband without a word.

He lowered his gaze to his plate, trying not to think about it, realising that he would like to see her comforting smile again.

He was beginning to grow impatient.

It had, after all, been several weeks.

As always when something was bothering him, he went to the only person he truly trusted.

“When will uncle Daemon return?” He asked, feigning indifference, fiddling with one of the flacons of expensive oils that had belonged to his mother.

Alicent looked at him, sighing quietly, clearly tired and embittered, probably by what his father had done.

He didn't know how he was supposed to help her, so he remained silent.

“The longer he's gone, the better.” She replied, surprising him.

“Why?” He asked, and she sighed again.

“He's a dangerous, unpredictable man. I pity his daughter. He drags her around all the continents like an object.” She said with a kind of impatience that made him unsure if she really meant what she said.

Adult people often spoke in riddles, which frustrated him constantly.

He preferred it when someone was direct.

The conversation with his mother brought him neither answers nor relief; the only person who showed interest in him was far away, and he was once again learning High Valyrian alone.

That night he prayed to the gods to help him tame a dragon and for his cousin to return quickly to King's Landing, so that she would continue to be kind to him.

The gods listened to his requests, or at least some part of them.

After a few days, Daemon, his daughter from his first marriage, Baela, Rhaena and his wife, lady Laena, reached the Red Keep.

He came to see them because he hoped to see her.

Indeed, when he stepped into the chamber, where his mother, Rhaenyra and Helaena were also present, he spotted her at once, standing behind her father's back. She was looking at Daemon, as if hoping that he would turn his attention to her, but he did not – his uncle was looking at his brother, who was holding Baela hand in his.

His only child who had a dragon.

Although no word was spoken, he understood what had happened.

She had only regained her father for a moment and lost him again.

A pleasant shiver ran through him as she looked around the room, but her gaze stopped on him when she noticed him: he offered her a sad smile of comfort, and she reciprocated the gesture.

Although everyone at supper that evening was loud and chatty, she sat quietly, staring at her plate, immersed in her thoughts. He could see that she had not eaten much; her lips were tightly clenched, her gaze fled again and again to the silhouette of her father, who was talking aloud about the magnificent mansion they lived in Essos and their desire to stay there.

He felt an unpleasant twinge in his stomach at the thought.

“Do you like insects?” He suddenly heard his sister's voice leaning over their cousin.

Her question seemed absurd and out of any context, but Daemon's daughter was clearly trying to focus and answer the question.

“I like butterflies. And bumblebees.” She said after some thought.

Helaena twisted in her seat, delighted, and invited her to come to her chamber later that evening so that she could see through her large collection of dried moths.

He sighed, trying to hide the unpleasant sting of jealousy that an object that raised his self-esteem had just been stolen from him.

He wanted her back for himself, so that she would say nice things to him.

He wanted her to admire him.

He wanted her to love him and cry for him with longing when they were separated.

He would never reciprocate this, of course, because these were tender, feminine concerns, but it would certainly satisfy his vanity.

He noticed, watching them from the sidelines, that a strong, cordial bond developed between her and his sister after that day: otherwise it would surely have caused his irritation, but at some point he began to see it as an opportunity.

The more she became attached to them and to the Red Keep, the more she would desire to stay with them.

To his surprise, Helaena too had begun to care that her new companion remained in King's Landing; she shrewdly tried to address the issue as they set off together to the Great Sept with their mother.

“I have no trusted lady of the court, Mother. I don't like the fact that they put things in different places than I want. They disturb my order and speak too loudly. She is kind. She always asks my opinion first before she touches me or my things. We embroider together and watch insects. I would like her to stay with me.”

Though his mother easily denied him and Aegon, to her only daughter she could not.

To his satisfaction, she turned to her lord-husband, and he convinced his younger brother that his daughter needed stability and a girl her own age as a companion.

Though reluctantly, Daemon agreed.

He couldn't say that everything had gone according to his plan: now his cousin was his sister's lady-in-waiting, spending a lot of time with her. This meant that she couldn't give him as much attention as he would have liked.

However, one day everything changed.

“Helaena said the Maester is teaching you High Valyrian. I was wondering if you could teach me too, as my father is not here anymore.” She mumbled, clearly fearing that her offer would not be attractive for him.

He sighed, pretending that her words made no impression on him.

“What can you give me in return?” He asked defiantly, though he knew he would have agreed even if she had not been able to give him anything.

“...and what would you like?” She answered question for question, staring up at him with her big eyes, playing with her fingers in a nervous reflex.

“You will obey all my orders without complaining.” He replied at last, feeling that satisfaction, not blood, was now flowing through his veins.

His cousin furrowed her brow at his words, clearly worried and concerned.

“What if you make me do something bad? Or something that will bring me disgrace?” She mumbled.

“I won't make you do such a thing. I am a man of honour.” He said proudly.

He blinked, shocked to see that she nodded at his words.

That's it?

“When can we begin?” She asked, and he pressed his lips together, struggling not to smile.

“Come to my chamber tonight. I'll draw you a map so you can get to it through a side entrance. And don't you dare tell anyone about this, or I will kill you with my own hands.”

She was clearly unaffected by his threat, because she smiled broadly, her face beaming with joy.

Indeed, his quarters could be accessed not only through a door, but also from the side of his bed: there was a small tower with stairs leading up to one of the rarely used corridors of the Red Keep.

He was worried, waiting for her, sitting over a mountain of books, whether the journey through the dark alleys of the fortress would prove too difficult for her: for some reason he was relieved when he heard quiet footsteps in the distance, and then saw her in the passage, looking up at him with big eyes.

She smiled broadly at the sight of him, apparently happy that she had managed to find the right way and not get lost; he grunted as she sat down beside him, pulling off the thin grey cloak thrown over her shoulders.

“Where did you and your father finish?” He asked, forcing himself to be indifferent – he swallowed hard, noticing with horror as he reached for one of the volumes that his hand was trembling with excitement.

He had never yet invited anyone to his chamber, much less without the knowledge of his mother and father.

It was their secret.

“On chapter twelve.” She said lightly, moving her chair closer to him so she could better see what they were about to discuss.

He felt relieved at the thought that he and Maester were already on chapter forty.

“Very well.” He hummed, pleased that he would be able to show off his knowledge and proficiency in this area.

His cousin, when her father wasn't around, proved to be a focused and curious student. She would ask him lots of questions and go back to things he had mentioned earlier, giving him proof that she was really listening to him.

He liked the role of teacher very much: he felt that it added to his esteem, while reassuring him that his time spent over the old tomes, contrary to what Aegon had said, was not time wasted.

He didn't know who he was really doing it for: whether for himself or for her. Certainly, in his own mind, he was convincing himself that the fact that he had agreed to teach her in Daemon's absence was an act of his favour, something for which she should be eternally grateful.

In fact, she was grateful to him.

He found it harder and harder to pretend he didn't see her during sparring or supper; some part of him, to his dismay, had come to the conclusion that he was enjoying her presence.

She cared for his older sister and was her faithful companion, but she also found time for him and his perpetually praise-hungry ego.

He was embarrassed by the way she smiled at him when their glances met in the courtyard or at the table: he had the impression that her eyes shone with joy for some reason, the expression on her face gentle and warm.

Kind.

He chastised himself for these thoughts and the strange yet pleasant feeling that filled his chest every time he lowered his head, stopping the corners of his mouth from rising with difficulty.

Then it was revealed that lady Laena was expecting another child, and something in her suddenly faded.

She felt less and less visible in the eyes of her father, who was far away, on another continent, while she was here, all by herself.

Looking at her and his own mother, Queen Alicent, sitting near her, he compared the shades of their hair, their eyes, the shape of their noses, hands and faces.

After thinking about it for a while, he decided that differences between them were not that great, and that if he had forgotten that she was the daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce, his cousin could be the daughter of King Viserys Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower.

His sister.

In truth, he was only a month older than her, but that did not change the fact that this would make him her older brother: this, in turn, would mean that since it was Helaena's destiny to marry Aegon, it would be his younger sister's destiny to marry him.

He lowered his gaze at this thought, feeling a burning red blush of embarrassment spread across his pale cheeks at the thought.

His heart thumped harder in his chest when he realised that nothing in that thought had rejected him.

But what if she didn't want it?

If she felt disgusted at the very thought of marrying him?

Rejection was something he couldn't afford.

It was safer to remain silent.

He felt his own blood under his tongue when his teeth involuntarily bit his lower lip at the word that her father wanted to take her to Essos.

“You have been away from home for too long. You should spend more time with your sisters.” He heard Daemon's voice outside her chamber door a few hours after her father had arrived in King's Landing.

Eavesdropping was not in good taste, but for some reason he couldn't help himself.

“What should I say to Helaena? I don't want to leave her.” Mumbled his daughter, clearly trying to come up with something quickly that would allow her to stay in the Red Keep.

“That you will now spend time with your true family.”

Your true family.

He didn't know why, but his jaw clenched in rage when he heard those words, a sharp pain piercing his heart, which beat harder in his chest.

And then Daemon took her away.

The first months without her presence had been the hardest for him, as he'd forgotten she was gone: he'd flipped through the books, wanting to prepare for their lessons, reminding himself angrily after a while that they weren't going to happen after all. Her chair had disappeared from the supper table, and her silhouette was not standing in the courtyard, aiming at a target with a bow.

It was as if she had never been there.

And then word reached King's Landing that lady Laena had died in childbirth.

It was a time of sadness in the Red Keep: previously Rhaenyra had mourned the death of her lover and father of her bastards, Harwin Strong; now, however, someone who was related to them all by blood, a close part of their family, had died.

He was ashamed that during the journey they had taken the whole family on to attend lady Laena's funeral, he had struggled to hold back a smile, feeling excited at the thought that the largest dragon in the world had just been left without a rider.

Although he tried to fool himself, he was enjoying not only the opportunity to claim a dragon, but also to see someone else.

The sea journey he had been forced to make, unlike his siblings, had dragged on mercilessly. When they finally reached the shore, he vomited: however, he quickly pulled himself together, recognising that neither she nor his nephews could see him in such a state.

His family were welcomed into the fortress with honours; he felt his heart pounding hard as he looked around the courtyard, hoping to see her. As he raised his head, he drew in a deep breath, catching sight of her silhouette in one of the open windows.

When their gazes met, she smiled.

Despite the fact that he should be concentrating on grieving, all he did during the funeral was listen for any sounds of the dragon that might be coming from afar and glanced at her, shocked that she seemed slightly taller to him – he also had the impression that her figure had become more girlish, whatever that meant.

When she caught him staring at her, he lifted his head up, embarrassed, pretending to look at the sky.

During the feast, which took place in one of the courtyards situated high above the sea, all he could think about was how to get her to speak to him. He did not want to be the one vying for her attention, running after a woman: this was foolish and, most importantly, unworthy of a man.

A man was supposed to be strong and proud, cold if necessary, but never weak.

Nevertheless, he longed to spend time with her, though she did not know it: she watched from the sidelines her half-sisters, embraced tightly by their grandparents, drenched in tears. Daemon and Rheanyra had disappeared somewhere, and she was left alone, not knowing what to do with herself.

After a while, their gazes met again – this time, though with difficulty, he did not look away. They continued like this for a while, until she made a slight movement with her head, as if pointing to the stone steps that led behind the wall, and then walked down them.

She wanted him to follow her.

He swallowed hard and glanced at his bored brother, who held a refilled wine cup in his hand.

“I'm going to take a walk. I have no desire to stay with these people.” He said to him dispassionately.

Aegon shrugged his shoulders.

“Do what you want.” His brother replied, looking intensely at one of the servants in the distance.

He sighed silently and moved ahead, feeling his heart in his throat.

What if someone sees them?

Was this a good idea?

Maybe he should turn back?

Hundreds of thoughts beat against each other in his head, but his legs led him to the stone stairs anyway, and then down to where no one could see them.

His cousin stood by the wall, looking beyond it to the sea; her long hair was partly tied back with a blue ribbon, the rest of it was blown by the wind. When she heard his footsteps, she looked up at him and smiled in a way he knew very well.

She was glad to see him.

“I'm glad to see you, cousin.” She said softly when he stopped in front of her, as if she was reading his mind.

He nodded, embarrassed, feeling for some reason that despite the cool sea breeze around them, he was hot.

“My condolences.” He muttered, reminding himself that his mother had ordered him to say it to everyone he met.

His cousin lowered her gaze and nodded, accepting his words.

“Thank you.”

They both fell silent, looking out at the sea, simply standing side by side. He was afraid that he should say something and was thinking hard about what neutral topic he could raise, when he suddenly heard her voice beside him.

“She was a good woman. She never tried to replace my mother, but she did everything she could to make me feel that she cared about me. I regret that I never thanked her for it.” She muttered, her voice breaking more and more with each sentence.

He looked at her uncertainly out of the corner of his eye, fearing that she would cry.

He wasn't good at consoling, so he remained silent.

“But I couldn't love her. Nor my sisters. I couldn't form a bond with them. My stepmother died, and I don't feel anything.” She said in a breaking voice, tear after tear ran down her cheeks red from the cold.

“If you don't feel anything, why are you crying?” He asked, looking ahead, straight at the setting sun hiding behind the horizon of the sea.

“Because I'm ashamed.” She confessed, making him feel a squeeze in his chest for some reason.

“You don't have to. She was not your mother, and they are not your sisters. You don't owe them anything.” He replied matter-of-factly, feeling that this was exactly what he believed.

Contrary to what Daemon had told her, they were not her true family.

They only pretended to be one.

“Who then is my family, if not my own father, his wife and daughters?” She mumbled with difficulty, as if his words frightened her even more.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, wondering if he should say it.

“Unlike my nephews, you are a true blood of the dragon. You can decide for yourself who you will love and who you will despise.” He replied with emphasis on the last words, involuntarily glancing in her direction.

She looked at him in disbelief, her dark eyes larger than ever, as if what he was saying shocked her.

“We don't control who we love.” She said, looking him straight in the face.

“We don't control. We choose.” He finally stated and drew in the air loudly, folding his hands behind his back. “You also have to choose. If you wish, I will take you with me back to where you belong. To King's Landing.”

Her lower lip twiched at his words, as if he had stabbed a dagger straight into her heart.

“I don't believe you.”

He wanted to answer her, but he flinched when he realised that he had heard the screech of a dragon in the distance – he raised his head and followed with his eyes the small, dark silhouette flying between the clouds.

Then he made his decision.

“I will take you to the Red Keep on the back of my dragon.”

She did not understand what he meant, however, he preferred not to initiate her into his plan: she had promised to obey him, so when he commanded her to go to sleep and worry about nothing, she did so reluctantly.

He, on the other hand, set out under cover of darkness to meet his destiny.

The trip through hills full of sand and stones was difficult and exhausting, but what he saw was sufficient compensation for his efforts. Vhagar was frighteningly beautiful: she was big, magnificent, and she evidently saw in him what none but his mother and cousin could, for although she opened her maw to burn him, when he spoke to her in High Valyrian, she hesitated.

Climbing onto her back, his palms were sweaty from nerves and terror, his body trembling as he tried with great effort to reach her saddle. When he finally succeeded and lifted into the skies with her, he realised that the gods had given him a sign, revealing to him his fate.

He had made Vhagar his dragon, and in the future he would make his cousin his wife.

In that moment, as he screamed with happiness, flying between the clouds, it made perfect sense to him. He didn't see this idea as something to do with physicality, but rather the conviction that since they both held affection and respect for each other, someday they would surely be able to beget offspring together, to create a lineage they would both be proud of.

In that one moment, he felt like he was holding his destiny in his hands, only for the gods to flip a coin again.

As soon as he landed back on the ground his nephews were already waiting for him and gave him another gift, this time one he was never to forget.

If he had to explain to someone what the pain of his eye being pulled out of his eye socket was, he wouldn't be able to describe it: it seemed to him that not only he was screaming, but his whole body as well, that his fingernails would pierce the frame of the bed he was lying on, that he was about to die and would never wake up.

He feared death.

“Mother, don't let me die.” He mumbled out, choking on his tears, his hands clenched into fists on the sheets.

His mother squeezed his arm harder, giving him courage.

“You will not die, my brave son. One day we will have our vengeance.”

Though Luke had taken his honour and his face, he had gained something more: a dragon.

A dragon that no one could challenge.

He knew that what happened after he returned from Vhagar's liege had nothing to do with Daemon's daughter: he had ordered her to stay in her chamber until he came for her, and so she did.

When he walked into her quarters, she rose from her seat, her face flooded with tears.

Daemon had already told her what had happened.

“I –” She began, but he would not let her finish.

“Fly with me or stay. I won't give you a second chance to choose.” He said coldly.

He was a man of honour and he kept his word.

He was sure she would refuse.

He was sure she was a coward.

But she nodded her head.

Neither of them knew how furious Daemon had been when he and his daughter had taken to the skies without his knowledge: when, in his eyes, he had abducted her as it was in the tradition of Old Valyria for centuries, to one day make her his wife.

Lady Royce

Her father punished her escape with his silence: the very thing he knew would hurt her most. He didn't answer her letters or explanations, and for months, then years, he didn't visit the Red Keep even at the invitation of his brother-king.

She knew that he considered what she had done a betrayal, and she suffered greatly because of it.

Nevertheless, she could not lie to herself and pretend that returning to King's Landing did not bring her relief. Between her half-sisters, she felt invisible, her father's person crushed her, and now she was free again.

At least in theory.

Queen Alicent was enraged when she saw her in the company of her son as soon as they returned to the Red Keep: she considered it their act of disobedience and a reason for Daemon to take revenge on her and her children. Her husband, however, was not so harsh about their misdeeds.

“They are just children, my love. My niece can stay here as long as she wishes. My brother and his daughters are in mourning. Let her not surround herself with sorrow and death.”

Although, in fact, King Viserys was partly right, her father was not really focused on mourning, but on marrying another woman as soon as possible.

Rhaenyra.

Only then did she feel as if someone had drawn a clear red line between one part of her family and another: the one that supported Queen Alicent and the one that supported Princess Rheanyra.

She herself wasn't sure she supported anyone: all she cared about was keeping Helaena safe. She was unable to bond with Baela and Rhaena, but she treated the king's daughter like her true sister.

She was calm, quiet and kind, full of warmth that gave her a sense of safety.

“I'm worried about Aemond.” She said one day, bent over her beautiful embroidery depicting a spider. “I feel that he is retreating more and more into the darkness of his mind.”

She lowered her gaze at her words, understanding perfectly what she meant: she answered nothing, however, as her cousin forbade her to speak of anything they discussed or did behind the closed door of his chamber.

He had kissed her for the first time when they were thirteen; he was respectful and gentle when his hands cupped her soft, pink cheeks during one of their lessons in his quarters, his caress slow and warm.

He was clearly nervous and excited, his breath heavy as their skin pressed together in a wet, sticky act she had only heard about from girls older than her.

She was convinced that this gesture was not a proof of his affection for her, but jealousy that Aegon had more experience with women than he did.

Nevertheless, since then, there had been a change in him that she had not expected: he had apparently regarded that incident as a turning point of some sort.

He began to speak not of his lineage but of their lineage, not of his heritage but of their heritage.

“From now on, I will be to you like an older brother,” he communicated to her proudly, looking down at her, having long been much taller than her, “I will protect you and surround you with the care a man should bestow on a woman.”

She accepted his words with joyful disbelief, feeling her heart flutter like a bird in her chest.

On more than one occasion, she had witnessed Aegon encouraging him to join him in a brothel – according to his older brother, only intercourse with the body of a mature, experienced woman could make him a real man.

It seemed to her that her cousin was inwardly torn listening to these words – some part of him clearly wanted to prove to Aegon that he could be as good a lover as he was, but on the other hand he dismissed him, saying that he was interested in the arts of war and sword, not old courtesans.

Occasionally he would glance at her out of the corner of his eye, as if the fact that she was listening to this exchange of words made him uncomfortable; then, for a moment, the thought would cross her mind that perhaps she was the reason he was refusing him.

She realised then that there was some kind of plan in his head, a vision of which she was also a part.

She craved it and was terrified of it at the same time.

She was not a mature woman, let alone an experienced one.

When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw with sadness that, compared to the other ladies of the court, she still looked like a child; the delicate outline of her breasts under her gown could not compare with the full, plump shapes of the other women's chests, as much as with their wide hips and coquettish smiles.

She didn't know what to do to make the change inside her happen faster, until one day she found out that transforming into a woman wasn't as pleasant and beautiful as it might seem.

“You are bleeding, my love,” Queen Alicent told her, trying to reassure her after she woke up, all sticky from the blood leaking from between her thighs, “your flower has blossomed. It means you are fertile and can become a mother. It's natural, although unpleasant.”

“When will it end?” She muttered, twisting in her seat, already dressed in clean smallclothes, filled inside with materials that were apparently meant to stop the bleeding.

“In a few days. But it will happen again in a month. It will continue to happen for years, as long as you and your future husband do not conceive a child.” The queen explained to her.

“For years?” She squirmed, feeling that something in that thought had broken her.

She did not know why she had cried that day, lying in her bed. She resented her father that neither he nor his second wife had warned her what the woman's fate was.

She did not know that she would feel painful spasms in her lower abdomen, she did not know that the warm, disgusting liquid would flow out of her again and again, making her uncomfortable.

She felt that there was no glory in it, no reason to be proud – on the contrary, for some reason she felt an overwhelming, deep shame.

She shuddered and covered herself more tightly with a fur when she heard the door to her chamber open – her cousin stepped inside without a word, striding towards her with his hands folded behind his back.

It was the first time he had come to her, rather than she to him.

“My congratulations.” He said, stopping beside her bed, looking at her with some kind of curiosity and satisfaction.

“I don't follow.” She mumbled, surprised by his choice of words.

“Fertility is a reason for every woman to be proud.” He stated, cocking his head to the side.

She lowered her gaze, realising that he knew what was happening to her.

“I didn't know it would be so painful.” She finally confessed, wondering if he would scold her for self-pity.

He, however, was silent for a long moment before speaking again.

“That's because you're not carrying a child inside you. When you become my wife, I will see to it that you no longer suffer.” He replied at last, struggling to remain calm – she had known him long enough, however, to know that he feared her reaction.

She looked at him with big eyes, feeling her heart pounding like mad.

What?

“What do you mean?” She muttered without thinking, even though she understood perfectly well what he was implying.

She just couldn't believe he'd said it out loud.

She saw that he swallowed hard, struggling to keep a stony face.

“Do you wish to marry someone else?” He asked, a hint of frustration in his voice that sent a cold shiver down her spine.

She shook her head quickly, horrified at his suggestion and the direction their conversation was going.

“N-no.” She mumbled.

“Good.” He said and turned away without another word, leaving her alone with his suggestion of what he truly desired.

Despite his words, he didn't try to kiss her for a second time; apparently his pride wouldn't allow him to ask again for something that, in his mind, was no more than a naïve female fantasy.

That he was incapable of expressing and showing his feelings openly, she had known for a long time; anything that might make him be seen as weak or naive was an unnecessary risk for him.

His older brother watched him closely, mocking and commenting aloud on any behaviour he found amusing and worthy of his attention.

To her cousin, the thought that he was constantly being watched, and thus could not afford to make a mistake, was completely petrifying.

This was the reason he avoided using words; it frightened him how many undertones and misunderstandings they involved, how easily he could destroy his reputation in the eyes of others with one ill-considered sentence.

She was then left with no choice but to use her intuition, carefully observing his subtlest gestures and glances to understand what he was trying to convey to her wordlessly. It was a difficult process, because he too often did not know what his needs really were and what they stemmed from.

“I don't want to strain you. We can discuss this chapter another time.” She said uncertainly, seeing that ever since she had crossed the threshold of his chamber his figure had tensed and his face expressed cold displeasure.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye in a way from which she felt a squeeze in her throat.

“If you want to leave, then do so.” He replied, making her blink in astonishment.

“I just want you to rest properly.” She muttered, playing with her fingers in a nervous gesture.

She felt around him like she was with her father, never knowing what would satisfy him.

“Are you afraid of me?” He asked at last, forcing the words out with some strange difficulty, as if this thought had been weighing on his heart for a long time.

She swallowed hard, completely surprised by his question.

“No. I just… I just find it hard to comprehend what could possibly please you.” She choked out with difficulty, feeling ashamed at hearing how pathetic that sounded.

She thought he would laugh mockingly at her words, but his face was completely grave.

“Your kiss will please me.” He said with some kind of regret, as if he was suffering from having to ask her for it.

It hit her that he simply wanted reciprocation when, at the same time, she was afraid that if she offered it herself, he would consider it undignified behaviour on her part.

She sighed, trying to calm herself down and moved closer to him – she saw that he drew in air loudly through his nose, as if he was trying to mentally prepare himself for what was about to happen.

He shuddered as she took his face in her hands, exactly as he did then – her thumbs stroked his cheeks and he closed his eyelid for a moment, as if he felt relieved. She took advantage of the fact that he wasn't looking and leaned in, letting their lips join in a moist, soft kiss – he surprised her when he parted his mouth and gently deepened the caress, making his warm breath fill her throat.

She closed her eyes, for some reason not wanting to pull away from him – she let his fingers run through her long, loose hair, let his hands roam tentatively over the back of her head and neck, while their lips brushed and teased each other with the quiet, sticky clicks of their saliva.

Eventually they ran out of breath, so they broke the kiss, however, their foreheads remained pressed together.

“Leave, if you want to.” He whispered, clearly indicating that he had no intention of taking advantage of her in any way.

“I don't want to leave,” she mumbled, embarrassed by her own words, “I want to fall asleep by your side.”

“My mother would kill me.” He mumbled out, as if he was fighting the strenuous urge to succumb to her.

“Then I will leave. I don't want to be the reason for you two to disagree.” She said, stroking his cheek with her palm, trying to comfort him.

“No,” he breathed out, his fingers digging harder into the fabric of her robe at her back, “stay.”

So she stayed.

There was something naïve about the way they lay far apart on his bed, the way his hand grasped hers and squeezed it, as if he wanted to find out if it was really happening.

“Don't tell anyone.” He asked, a sort of childish desire in his eye, from which her heart filled with warmth.

“I won't.”

That night it seemed to her that he didn't fall asleep even for a moment – she felt his hand run over her fingers, over her shoulder, and when he was sure she was immersed in a dream, he smoothed her cheek with his thumb.

What surprised her was that every time he did this a warm, pleasant shiver ran through her body – she wished he would never stop, because this was the first time in her life she had felt so comforted by someone.

This event had changed him; clearly the realisation that she reciprocated his affection had emboldened him in some way.

When they finished their lessons, they often lay on his bed facing each other and talked, touching each other's hands, faces and hair at the same time. Her heart pounded like crazy as his fingers combed through her curls, as his hand closed around the back of her neck, massaging it gently.

“I like the way you smell,” he said once out of nowhere, surprising her completely, “and the fact that your skin is so pleasantly soft.”

She realised he was trying to offer her a compliment – the thought of the two of them taking a walk through the royal gardens or showing interest in each other in public filled him with embarrassment, however, he had clearly found that in the privacy of his chamber he was willing to give her something he was not offering anyone else.

His words.

She smiled broadly at his confession, feeling a pleasant warmth in her lower abdomen spilling over her insides like a wave.

“And I like your big hands,” she replied shyly, stroking the skin of his wrist with her fingers, “and your beautiful white hair.”

She saw that he swallowed loudly, and his lips tightened in an involuntary attempt to stop himself from showing any reaction to her words; nevertheless, his eye betrayed him – it grew large and full of something she understood perfectly.

He needed to hear that something of value could be seen in him too, including physically.

That he wasn't a cripple in her eyes.

The way he slowly leaned towards her, his lips that barely brushed hers in a gesture full of invitation, their hands that clasped in their hair seemed as natural to her as breathing – the caress of their lips was hotter and more intimate than they had ever been before, deep, filled with something she was yet to discover.

Kisses were a form of reward for them, but also some kind of consolation on difficult days; in this way, although they could not speak openly to each other about this subject, they gave each other a sense of mutual care.

Over time, although it carried a high risk of being caught, they took this caress beyond the thresholds of his room; it was enough for him to catch her in one of the less frequented corridors of the Red Keep for their brief – even rough on his side – exchange of words to end with his tongue invading between her plump lips.

He liked it when their tongues met and licked, because he was obviously aroused by how perverse and passionate it was; his healthy eye was closed when his body pressed hers against one of the cold stone walls, while their hot mouths melted together again and again.

It was a warm, wet experience, filled with their loud, raspy breaths, their hands tentatively trailing the silhouettes of their bodies, giving them only the promise of what they both desired.

In that moment, in some strange, chaotic way they were devouring each other.

Her cousin evidently believed that he did not need to explain or confess anything to her; no words of affection, if he had any for her, ever left his lips. On the contrary; as he grew taller and his physique grew stronger, so did his ego, and with it the impression that he could not afford to show what he thought was a mere feminine sentiments.

Perhaps this would have been the reason for her distress, had it not been for the fact that he paid more attention to her than to anyone else anyway; above all, to the despair of the other ladies of the court, she was the only person besides Criston Cole and members of his family with whom he spoke in public of his own free will.

He usually approached her when he had something to say to her and announced it to her as simply and quickly as possible – he would then stand erect in front of her with his hands folded behind his back and look off somewhere into the distance, glancing at her only occasionally, usually driven by mere curiosity.

“A wild dragon has been seen in the Vale regions lately.” He said to her one day, as she happened to be heading to his sister's chamber to help her change before supper. “He is said to be larger than Meleys.”

She blinked, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad – she looked around quickly, wanting to make sure no one had heard what he had said.

“Help me.” She whispered. “Please.”

Her cousin cocked his head and hummed, looking at her with his mouth formed in the shape of an o, as if he wanted to whistle in satisfaction.

He liked it when she begged.

“Hm. How can I be sure you won't use this dragon against me and my family one day?” He asked offhandedly, looking down at her, a kind of challenge in his voice.

She blinked, feeling cold discomfort in her chest at his words.

“I am your family.” She mumbled.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them – she could see in his gaze that he was thinking about something, at the same time unable to deny her words.

“We leave tomorrow, at dawn.” He finally communicated to her in boredom, leaving her bewildered.

“And the Queen and your grandfather? Do they know what you intend to do?” She asked, and he rolled his eye, clearly frustrated by her remark.

“Sheep don't understand the ways of dragons. It's beyond their comprehension.” He recognised with some kind of pride, from which she pressed her lips together to keep from expressing her disbelief.

Clearly something in the expression on his face must have betrayed her, for he looked at her suddenly with a piercing, watchful gaze, his jaw twitching in a reflex she knew well.

“Come to my chamber tonight.”

Just as she had done in their childhood days, to leave her rooms now she had to wait for the watch to change; only then would she slip out and take advantage of the moment to make her way down a dark, rarely used corridor through a side entrance to the prince's quarters.

She had no idea if anyone but her knew about it; presumably if they did, the guards thought the additional door remained locked. However, her cousin had left them open for her, and it was through these that she entered, stepping into his chamber, enveloped in the warm light of the fire.

She spotted his silhouette at once – he was sitting at the top of a long table, on which lay stacks of maps and letters, a thick, old volume in his hands.

When he heard her footsteps, he lifted a glance of his healthy eye to her, and then returned to his reading again, carelessly turning the page over.

She was not bothered by this; he was often in the habit of pretending not to see her at first. From her perspective, it was his attempt to cope with the fact that, although accustomed to solitude, he was hosting someone else in his private quarters.

She untied her cloak, placed it on one of the richly decorated oak chairs and, wearing nothing but her nightgown, took a slow, quiet step towards his bed. She knew she could do it, and that she was certain to stay with him anyway, so she simply lay back on the soft sheet and closed her eyes, listening to the pleasant sound of the sizzling fire.

For a moment, all she could hear was that and the rustle of pages being turned – the smell of him and the parchments pleasantly filled her nose, calming her.

The quiet creak of wood woke her from her half-sleep and she shuddered, opening her sleepy eyes – she spotted his silhouette heading lazily towards her. His hand rose to the belt of his tunic, undoing it with the quiet click of a buckle.

“Tomorrow. You must promise to obey me. Otherwise I will not fly with you.” He said calmly, looking at her with an expression on his face that pretended to show indifference.

“I will.” She said.

“Mm.” He hummed under his breath, finally pulling the leather material off his shoulders.

She made room for him and moved sideways on the bed as he sat on the edge of it and leaned over, pulling his boots off his feet. She watched wordlessly as he did the same a moment later with his eye patch, finally throwing it carelessly onto the stone floor. He sighed and hid his face in his hand, massaging the area around his scarred eye socket in some subconscious reflex.

Stress was causing discomfort to return to the left side of his face.

“You are in pain.” She whispered softly, raising herself up on her elbow.

He didn't reply, just swallowed hard and froze in stillness.

“Let me.” She insisted, and he finally looked at her and nodded.

She raised herself up on her knees and moved towards him, sitting down so that she could see his face. He looked at her silently with some kind of melancholy as her hands gently grasped his face and her thumbs began to massage his temples.

He immediately closed his eye and flinched as her thumbs moved over his brow arches and cheekbones – he twitched when she did it the first time, but relaxed more and more with each subsequent stroke, and his face took on an expression of relief.

“I wouldn't object if you did this to me all night.” He said quietly, his eyelid still closed. She smiled involuntarily at his words, running her fingers over his forehead, nose and cheeks, going back to the beginning – to his temples and brows.

“I can.” She said warmly, but he shook his head.

“We need to rest. Come. I want to sleep.”

She nodded and held out her hand to him, shifting back towards the middle of the bed – he moved obediently to follow her and literally fell into her arms, pressing his nose against the space between her breasts.

She wasn't sure if he was able to breathe in that position, but she could see that his chest was rising and falling, so she didn't comment on it, combing her fingers through his white hair.

She knew that he was hiding from the world now: he wanted to disappear for a while and simply not be, like a small, defenceless child.

The control that he, in his mind, had over his life had a high cost that he did not speak of – it superseded any of his other needs unrelated to survival and victory, whatever that victory would mean.

While it may have seemed complicated, in fact the truth was much simpler: he was tired. It wasn't so much a physical fatigue, however, but rather a spiritual one – the self-imposed compulsion to remain silent when he was still a child was something that kept him safe, but also imprisoned him in his own head.

She mused on this as she watched him in silence, playing with strands of his long hair, feeling his body grow loose in her embrace, the tips of his fingers wandering lazily over her bare arm, his eye remaining closed.

He craved her closeness, but in more ways than one; preferably ones he could see as safe in his mind.

Lying in her embrace was such; he could just lie there and let her stroke him, listening to the slow beat of her heart. He could smell her scent and feel the warmth of her body, hear her breathing, have her to himself and know that she would fall asleep with him.

It calmed him.

In the middle of the night, she was awakened by the touch of a familiar hand – when she opened her eyes, she was in the midst of darkness. Her cousin was still snuggled up against her body, and he was obviously convinced that she was deeply asleep – it was only because of this that he allowed his fingers to travel up to her breast and squeeze it gently, as if checking to see if it was as soft as he imagined.

She couldn't stop the hot shudder that ran through her body or the pulsing she felt deep between her thighs. Other than that, she didn't move; she felt him freeze for a while, but after a moment, when he recognised that she had reacted in her sleep, he went back to stroking her plump bosom with his fingers.

A soft, shaky breath escaped her lips, her hands tightened on his back, holding him close; she felt him flinch and he froze again, taking his hand quickly off her chest.

She heard him swallow hard as she grasped his wrist and, in a gentle, slow motion, placed his hand where it had been – her fingers intertwined with his, allowing him to sink into the softness of her flesh again.

She thought it was a very intimate experience, one from which her whole body grew hot and her cheeks lit up red. She closed her eyes, hearing both of them breathe a little louder, their bodies pressed tighter together, seeking closeness.

Her wordless consent apparently made him feel bold, because he leaned forward, closing his lips around her nipple, clearly visible under the thin material of her nightgown. Something between a moan of surprise and a sigh escaped her throat when she felt him begin to suck as if he were a baby – her fingers clenched on his hair, holding him close.

“– lēkia (big brother) –” She whispered and flinched as she felt something long and hard pulsate in his breeches, pushing against her thigh.

She didn't quite understand the purpose of what he was just doing, but it was pleasant; she thought perhaps it was one of the secrets Aegon had told him about the pleasures of the female body.

She kissed the top of his head as his hand slid down her waist, slipping uncertainly under her linen shirt to finally touch her bare knee.

She felt that something throbbed hard deep inside her, that something sticky ran down her buttock to the sheet beneath their bodies.

They both began to pant as his broad hand went higher up her thigh and then to her hip, squeezing it finally between his fingers.

She shuddered as his wrist slid lower, between her legs, and his hand immediately froze – exactly like her body – when he touched her moist, pulsing womanhood.

“May I?” He asked in a whisper, still snuggled into her chest, not daring to look at her.

“What… what do you want to do?” She answered question for question, unsure of how much she herself was ready for.

She heard him swallow hard, as if he was terrified of having to answer her out loud.

“I want to give you pleasure.”

She felt her heart pounding like mad under his cheek, her fingers gently stroking his head.

She wondered if she should say it.

“I'm afraid.”

He took his hand from between het thighs at her words.

“What are you afraid of? I would never hurt you.” He assured her with a kind of surprise and regret, as if he didn't believe he had to say it.

“It's such a… private place. I…”

“I didn't mean to rush you. Forgive me. Do not be afraid.” He whispered, his voice strangely soothing, as if he understood what she meant.

“I'm sorry.” She mumbled in shame, feeling that she had ruined something that could have changed everything between them.

Her cousin raised himself on his elbow to look at her, but her big, red eyes made him freeze.

“Daor, hāedar (no, little sister). Gaomagon limagon daor (do not cry).” He said in a quiet, melodious tone, his large hand gently cupping her hot cheek.

“It was happening so fast. Your hand…”

She didn't finish as he leaned over her and placed a soft, gentle kiss on her lips. They stayed like that for a while without separating their bodies, her fingers grasping his, holding him close.

When he finally pulled away from her, his gaze was calm.

“I should have prepared you better. Explain what I want to do.” He said with a kind of weariness from which she felt a squeeze in her throat.

It was the first time he had spoken openly.

“Can you explain it to me now? So that I understand?” She asked, and he swallowed loudly, lowering his gaze for a moment.

He began to play with the material of her nightgown between his fingers, apparently struggling to find the right words to describe his desires.

“The source of a woman's pleasure, from what I understood from my brother's babble, is deep between her thighs. It is hidden there and must be found and caressed for a woman to achieve fulfilment.” He choked out finally, looking at her womb and hips, now hidden again under her shirt.

She twisted in her place, intrigued.

“The ladies of the court say that a man's tongue down there can perform wonders. But I don't know what they meant by that.” She said lightly.

She saw that he looked at her in shock, his nostrils twitched in a deep breath.

“You've heard about it too. From whom?” She asked amused.

He grunted and shrugged his shoulders, turning his head in the opposite direction.

“Aegon likes to brag about what he does to his whores and servants.” He muttered, feigning indifference, but his breathing, deep and uneven, betrayed him.

“Would you like to try it? That tongue thing.” He suggested suddenly, glancing in her direction out of the corner of his eye.

She drew in a loud breath, twisting in her place again, feeling her womanhood swell suddenly and pulsate around nothing at the very thought.

His mouth, down there.

“Doesn't it disgust you?” She mumbled in shame.

“You took a bath before you came to me, didn't you?”

“…I did.” She admitted, looking at him with wide eyes.

“So I can try. To satisfy our curiosity.” He proposed, apparently wanting to find any justification for what he wanted to do.

She nodded, feeling her heart in her throat, her stomach no longer filled with fear but with pure, hot excitement.

“If you don't like it, say so. I don't want to force you.” She said in a voice breaking with tension, watching in disbelief as he moved down, kneeling between her legs.

He threw her a meaningful look, in which she saw some kind of mockery.

“As if it's easy to force me to do anything against my will. Who do you think I am?” He asked with a wince, a slow, lazy movement of his hand lifting the material of her nightgown above her hips.

She had never been so exposed to anyone before in her life; she had to turn her gaze away to avoid looking at it and closed her eyes, trying to calm her breathing. Her hands tightened on the pillow on each side of her head when she felt him gently take her thighs in his rough hands and spread them slightly apart.

For a moment nothing happened; she thought he was just looking at her, or rather at what was between her legs. She sighed and flinched, surprised when his thumb ran down the length of her opening, apparently wanting to collect what had managed to leak out of her.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asked uncertainly, clearly not understanding if her reaction was due to discomfort or not.

She shook her head quickly, looking up at him only to close her eyes again a moment later, overwhelmed by the helpless position she had just found herself in.

She was at his mercy.

He won't hurt me, she assured herself in spirit.

He promised me that, and he is a man of his word.

This thought calmed her.

Her heart thumped harder in her chest when she heard the bed creak loudly under the weight of his body, and then his hot breath enveloped her throbbing womanhood – a quiet moan of surprise broke from her throat when she felt his slick tongue run over her flesh, causing an aggressive shiver to pass down her spine.

She didn't have time to calm down after that first, shocking sensation, and his tongue again clung to her smooth, dripping cunt, licking it like a cat drinking milk – her hands involuntarily reached into his hair and clenched on it, her hips made a motion forward as if trying to sink into his face.

“– oh – yes –” She breathed out, but it seemed to her that this voice was not her own, its tones squeaky and girlish, full of surprise.

She thought her body was on fire, arching as it rocked to the rhythm of his caresses – she heard him sigh, obviously feeling her wetness begin to run down her buttocks. His lips closed gently around the sweet spot she felt most strongly and began to suck, making her cry out loudly, throwing her head back.

“– Aemond –” She whined out pleadingly, though she didn't know what she was really asking for – all she could hear and feel were the wet sounds of slurping and licking, lazy and unhurried, full of a thoroughness that drove her mad.

As she glanced down at him, for some reason wanting to see him now, she noticed that his eyelid was closed and he was completely absorbed in his task – his head was moving back and forth, disappearing again and again deep between her thighs.

It felt like a bolt of lightning pierced her lower abdomen when she felt his tongue burst inside her body and begin to thrust between her fleshy, hot walls.

“– g-gods – gods, oh, fuck, fuck, yes, yes, brother, here, right here, yes –” She begged, completely losing touch with reality, feeling nothing but overwhelming pleasure as again and again the tip of his tongue teased a spot deep inside her, from which the tension in her loins became unbearable.

She felt that some sort of peak was approaching, that if it lasted even a moment longer, her poor womanhood would simply explode.

“– ah! –” She almost screamed out in pleasure as a convulsion shook her body – she threw her head back, feeling a wonderful, overpowering, tickling wave of heat spread across her insides, flowing through her mouth, her breasts, her belly, down to her throbbing, leaking cunt.

She panted for a moment longer, wishing the feeling would never go away, until she froze powerless, breathing heavily with her eyes closed. She only looked up at him when she heard the quiet rustling of fabric, followed by quick, rhythmic, sticky splats – before she could make any sound his mouth was on hers, tasting foreign, salty and sweet at the same time.

She moaned into his throat, surprised when she felt something warm and long rub against her womanhood again and again – at first she was frightened that he craved fulfillment inside her, but contrary to her assumption, he did not try to take her. He caressed himself with his hand, squeezing his manhood at the very root, teasing its smooth tip by running it over her moist, oversensitive slit.

She murmured contentedly, sinking her hands into his long hair, letting it fall lightly against her body. Knowing that he was balancing on one hand and just giving himself pleasure with the other, she decided to help him achieve satisfaction, exactly as he had helped her.

He looked at her with his mouth wide open, breaking the kiss for a moment when he saw her slide her nightgown off her shoulders, revealing the fullness of her breasts to him. He closed his eyes and gave her a quiet little moan as she lifted his shirt up, exposing his chest, and with a gesture of her arms, encouraged him to let their bare skin touch.

“– hāedar – mmm –” He breathed out into her mouth, sliding his tongue deep into her throat, his free hand grasping her breast so that with every movement of his hips her nipple rubbed against his chest.

Her body was all flushed from what she had experienced with him earlier, and his uncontrollable, almost animalistic movements were giving her some strange kind of pleasure. She knew he didn't want to take advantage of her – on the contrary, he no longer knew what to do with the tension he himself felt in his loins and was looking for a way to take her while not depriving her of what should not yet be his.

She didn't know what he thought of it, but she let her hands roam over his bare neck and down his back under his shirt, to his exposed buttocks from which he had slipped his breeches off. His body twitched each time her fingers explored a new region of his skin that no one but himself had ever seen or felt before – the slaps of his hand became faster and harsher, his breath heavy in her throat, the bed on which they lay began to creak loudly under their weight.

And then suddenly he made a sound of strange relief, as if he had sighed deeply and was about to cry – she squealed quietly, surprised to feel something warm and sticky spill over her abdomen and thighs, realising after a moment that it was his seed.

His body fell inertly on top of her, as if what he had done had cost him all the strength he had left, and he drew in deep breath, apparently trying to calm himself. She felt his heart pounding hard in his chest, pressed tightly against hers – his manhood, still twitching and pulsing, now lying between his body and hers, was nestled against her stomach.

She stroked his hair and his back, cuddling her cheek into his temple, trying to calm down with him and comprehend what had really happened: their bodies were hot and wet with sweat, she felt a drop of it run down her spine.

She had never been more exposed, but she had also never felt more safe.

She wasn't sure if she should say anything – she really wanted to, however, she feared that the barrage of words that would flow from her mouth would simply overwhelm him after what had happened.

She suspected that, like her, her cousin was in a state of some sort of shock.

She blinked and shuddered when she suddenly heard his voice near her ear.

“Forgive me.”

She swallowed hard, feeling discomfort at the words, for some reason filled with guilt and resignation.

“What should I forgive you for?” She asked in a whisper, looking uncertainly in his direction.

Their eyes met.

“I was supposed to protect you. I didn't keep my word.” He said finally, startling her completely.

“You can't protect me from lust. You can only make it a pleasurable experience for me, in your strong, safe arms.” She replied with a kind of conviction that evidently impressed him, for he remained silent for a long time, looking at her with wide-open eye.

“You don't resent me?” He muttered, and she shook her head, smiling for some reason.

“No. I am happy that we are discovering these fascinating mysteries together. I could not imagine a more beloved and trusted companion for this journey.” She whispered, and he snorted, but she noticed in the darkness of the chamber that the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

“Let's sleep.”

Aemond

When he woke up, the sun had not yet risen on the horizon – he always got up before dawn. The order of his day was predetermined and he didn't like anything to change his plans. First he would eat his morning meal, preferably one that would give him energy before sparring. Then he would move on to training his body, spending long hours in the courtyard with a sword in hand.

When this was behind him, he would take a nice hot bath in the privacy of his chamber, spending the rest of the day delving into old, thick tomes that smelled of dust. He was not fond of suppers with his family, for they bored him and were a time of mere, even simpering courtesy which he did not understand, he endured them, however, because he could then look at her in peace.

As in their childhood, she was sitting in exactly the same place now – opposite him, at the side of his sister Helaena, at the very end of the table.

To their right sat only Daeron.

Helaena was fond of her, because their cousin understood and respected her barriers. It was something he himself deeply valued in her – the fact that she could watch someone carefully and knew the boundaries she could not cross.

It made him, as well as his sister, enjoy being in her company – they knew they would not be surprised in an unpleasant way or put in a situation that would be uncomfortable for them.

In the case of her and Helaena, a sincere, warm friendship had grown between them over the years; he didn't mind this turn of events because he knew that his cousin didn't gossip about his sister with the other ladies of the court and that she kept her secrets, like his, deep in her heart.

He, of course, was not such a fool as to share his worries or thoughts with her, however, he would be lying if he said that he did not enjoy speaking with her, though he usually tried to give that impression.

“Will you stand to fight in a tournament in honour of our king's Name Day?” She asked him, putting her bow and arrows back in place while he sharpened his dagger, which he always carried with him.

Ever since she managed to tame Sheepstealer she has been more brazen than usual.

“Do you want to annoy me?” He answered dryly with a question to a question, not even looking at her despite his overwhelming desire to do so – her familiar scent reached his nose, making his manhood pulsate softly in his breeches.

His tongue swirling around her hard nipple, his two long fingers thrusting deep into her throbbing, hot cunt, all leaking with desire.

He felt a pleasant shiver run down his spine and he swallowed hard, trying to keep a stony face.

He heard her laugh behind him.

“No, but my wreath will have to fall to someone else. Pity. Perhaps I'll give my blessing to your uncle.” She said lightly, and he struggled to hold back the grimace of displeasure that pressed against his lips.

Gwayne was fond of her, and his affection was reciprocated – when he came to the Red Keep to visit his father and sister, he often chatted with her during supper and teased her in ways that drove him mad.

Usually, however, one sharp look from him over the table in her direction was enough for his cousin to turn to Helaena and pay no further attention to his uncle.

“Do what you want.” He burbled coldly, and she sighed heavily.

“Just don't be surprised.” She said disapprovingly, but before he had time to answer her anything she turned and disappeared into the depths of the castle, leaving him with her words and the discomfort he felt in his heart.

Did she really have to give anyone that fucking wreath?

On the other hand, what would it look like if she refused to give it to anyone?

What would his mother have said?

Whether he wanted to or not, he had to watch the next day as his uncle, proud in his armor, sat on his gray steed, holding aloft his lance, on which his cousin had placed a wreath of field flowers.

He looked ahead as she sat back between him and his sister, pretending not to feel how she pressed her arm against his. His gaze involuntarily fled to the side, to her hand, when he felt her little finger brush over his.

He swallowed hard and crossed his legs, shocked that this public expression of intimacy aroused him.

Did the people sitting behind them see it?

Rumors about the nature of their relationship had been spreading around King's Landing for years anyway.

His fingers involuntarily began to pluck the cuticles around his fingernails in some subconscious, nervous gesture full of excitement, the source of which he did not understand.

That night he took her for the first time.

At the beginning, it was simply a coupling similar to others they had experienced so far, but more fiery and loud, full of his frustrations and her assurances that she was faithful to him.

But then, instead of just rubbing his long manhood against the space between her thighs as usual, he decided to experience the warmth that was hidden deep inside her.

“– now I will receive my wreath – the only one that matters –” He exhaled into her ear, involuntarily pushing the tip of his length, swollen with pain and desire, against her moist, pulsing opening.

She let out a moan full of surprise and effort, her nails digging into the bare skin of his back.

“– Aemond – we can't – we can't –” She mewled and gasped as she felt that with a steady, slow thrusts he began to force his way into her hot, fleshy interior.

“– fuck –” He mouthed, feeling his heart pounding like mad, thinking that he shouldn't be doing this, but he had to, because he couldn't bear it any longer.

“– just let me –” He asked in a breaking voice, and she complied with his request.

She stared at him with her mouth wide open, trying to catch her breath as he began to move inside her, sinking deeper and deeper into her body with each deep push.

He pressed his forehead against hers, panting along with her, and stroked her sweaty cheek, looking at her with desperation, wordlessly asking her for forgiveness.

He expected it to be pleasurable, but didn't know it would be that much – her insides were warm and moist, enveloping his manhood on all sides, while squeezing him so tightly that he had trouble taking a deeper breath.

He had the impression that he was in some kind of trance, and the sounds that left their throats were not their own – their moans were high-pitched, similar to crying, her fingers clenched on his buttocks, her hips seeking rhythm with his thrusts, rocking back and forth.

“– I need this – do you understand? – I need you –” He mumbled in pain, imposing a faster, sharper pace on her, finally filling her completely.

His hips pounded against her buttocks with loud, wet splats, her moist, hot walls throbbing around his manhood, clenching against it in a way from which he felt like howling with pleasure.

“– here – please, here, brother –” She sobbed, arching her back so that the entirety of his manhood brushed against the upper wall inside her hot, spasming cunt.

“– here? – here it feels good? –” He panted with excitement, grabbing her hips in his hands, deliberately teasing the area she had showed him now – she threw her head back, her girlish cries of pleasure had to be enough of an answer for him.

“– yes – g-gods – ah –” She whimpered out, clearly experiencing it as extremely as he was, wriggling under him in pure ecstasy.

He just stared at her as his thumb ran over her swollen, plump lower lip, as her breasts bounced lightly with each of his deep, sharp stabs, until he finally felt what he so craved approaching.

An almost animalistic sound of relief came from his throat as he reached his peak inside her – he heard her sweet sound of pleasure and felt the shudder that shook her whole body, her leaking womanhood squeezing his cock greedily, sucking his seed deep inside her.

He collapsed on top of her and snuggled into her warm, sweaty skin, letting their arms embrace their figures tightly. They were both panting and quivering, feeling each other more than ever, wanting to stay that way.

As one.

He had promised himself, however, that he would never beget a bastard, and having his cousin drink moon tea was not an option for him.

He was not going to kill his own blood, his own heritage, his own child.

Then he decided that the time had come.

“Marry me.”

[mourning-sapphire]

heavy metal lover | aemond targaryen | masterlist

Summary: Red wine, cheap perfume and a filthy pout - he was everything she ever needed, but was she everything he ever wanted?

Pairing: Metal Guitarist!Aemond x Reader (modern au)

Series Warnings: smut (extensive), angst, possesive behaviour, emotional constipation and MORE.

Series Word count: 30k and counting...

authors note: you guys won lol, i'll make it a series <3

▶︎ Part One | Living Dead Girl [M]

Summary: You didn’t think going to a gig would then have you on your back with the lead guitarist between your thighs and a blinking red light on the nightstand.

▶︎ Part Two | [REDACTED]

Summary: [REDACTED] coming soon...

▶︎ Part Three | [REDACTED]

Summary: [REDACTED] coming soon...

[valyrielwrites]

Oh my god this was so cuteeee 💖 thank you for sharing!! xx

LILACS AND VIOLETS!

pairing: aemond targaryen x wife!fem!reader

summary: “the other night. when you… held me,” he began, his eye leaving the floor so it could meet your gaze, building up the courage to speak. “could you hold me again? please?”

word count: 1.7k?

warnings: FLUFF, nottt proof read in the slightest, physical touch, cuddling, aemond is a vulnerable cutie patootie, might be slightly ooc but idgaf, etc etc

author's note: listen, i just want cuddles from aemond. also this is lowkey really bad i just wanted to write aemond fluff fr....

taglist: @floweringrott ♡

more aemond targaryen | masterlist | navigation

THE FIRST RAYS OF THE SUN crept in through the curtains of your bedchamber as you stirred awake, your eyes fluttering open—and, the first thing you could feel, was your tall, lithe husband, unconscious above you. His head was tucked into your neck, soft breaths escaping him, his arms wrapped tightly around your body like a snake scoping out its prey, bpth of your legs tangled like vines strangling a tree branch; you would’ve giggled, but you wouldn’t want to wake him. Even though his eyepatch was wedged uncomfortably against your skin, you did not mind in the slightest. His natural scent wafted up your nose—dragon scales and pine wood, as well as his favourite rosemary oil he often applied to his hair during the late hours of the night. A few songbirds sat on the edge of your balcony, chirping and chattering away as you relaxed against your bed, your fingers gently scratching Aemond’s scalp.

            He was a curious character, Aemond. Your husband, yes… But, he was still not accustomed to this whole union. It was arranged, of course, by his grandsire and your parents, allying your House to the Royal Family. A few moons into the marriage, and you both still did not share quarters—However, at times, the Prince would feel comfortable enough to visit you just before you fell asleep.

            Last night was one of those times.

            A soft knock against the oak of your bedroom door startled you from your book, a quiet sigh leaving your lips since you were already comfortable under the furs of your bed. It was late, the time equating to the Hour of the Eel. You wondered who it could be? Most likely a handmaiden; everyone in the castle would be asleep by now…

            “Come in!” you called out, your drowsiness evident in your tone. You rubbed your eyes, sitting up more properly in your bed to maintain ‘proper Princess etiquette’.

            Whatever that meant.

            To your astoundment, the person standing at the entrance of your chamber was not your handmaiden, but, in fact, your husband—Prince Aemond. In his nightclothes, his eyepatch on, no hair tie keeping his hair back, like he had just left his rooms in a hurry to get to you. 

            Aemond was a peculiar thing. Peculiar in the sense that he was not at all what you had expected him to be. You heard the whispers, how the loss of his eye turned him into some cold, horrible man who was sharp with his tongue and even sharper with his sword. When your father informed you of your impending betrothal with the Targaryen Prince, you did not know what to expect. Would you live the same life as your mother? Forced to birth babies and live in your husband’s ignorance for the rest of your days? You’d honestly rather jump off the nearest cliff—

            But then, you met him for the first time.

            He was quiet, a man of few words. Respectful, kept his hands to himself. Well-groomed; half of his long, silver locks were always tied back. There was also the eyepatch, made of leather, which remained clasped around his left eye. Rumours always uttered that the Prince hadn’t taken it off since that dreaded night at Driftmark. You, his lady wife, hadn’t even seen what was under it, not even now.

            Though, his remaining purple eye was already quite the beauty—the initial colour was truly violet, but if you looked close enough, swirls of lilacs, your favourite flowers, blended in so bewitchingly. It was intense, piercing. You liked it, the way he stared at you when he thought you didn’t notice.

            Purple flowers were your favourite since they were synonymous to a sort of hope. Renewal and everlasting. You liked to think the Gods spoke to you through blossoms and cherubs. Like the Gods were reassuring you, saying—“Look! He’s not bad at all, your husband.”

            Aemond was handsome, too. You weren’t the only one who thought so. During the courting period of your betrothal, many young noblewomen would giggle and whisper to themselves whenever you walked through the gardens with Aemond—his words were sharp, his sword sharper, but his actual appearance was probably the sharpest out of everything. The Gods of Old Valyria must’ve taken their time with him, carefully sculpting the contours of his nose, his jawline, his cheekbones, pairing them with an even more contoured body. He trained every morning with Ser Criston Cole, his mother’s sworn protector, and it clearly paid off.

            “Husband…?” Your gentle voice broke the silence, your eyebrows crinkling, conveying your surprise at the sight of him at your door. You both talked often, but things were still… very new.

            The Prince seemed to be surprised with himself, showing up in your chamber like this. He had been abed, though his thoughts were being particularly perturbing in the cold atmosphere of his room.

            Your chamber was the opposite. Warm. You were warm.

            “Wife,” he greeted, his voice even quieter than yours. He had shut the door behind him, now unsure of what to do. He glanced at you, his eye landing on the book in your lap before swallowing the lump in his throat. “Apologies, are you… are you busy?”

            “Not really,” you replied, a small smile finding your lips as you closed your novel, placing it on your bedside table. “I was on the verge of falling asleep, if I’m being honest.”

            “Ah,” Aemond nodded, his posture stiff, his arms by his sides. He looked like he was refraining himself from doing something—you wondered what he was thinking, and you wondered why he was here. The candle by your bed was flickering, a contrast to its calm flame mere moments ago, like it was pushing you to talk to him—bring him closer.

            “…Are you alright?” You asked, your eyebrows now creased with concern; perhaps he had a bad dream? You were the only one who he could converse with about them. Aemond didn’t know why he was so open with you. It could be because you were his wife, and it was basically your job to listen. Your duty.

            And yet, Aemond knew there was more to it. To you.

            “I… would not want to bother you,” he finally responded, lowering his eye to the wooden floors of the Keep. Softened eyes found your expression as your gaze lingered on your husband’s form; he resembled a little boy, his younger, reserved self. You never knew that version of him, but his inner child shone through a lot of the time when it was just the two of you.

            “You could never, Aemond,” you reassured, your hands resting in your lap as you nibbled your bottom lip. “What is the matter?” Confliction overwhelmed his countenance, his silver eyebrows knitting together as he struggled to speak—all you could think about was how… adorable he looked.

            “The other night. When you… held me,” he began, his eye leaving the floor so it could meet your gaze, building up the courage to speak. You did not interrupt, letting him take his time. A quality, patience, he was glad his wondrous wife had—Aemond felt as if everyone around him never had any time for him these days. His mother, his sister… His brother, too. Though, Aemond didn’t seek Aegon’s company often.

            Daeron was a growing man, away in Oldtown; his priorities were elsewhere. Which was why Aemond was grateful for your presence—it might be selfish to think, but he was glad that, at the moment, your only theoretical priority was… him.

            “Yes?” you prompted him to continue.

            “Could you hold me again? Please?” Aemond’s voice was growing more docile by the minute—not out of embarrassment, but out of shyness. He wasn’t used to this, asking for what he wanted. He would rather die than demand something from you; you were his wife, not a property he owned.

            Silence washed over the room, your expression only holding an understanding smile—you said nothing. You only leaned towards your candle, blowing the flame out, Aemond watching it die as you got under your many furs, getting comfortable—

            And then, Aemond approached.

            You never realised how intricate the patterns of your ceiling were; Maegor Targaryen seemed to have an eye for detail if you disregard his whole… character. The sun was slowly rising and your husband, astonishingly, still hadn’t risen. In fact, you were glad he was sound asleep—he worked like a machine most days, never considering rest for even a second.

            Thinking too soon, you eventually felt Aemond shift against your body, his face burying further into the crook of your neck, grumbling quietly at the sight of the sun trying to disturb his slumber. Your usual, soft smile tickled your lips, holding back a chuckle as you took a peek at him, his arms grasping you like a vice—he was warm all over. It was a pleasant feeling.

            You couldn’t help but tease him.

            “Are you not planning on going to the courtyard this morning?” you asked, your voice encased with a playful tone as you heard him hum against your hot flesh; his lips brushed over your pulse point, purposely or accidentally you did not know. Either way, the action authored an acute flush colouring your cheeks, the most tremendous shade of red.

            “Mmm… you’ll have to give me a moment,” he mumbled, a delicate laugh eluding from your soul—you made no move to remove your hands since he quite enjoyed the feeling of your fingers running through his hair.

            You enjoyed mornings like this. Mornings like this where your husband didn’t feel pressured to build up a wall just to keep you away. Mornings like this where you could just hold him and have him hold you. Mornings like this where you could just be husband and wife—

            Not Prince and Princess of House Targaryen.

            In the corner of your bedchamber, the lilacs you had been growing bloomed beautifully in the glass vase your good sister Helaena gifted you on the morning of your wedding. A shrew of violets blended in naturally with your lilac, though you do not remember planting them there.

            Perhaps the Gods have spoken to you once more. Renewal and everlasting.

[gawkgokgok]

Silence of the lambs

Aemond Targaryen x Daemons daughter!reader

summary: You and Aemond married for the peace of the realm even though you disliked each other. Peace is the last thing you would find in your chambers...

warnings: MDNI, subtle violence, reluctant kissing, choking, attempted rape, a bit of a praise, tiddies!, all this but its suppose to be hurt/comfort😭😭 almost 2.3k

a/n: this is the first and probably the last thing I'll ever write. just had some fun and decided to share it here.🩵 English ain't my shit, sorry for the mistakes. hope this won't be a waste of your time divider credit @cafekitsune (hope that's okay) :P

Cold.

Cold and distant.

Two moons passed since your wedding day. Even though you shared chambers you limped to get used to each other. Stiff. Not present. If you talked it would be the smallest, briefest conversations only about necessary. Usually it was silence. That’s all you knew. And perhaps it was for the best...

Silence in the morns. Silence in the day. Silence in the nights. Most familiar whisper of your rooms was crunchy fire. The only thing that kept this place from turning into a dungeon.

Dungeon with chains lost on the eyes.

You returned tired to your shared coffins. Spending your evening with pregnant Helaena and her twins. Playing until little offsprings got tired and ready for their cribs. You seeked change. Anything, just to get the obese hours pass quicker.

Hands of wind grabbed your ankles and planted shivers across your skin. Balcony door was wide open. He stood there. Face in his palms. Or so you thought. His back was covering any chance of view. You pursed your lips. Should you worry? Should you talk to him? Would it make things worse?

The slouching of his shoulders made you sigh and slowly approach. You ideated running your palm across his broad form to soothe him. But you feared of overstepping.

"Did something happen?" It was quiet. Not particularly soft, but quiet.

Your eye caught his arms tensing up. You hated that your presence and voice made him like this. You didn’t care at first, but it was becoming frustrating.

He didn't look at you. He was quiet for a long moment before he put you back in your place. "...nothing happened."

You stared at his nape, covered by waves of moonshine. He was being difficult, and you just wanted to go to sleep and close the damn doors. Curling your tongue in your mouth, you gathered strength to stay calm.

"Are you alright?"

You felt his anger grow. The last thing he wanted was your concern and your worry. "I’m fine." He cut the air with his teeth.

Your heart stilled at his harsh tone. Overstepping. You nodded even though he couldn’t see it and warily stepped back into your chambers. You didn’t wish to argue. Deep down you preferred silence over arguments. If he doesn’t wish to speak what’s troubling him, who are you to press matters?

You left him to his thoughts. Retreating with tail between your legs as you started getting yourself ready for the bed.

You were used to him hiding his feelings away but whenever you would show concern (as rare as it was) or try to ask about anything, the storm would just take over his mind. He had no interest to trust you and you respected that. Not like you shared many of your thoughts to him either. To anyone, really. Being the daughter of the man he hated, you understood... to certain extents.

You heard the balcony door close just as you moved the covers under which you planned to hide and let your body and mind rest. He strode over to you, his hand grasping around your upper arm as he turned you around to face him. You gasped in shock and before you could wince from his iron grip, your mouth was muffled by his. Pushing your lips apart with his restless tongue, forcing cold shivers down your spine as he tried to drown you in his control.

You didn’t know what scared you more, his assault or his sudden behavior. You couldn’t tear your arm away. You couldn’t arch your head away. You couldn’t even welcome air in your system. Liquid in your veins was gaining adrenalin. You were almost trembling from fear. You started expecting the worst...

He scoffed at your whines of protest and pushed you on your back, slamming you on the soft mattress. You winced slightly when you hit the bed. Short-term pain quickly overshadowed by terror. His body savaged over yours in an instant.

"Ae- Aemond, what are you- what’s gotten into you!?"

He was deaf as he started pulling your night shift up. And you looked up at him with wide and terrified eyes, unable to fight back his strength. Whatever was dancing in his sharp violet one... it smelled rotten.

"What's gotten into me?" His voice was strained as he fought to keep your limbs in place. A low, mocking laugh rang as he focused his gaze on your heaving chest. "Lets find out."

Your eyelids strained even more. Throat drying up. Breath hitching out of control along with your shaking body.

The only time you consummated was on your wedding night. It wasn’t pleasant. It didn’t hurt, but you weren’t enjoying it. And you knew he didn’t either. This was completely out of the blue and his rage was blood-freezing.

You were scared, yes, but you were more scared of the idea what would happen if you started actually resisting... He never hit you, but the tales of his temper rolled around the corridors like plague.

Dark pleasure filled his stare. He could see the hesitation in you, the tremble and fear. But he didn't care. He knew he had you right where he wanted. His bruising touch on your skin felt ten times heightened now that you fell completely out of control. Getting hunted down...

"Good. That's good..."

Aemond praised with a twisted smile. His hand moved from your wrists to your neck, his large hand wrapping around you and holding you down. You shivered when his palm had more control over your breathing than you. His other hand passed along your body, feeling every curve and angle of your frame. Your breath couldn’t even hitch every time his fingers grazed over your plush stomach and waist. Your fists bagged the sheets firmly and you shut your eyes as you let him do what he wanted.

He was lost in his own desire, in his own lust. Ignoring your discomfort. He just needed to satisfy his needs. He needed to let out his frustration somehow. Or on someone... He continued roaming his hands across your body, touching you like you were a toy.

"You're so beautiful..."

Your eyes shot opened as you heard his mumbles. Seeing how he was fixated on your body, you took the chance before the damage could be done. Marital rape was not on your list tonight. You bit your tongue and dared to touch him, cupping his cheek. "...Can-... can you at least tell me what's wrong?...Please."

His jaw clenched. Your touch was so soft, so gentle and so different from the grip he had on you. It took him by surprise. His eyes locked with yours. He was quiet for a moment, the darkness in his gaze fading for a quickly-lost moment.

"It's nothing. There's nothing wrong." He muttered through gritted teeth, moving his head to the side to avoid your warm hand. His brows twitched into a frown and his hands hooked in your smallclothes.

Your fingers curled into a fist before you let your hand drop. You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know how to calm him. How to reason him. How to talk to him.... You were his wife and you had no clue how to handle him. Bitterness stashed your mouth. You sighed heavily. He already had your mound bare.

"..this won’t solve whatever’s bothering you." You tried to sound calm. Tried to appear like you weren’t fighting for the right over your body right now.

He huffed, becoming more and more irritated with you. Pushing your nightgown over your chest. His voice was low and ragged as he saw how cool air affected your nipples.

"It would. It can. At least for a moment.."

"Please, let me help you.." ..somehow, you hoped. Carding your hand through his silver locks, pulling the strands back so they weren’t falling over your faces as he loomed over you.

"....I’ll listen. I promise." And you meant it. You’d do anything to avoid this situation. If it meant behaving like a proper loving wife who listens and cares, you would do it. Despite the resentment you hold for each other.

Your gazes locked as he listened to your pointless rambles. There was a flicker of hesitation, but he flashed it away with a mutter as he cupped your breasts. "It's nothing. I just had a bad day."

"Then let me hear about your day."

You covered his big hands with yours and you felt him twitch. Surprise washed over his face as he looked back up your eyes once again. You noticed his observing eye roam over your features and you softened your whole demeanor. You meant it. You were fucking tired of this. The silence. The distance. The feeling of constant unwelcomeness. You just wanted to enter your chambers ONCE and be relaxed in his presence...

Looking at you, seeking sincerity and curiosity in your eyes, he closed his own and sighed. "It was tiresome, lots of meeting, training, planning for the future... everything that’s expected of me."

You nodded slowly, listening to every word that rolled off his tongue. And you noticed it. A silver of honesty, perhaps even trust. Your nails skied up his arm, gently scratching his nape. You wanted to make him as calm as possible. "...you’re tired..?"

Aemond let out a low purr, his eye fluttering shut. "Hm."

You pulled his shoulders so he would lay down on you, wrapping arms around his neck. You felt tension all over his body, but you didn’t care. If he thinks he can do whatever he wanted with you, so could you with him. You tucked his head under your chin.

You were trying to value his emotions. As hard as it was... you understood what he meant. You didn’t know every detail of his training nor his council meetings, but you knew what it meant to be drained. Exhausted. And that was enough to make you empathic.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and heavy. You held him tighter, your arms getting a rush of protectiveness. Letting him find shelter in your embrace. Solace in your arms. Peace in your scent and warmth. You wanted to make him feel heard and seen. He held onto you, his arms wrapping around your waist as if he was holding onto for dear life. You felt it. You sensed the shift. He was allowing you to see him. To see his vulnerability. To dive below the surface of his thick skin.

"It's just too much sometimes. I don't know if I can do it anymore." You felt his lips brush along your skin as he mumbled quietly.

"I know. I know it is, but draining yourself to the last drop isn’t doing you any good. And satisfying everyone’s expectations is impossible."

You tried to comfort him. And seeing this softer side of him. This... lost, broken boy. It made you desire gentleness towards him.

"...I know you don’t like being told what to do, but I’m advising you... let that dumb old cunt go. Otto is not worth your time or energy. He never was. Ungrateful people don’t deserve the effort you’re putting up, Aemond."

From your FAR point of view you knew enough. You knew why Aemond was the way he was. Even though you struggled to understand his dark motives most of the time, you understood where he was coming from. And being a child loved only under conditions does that to a person. You secretly admired that he’s still standing and isn’t reaching for cups like Aegon.

"I know. It’s hard to see it and let go, especially when that someone is your family..."

You sighed, plucking the right words...

"...but I’m your family now."

Even though your marriage has been distant and cold, you still had time to change that... right?

His silence made you chew your lips nervously. You really had no idea what you were doing nor saying... He shifted slightly to look at you, his eye overflowing with emotions. He didn't say anything, just looked at you, searching your face for something.

"I know you didn’t choose me. I know I didn’t choose you. I know we agreed only for the greater good, but... I’m tired sometimes as well. I wish we didn’t resent each other."

You whispered honestly while taking in his pained expression. It broke your heart knowing even you, his wife, struggled to give him the care and affection.

He took a deep breath and gently touched your cheek, his fingertips lightly caressing your skin. "I'm sorry for the way I've been... towards you." He whispered and pulled the nightgown down, covering your body.

You leaned into his touch. Wanting him to know that he’s welcome to you from now on. Your smiled even though you were terrified when he jumped you. "...it’s our first time being married, right?"

Aemonds eye wrinkled, a small, barely-there smile tugged the corners of his lips.

It was nice to see him smile, even if the situation was far from funny, but he was calm. And that’s all that mattered to you.

Warm.

Warm and close.

Silence. That’s all you knew. And yet... it felt good. It felt right.

You helped him with the buttons of his leather doublet. Changing him in his night clothes as you both exchanged soft looks and amused smiles. You hid under the sheets and cuddled until you let lambs bounce your minds away. You let him sleep in your chest.. cling to you.. seek your comfort. And you didn’t even wish to think about denying him. For the first time, you felt truly at peace in his presence. You will be the wife he needs.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 3

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 3: Word of the Dead

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

Weariness had become a shroud around Daenera, wrapped tightly in its suffocating embrace. It pressed into her skin, her bones, deep inside. She sat before the dressing table, the polished surface of the mirror reflecting a face she barely recognized, her features drawn and pale, shadows pooling beneath her eyes. The glow of the candlelight flickered unevenly, throwing long, restless shadows across the chamber, though even the golden hues couldn’t soften the sharp lines of her exhaustion. 

Behind her, Mertha’s voice grated against the stillness, sharp and unforgiving as the scrape of iron on iron. The older woman held up the damp remains of Daenera’s dress, the once-lustrous fabric darkened and heavy with rain. She shook it with an exaggerated vigor, droplets splattering the floor like blood against stone. 

“–I hope you’ve had your fill of death,” Mertha snapped, her voice climbing. “I hope you’ve commended the sight to memory! The poor boy.”

The sound of rain battering the shutters filled the room, a steady rhythm drumming against the windowpanes like the beating of some great, restless heart. . It was as though the gods themselves had grown tired–tired of the endless schemes and betrayals of mortals, of their blood-soaked ambitions and unending grievances. Perhaps they sought to drown the world in their wrath, to wash it clean of sin and sorrow. But mercy was not the gods’ way, and the rain fell without promise of redemption, a bitter reminder of how unyielding the world remained.

Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the dressing table, the cool wood grounding her as Mertha’s tirade continued unabated. The chamber felt stifling despite the chill creeping in from the storm, the air thick with unspoken tension. Somewhere in the depths of her fatigue, Daenera wondered if the gods had sent the rain not as wrath but as a mockery–an illusion of cleansing that would never touch the festering wounds of this world. No storm could wash away the sins that had taken root here.

Daenera watched the droplets race down the glass, her envy flaring briefly. How simple it must be, she thought, to be the rain–to rage freely, without consequence or restraint, without care. The rain lashed against the stone walls of the Red Keep, it seemed to carry the weight of its own wrath–seemed to mock her. 

Patrick’s life had been the noose she carried, her every movement constrained by the knowledge that the Greens held his fate in their hands. But now that burden was gone, severed by her own hand. And in truth, she felt a bitter sense of relief, even triumph–it stirred something far darker within her. 

It would take time before the Greens loosened their hold on her again; she knew that much. The death of the boy would only deepen their scrutiny, tighten their watch. Yet she had paid that price willingly, knowing that it would cost her what little freedom she had. And yet, there were still freedoms she could take within the confines of this gilded cage.

A bird in a cage might not be free to fly, but it could still sing–and it could still bite.

The thought brought a bitter twist to her lips, an almost imperceptible smile that carried no warmth. If this was to be her prison, she would make it as wretched for her captors as it was for her. Let them watch her every move, chain her to her chambers, whisper their suspicions behind closed doors. She would show them there was no caging her rage. 

Her fingers grazed the edge of the table, the cool wood grounding her as her thoughts turned sharper, more deliberate. She could make life miserable for them–Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, Otto, even Mertha. 

Her reflection stared back at her, unyielding, as she leaned closer to the mirror. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed to deepen, the firelight flickering across her features like the glow of embers. That ember of rage had been with her since the moment she rose amidst the rubble of her chambers. It had been a spark then, small and fragile, but it had grown, fed by every indignity, every insult, every betrayal. It burned against her ribs now, a constant reminder of what she had lost–and what she would one day reclaim.

Aemond. His name pressed against her mind like a sharp edge. He had gotten what he wanted–a wife bound to him by chains as much as vows. But she would make sure he wished he hadn’t. She could see his cold, calculating expression in her mind’s eye, his singular gaze that sought to pierce through her, to lay claim to what he had ruined. 

“They should make you take his place in the dungeons,” Mertha spat, her voice sharp and unforgiving as she moved about the chamber like a restless bird. The fabric of her skirts swayed and hissed with her movements, the quiet rustling as sharp as a blade in the otherwise suffocating silence.”That is where you belong–among rapers and murderers, you wicked creature.” 

“I would take the night watch over her myself,” Mertha said, a sneer curling at the corners of her lips, her tone dripping with self-importance. “But the day has drained me, and you are young. Your energy will serve you better tonight.” She busied herself with gathering the discarded underdress from the floor, shaking it out before throwing it carelessly into the basket at the foot of the bed. “It will be a long day tomorrow, and I’ll need my strength.”

Mertha’s gaze snapped back to Edelin, sharp and commanding. “You must not fall asleep,” she warned, her voice lowering into something that resembled a hiss. “The gods know she cannot be trusted. I wouldn’t want to wake in the morning and find you dead, as they did the poor boy.” She straightened, brushing her hands off with exaggerated finality as if ridding herself of some invisible stain. “Stay vigilant, do you hear me?”

Daenera’s gaze lifted from her reflection in the mirror to regard the older woman. Mertha’s face was pinched with disdain, her eyes gleaming with self-righteous fury as she discarded the damp dress in a basket. A sickly pallor clung to her skin, her complexion ashen and lifeless, while the whites of her eyes blotted with red. The skin around them was flushed and swollen, betraying the rawness of fatigue and strain. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause. She’d been retching–violently so, if the bloodshot state of her eyes was any indication.

Her attention did not linger long; instead, it drifted to the young woman just behind her. The girl had been uncharacteristically silent, her usual chatter replaced by a subdued quiet since leaving the sept. There was a heaviness to her presence now, a weight in her every movement as she worked through Daenera’s hair with a brush. The tangles yielded reluctantly to her careful ministrations, and each stroke of the brush seemed to carry an unspoken frustration. She did not meet Daenera’s gaze in the mirror, her focus fixed on the task at hand. 

“You will remain at the Princess’s side at all times. Do you understand?” Mertha snapped, her tone dripping with scorn as she pointed an accusing finger at Edelin. The older woman loomed like a shadow over the younger lady-in-waiting, her presence a constant weight that pressed down on the room. “You will not let her out of your sight for a single moment–not a single breath! If she so much as steps into the privy, you will stand outside, staring in at her from the open door!”

Daenera grimaced, her frown deepening as the indignity of Mertha’s command settled over her. The thought of being watched even in her most private moments, of someone hovering behind her as she relieved herself, made her stomach twist with revulsion. 

Edelin seemed to share her unease. The younger woman’s hands faltered in their careful work, her brushing pausing for the briefest of moments. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as if to protest, but Mertha’s sharp, scornful gaze bore down on her like a hammer. Reluctantly, Edelin turned back to her task, her face a careful mask of submission that failed to hide the faint tremor of her fingers.

“Yes, Lady Mertha…” she murmured, the words clipped and heavy with reluctant obedience. Her frown deepened as she resumed her brushing, the strokes growing firmer. 

“And if she proves even a bit difficult, you will call for the guards immediately. Do you understand me?” Her sharp voice carried across the room from where she stood. “I will not let her humiliate us again.” She hefted the basket with a grunt, the motion sharp and deliberate, as though the weight of her burden served as evidence of her righteousness. Her eyes, hard and gleaming, turned towards them.

Daenera felt the prickle of Mertha’s attention against the back of her neck, an unwelcome presence that tightened her shoulders. She met her gaze in the mirror, her expression calm but cold, her eyes glittering with defiance. They held each other’s stare for a long, tense moment. 

Then, Mertha shifted her focus to Edelin, her tone hardening. “Be wary of her, girl,” she warned, her words laced with bitter scorn. “She is as kind as a viper and twice as cunning.”

Edelin shifted but said nothing, her head bowing slightly in a gesture of reluctant acknowledgement. Her hands moved with practiced care through Daenera’s hair, the brush going through the strands smoother now.

With a final sniff of disdain, Mertha spun sharply on her heel, the heavy skirts of her dress swishing against the stone floor with each forceful step. The wicker basket bumped against her hip, the motion punctuating her retreat as she disappeared behind the lattice screen. Moments later, the muffled sound of the chamber doors opening and shutting reached them, followed by a decisive click that seemed to echo in the still air.

“A viper,” Daenera murmured, her voice soft and edged with a dry humor. “How inventive.”

The room settled into silence, broken only by the steady drumming of rain against the windows, the world outside dark and lost in the storm’s fury. The fire crackled in the hearth, sending errant sparks dancing upward before they vanished into the darkened stone. Its heat radiated outward, warring with the persistent chill that lingered at the edges of the chamber, crawling along the floor like an unwelcome guest.

The brush moved slowly through Daenera’s hair, the soft bristles tugging against stubborn tangles as they worked through the dark curls. Each stroke coaxed the locks into a loose cascade, spilling down her back in an unruly spill of shadowy waves. The ends tickled the curve of the chair’s back, swaying faintly with each pass.

Daenera’s gaze shifted from her own reflection in the mirror to Edelin’s, studying the girl as though seeking answers in her quiet demeanor. The red-gold of Edelin’s hair gleamed in the firelight, the strands pulled back into a tightly braided coil pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her pale blue eyes remained fixed on the task, unyielding and methodical, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her unease. Her lips pressed into a tight line, a silent barricade holding back whatever thoughts churned behind her calm exterior.

The silence grew heavier, thick with words unspoken, until Daenera broke it. Her tone was soft, measured, yet it carried the weight of apprehension.

“What is it?” she asked, her fingers drifting to toy idly with the edge of a strand of hair. “I can feel you want to say something.”

Edelin drew in a deep breath, measured through her nose, as though summoning every ounce of courage within her. The brush in her hand stilled mid-stroke, her fingers tightening around the handle. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her head and met Daenera’s gaze through the mirror. Her blue eyes were steady, but the faint quiver in her lower lip betrayed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior. 

“Did you poison him?” She asked, her voice low. The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over a neck. The corners of her mouth pulled downward, her expression strained, but she pressed on. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

Daenera’s face remained impassive, her dark eyes locked with Edelin’s in the glass. Her heart thudded a painful rhythm against her ribs, the ache reverberating through her chest. The acrid taste of bile rose in her throat, and her tongue felt dry, as if all the moisture had fled her mouth. She resisted the urge to look away, though it took more resolve than she cared to admit.

“I cannot give you the truth,” She said at last, her voice calm but laced with an edge of weariness. Her words were measured, deliberate, as though she were stepping carefully along the edge of a precipice. “You know that.”

“You can,” Edelin pressed, her tone soft but insistent. 

Daenera’s lips twitched, the faint curve caught somewhere between a smile and a scowl, though it was neither. “And what will you do with it?” She asked, her voice strained. “What then? Will you bring it to the Small Council? March into the Great Hall and lay it before them?”

“I should,” Edelin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It is my duty.” Her pale blue eyes held Daenera’s in the mirror, unflinching despite the tremor in her fingers. The words lingered in the air, as though the room itself held its breath, waiting for what might follow.

Edelin moved, setting the brush aside on the polished surface of the dressing table. The faint clink it made against the wood seemed louder than it should have been, an unspoken punctuation. She straightened, drawing herself up, her youthful features set with a determination that made her seem older than she was. 

“I am not asking for them,” she continued, her tone sharper now, steadier. “I am asking for the truth–for myself.” Her hands disappeared briefly into the folds of her skirts, and when they reemerged, she held a small pouch. 

Daenera’s gaze flickered to the object as Edelin placed it on the table before her, the soft scrape of fabric against wood drawing her attention. The pouch was unassuming, its pale, creamy cloth bright against the dark surface. But it was damning in its simplicity, a quiet truth laid bare between them. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. The storm outside raged on, the relentless drum of rain on stone a backdrop to the tense stillness that filled the chamber. Daenera’s heart plummeted, a hollow ache settling deep within her chest as the lavender pouch lay before her. The scent of lavender wafted into the air, delicate yet overwhelming, mingling with the cloying remnants of incense that still lingered in her nostrils. It was a sickly-sweet aroma, at odds with the cold dread that coiled in her stomach. Her eyes burned with the prickle of unshed tears, though she refused to let them fall. Tears would not help now. 

Her gaze lifted slowly from the pouch to Edelin’s face. For a moment, the younger woman seemed transformed–her features hardened by the weight of understanding, the sharpness of her expression far removed from her usual youthful softness. The knowledge she carried was etched into her face, undeniable, even as she sought a confirmation she already knew in her heart. 

“You could take it to the Council,” Daenera said, her voice strained and dry as though every word scraped against her throat. “They would no doubt welcome your… evidence.” Her tone grew brittle, laden with weariness. “But it would change nothing. Their punishment is already decided.”

Her hand moved, reaching tentatively towards the pouch. She wanted to seize it, to hide its damning presence from sight, yet part of her just wanted it within her hold–wanted the security of it, however damning it was for her to keep. Before her fingers could close the distance, Edelin’s hand shot out. She slid the pouch across the table, out of Daenera’s reach. 

“Are we all so easily discarded?” Edelin demanded, her voice cracking.

Daenera froze, her outstretched hand retreating slightly as Edelin’s words settled on her with the same sharp sting as a slap. Her brows knitted together, as she stared up at Edelin. “Nothing about this has been easy,” she said, her words twisted into something sharp and bitter, almost a sneer. Her voice was raw and strained as tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, unwilling to let them fall. 

“You told him he was going home,” Edelin pressed.

“This was the only way he was ever going home,” She answered, her jaw tightening as she leaned back against the seat, the wood pressing into her spine. “The Hightowers would never have released him.” Her gaze flicked back to meet Edelin’s, her voice growing harsher, weighed with frustration. “He would have stayed in the dungeons–alone, forgotten, rotting in the dark. Every footstep outside his cell would have been a death knell, every echo a reminder that the noose was waiting.”

Her throat tightened as she swallowed hard against the lump rising there, her emotions clawing at her like a living thing. It felt as though she had swallowed a jagged stone, its edges tearing into her, making every breath ache. “I didn’t want him to suffer.”

Edelin stood silent for a moment, her pale blue eyes searching Daenera’s face, her expression wavering between pity and unease. When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, understanding yet cautious, as though she were treading carefully across ice. 

“I understand that,” she said, her voice low. “Truly, I do. But… it gives me pause.”

She hesitated, her hands twisting together as she gathered her thoughts. “I have been kind to you, as you have been to me,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “And I am grateful for that kindness, Princess. But… I am still in their service.” Her words hung heavily in the air as she looked down at her hands, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her skirts. “I’ve held my tongue before because you asked it of me–held my tongue when I properly shouldn’t have…”

Her voice broke, and she raised her head again. “I don’t want to find myself in the same position as the boy,” she said, her words low. “I don’t want to end up discarded, forgotten, let to rot because I’ve been loyal to the wrong person.”

“You won’t,” Daenera said firmly. The words hung in the air, a promise or a plea–it was hard to tell.

“You don’t know that,” Edelin countered, her voice trembling slightly. “I might end up in the dungeons, just as he did. Waiting for the noose.”

Daenera held her gaze, reading the desperation written across the young woman’s face. She understood Edelin’s fears all too well–that her kindness, her proximity to Daenera, would mark her. And yet, even as her chest tightened with the weight of understanding, she found herself speaking. Words rose unbidden, soft but steady. “I don’t believe you’ll find yourself in that position. You are neither child nor fool, and that is why I trust you, Edelin. You’ve stood by me when many would not, when it would have been easier to distance yourself. I see the risk you take, and I do not take it lightly. If the time comes when they turn their eyes toward you, I will not begrudge you for your choice.”

Edelin nodded and stared into the middle distance, her expression apprehensive. When she finally spoke, her voice wavered, as if she were forcing herself to ask a question she feared the answer to. “There are still berries in the pouch… Are–are you going to poison the King? The Small Council? Your husband?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Daenera let out a slow breath, her lips curving in a faint, humorless smile. “If I’d meant to poison them,” she said, her tone edged with sardonic amusement, “it would have been done by now.” She shifted in the chair, her eyes drawing to meet Edelin’s wary gaze. “I’d be no freer for it…”

No, she would not be spared. She could already see it–herself locked away in a damp, lightless cell, awaiting a trial that was no more than a performance. The verdict would be predetermined, her fate sealed. Whether it ended with a rope tightening around her neck or the cold kiss of a headman’s blade, the result would be the same. 

Even if she somehow managed to rid the Keep of the Greens, even if she tore them out like the weeds they were, the realm would still cry out for justice. The lords and banners of Westeros would demand her head, and her mother, for the sake of the crown, would have no choice but to oblige them.

Daenera’s heart twisted at the thought. Her mother, who had already lost so much, would lose yet another child–this time by her own hand. It would break her, she thought. 

And she didn’t want that for her. She didn’t want to be the shadow that darkened her reign, the wound that festered in the heart of her rule.

But more than that, she didn’t want to die.

Daenera glanced at the pouch where it rested on the table, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air like a ghost. She knew exactly how many berries remained. Four. Four lives she could take, if she so chose. 

For a fleeting moment, Daenera allowed herself the indulgence of impossible imaginings, the kind that belonged to children spinning dreams of kingdoms they would never rule. Each name pressed against her mind like a dagger poised to strike.

Aegon, who occupied the throne that was her mother’s by right, his existence the linchpin of the Green’s ambitions. Otto, the Hand that set the board against her mother. Aemond, the rider of Vhagar, the Greens’ most fearsome weapon, and her brother’s murderer…

Her fingers tightened instinctively, though there was nothing in her grasp. She would need three to strike at the heart of their power. Aegon, Otto, and Aemond. Without them, the Greens’ strength would falter, their unity splintering like a cracked blade.

But that would leave her with only one berry. One final life to take.

Her thoughts turned to Alicent. The Queen Dowager had tormented her mother for years, weaving webs of guilt and ambition to smother the rightful Queen’s claim. Alicent’s venom had seeped into every corner of the Red Keep, infecting all it touched. Yet as much as Daenera despised her, Alicent’s power was waning. Without her sons and father, the Queen Dowager would be nothing more than a shadow in a court that no longer needed her. Killing Alicent might bring momentary satisfaction, but it would do little to weaken the Greens’ cause. Her death would be a wound that no longer bled.

For a fleeting, haunting moment, Daenera thought of using the berry on herself. It would be over in an instant–a brief, bitter swallow. Her death would be on her own terms, out of the hands of her mother. That would be a waste, and she had no use for waste. There were other ways to die, should she decide on that course. The berry was a tool, not a reprieve.

If Aegon, Otto, and Aemond were removed from play, the Greens’ foundation would crumble. Their strength would falter. But even without its leaders, the council still held power. The Small Council would not vanish overnight; its members would scramble like rats on a sinking ship, seeking to salvage what they could.

Yet one figure remained in her thoughts, an unseen viper lurking in the shadows of the court: Larys Strong.

The clubfoot. His loyalty was to no one but himself, his scheming far more insidious than the others. It would be a mercy to her mother if Larys Strong was removed entirely from the board–and Daenera would take great satisfaction in his death. 

But such thoughts were idle, and she pushed them aside–for what use was poison without a means to deliver it? She had neither the freedom to act nor the cunning to see it done unnoticed. And though vengeance burned within her, she could not stomach the thought of dying as both a Kingslayer and a Kinslayer. History would not look kindly on her, even if her heart carried honor. No, she did not wish to die–not yet.

“The remaining berries are assurances,” She added softly, her voice taking on a weightier tone. They were a contingency. “For myself.”

Understanding flickered in Edelin’s eyes, her expression softening with sudden clarity. Before she could voice her thoughts, Daenera tilted her head ever so slightly, a wry smile playing at her lips. “And Mertha, perhaps,” she said, her voice carrying a dry edge. “If she keeps on the way she does.”

The jest hung in the air, and after a beat, the corner of Edelin’s mouth twitched, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was the kind of amusement one found when laughing felt almost too dangerous–subdued, guarded, but genuine. The firelight danced between them, casting flickering shadows across the polished oak table and the intricate weave of the rushes beneath their feet.

Silence settled in the room once more, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint rustle of fabric as Daenera adjusted her seat. But it didn’t last. She leaned forward, her voice cutting through the quiet. “What will you do?”

Edelin rose slowly. Her fingers tightened around the pouch in her hands as she looked down at it, her brows furrowing as though the pouch itself might offer some guidance. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally, she drew in a breath, her voice firm but low as she answered. 

“I’ll hide it.” Her voice carried the conviction of a decision made, though her gaze, when it lifted to meet Daenera’s, revealed the unease beneath her resolve. “Your chambers will be searched come morning. They’ll tear through everything–every chest, every corner. I will take it with me and keep it hidden.”

Relief washed over Daenera, lifting the weight from her chest, though a shadow of unease lingered at the edges of her thoughts. “You cannot hide it in your room. They’ll question you either way, but if they uncover it…”

Edelin gave a short nod. “I won’t say a word of this.” She paused, looking down at the pouch in her hands. “I will keep your secrets.” Her eyes lifted, meeting Daenera’s. “But if the choice comes down to you or me…”

“I understand,” Daenera said, reaching for her hand. Her fingers closed over Edelin’s, feeling the faint outline of the pouch concealed within. “I am thankful for you, Edelin. Truly. I value your friendship more than I can ever express.”

The girl’s slips curved into a faint smile, a look that carried warmth and steadied Daenera’s frayed nerves. The weight that pressed against her chest eased just slightly, like a knot loosening. 

Without another word, Edelin shifted her hand, tucking the pouch deep into the folds of her skirts. The moment passed, and she stepped behind Daenera, where she began to gather the dark waves of her hair. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving strands into a loose braid, her touch light yet sure. She worked in silence for a time, adding thin ribbons of silk to the braid, the delicate fabric glinting faintly in the firelight.

“I am sorry,” Edelin murmured after a moment, her voice soft, almost tentative, as though the words were a fragile offering. “For your loss.”

Daenera blinked, the words catching her off guard, though she quickly masked her surprise. The weight of grief, ever-present and unyielding, swelled in her chest. She swallowed hard, willing away the tears that threatened to rise. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that settled over the chamber was tentative, stretched taut between them like an invisible thread that might snap at the slightest of breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, its embers pulsing faintly in the dim light, casting shifting shadows across the polished wood of the dressing table. Rain still drummed against the windowpane–louder in the silence.  

Daenera watched Edelin through the mirror as the girl worked through the length of her dark curls. The younger woman’s movements were practiced, careful, as she wove the ribbons of silk through the strands, taming their unruly wildness in preparation for the morning. Edelin had fallen back into her quiet diligence, though Daenera did not miss the occasional flicker of thought in her eyes. 

When Edelin finally spoke, her voice was measured, but there was something tentative beneath its surface, something that made Daenera’s lips twitch with wry amusement. 

“What will you do now?” She asked, her pale blue eyes fixed on the task before her, the words carrying an air of casual curiosity that did not quite mask the deeper intrigue beneath. 

Daenera exhaled softly, lifting a hand to toy with one of the silk ribbons that had been woven into her hair. She wound one tightly around her fingertip, then unraveled it, only to wrap it around another. A small, idle act–something to busy her hands while her mind shifted through the weight of the question. 

“What can I do but languish in bed all day?” she murmured, her lips curling in a wry smile. “I shan’t leave my bed for a week, I think. Not that it matters–I won’t be permitted beyond my chambers regardless.” Her lips quirked as she met Edelin’s gaze through the mirror. “ I should be rather easy to keep an I on, don’t you think?”

Edelin hummed softly, twisting another length of silk through Daenera’s dark locks. “Mertha will be beside herself,” she mused, amusement creeping into her voice. “What was it she said this morning? ‘The only people who can afford to spend their days sprawled in bed–”

“‘Are down on the Street of Silk,” Daenera supplied with a smirk, shaking her head in amusement. She stretched lazily, her fingers tracing the embroidered edges of her robe. “Yes, I seem to remember something to that effect.” She stretched her arms above her head, letting her limbs go slack as she lounged back on the chair. “It’ll give her something to gnash her teeth over, and I rather like the thought of it. What can she do? Drag me from bed? She’d have to haul me through the halls like a sack of grain, and I doubt she has the strength or the nerve to try.”

A small chuckle escaped Edelin–almost a snort–before she caught herself, pressing her lips together as if she had not right to find humor in any of it. But Daenera saw it–the briefest glimpse of something lighter beneath the surface. It was a fragile thing, but it was there nonetheless and it eased the mood. 

“You’re making things harder on yourself by opposing her at every turn,” Edelin chided, though there was no true reproach in her tone–just the weary truth of someone who had spent too long in the company of Mertha. “Not everything has to be a battle. Sometimes it’s easier to endure than to suffer the consequences of her ire.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, hesitation flickering in her gaze before she continued, softer now. “And… she should never have struck you.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to her reflection in the mirror, tracing the contours of her face. The cheek that had been struck bore only the flush of exhaustion, no bruising, no swelling. The slap had stung, but it left no lasting mark—whether by design or by lack of force, she could not say. Had Mertha wielded just enough control to ensure it would not linger, or had the sheer audacity of the act stolen some of its strength? Either way, the sting had been real, sharp enough to startle but not wound. And, in some strange way, she had welcomed it.

“I was deserving of that one–” she murmured, the admission barely more than a breath.

“No.” Edelin’s voice was firm, sharper than before. Her red brows knitted tightly, her displeasure writ plainly across her features. “You are a Princess. It doesn’t matter what you may have done–she had no right to lay a hand on you.” Her head shook slightly, as if the very thought of it unsettled her. “Her mistreatment of you–it isn’t right.”

The vehemence in her tone, the unguarded concern that colored her words, sent a flicker of warmth through Daenera. It was a rare thing to hear such defiance spoken on her behalf. A rare thing, to feel the weight of someone’s anger on her account.

For a moment, she simply watched Edelin, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting but genuine.

“I do not understand why you allow it,” she said, her voice edged with quiet fury. Then, as though realizing she had overstepped, she hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath. “Forgive me, Princess. It is not my place.”

Daenera caught the flicker of restraint in Edelin’s reflection, the way her lips pressed into a thin line as if she wished to swallow the words back down. “Do not hesitate now,” she said, her tone measured, absent of reprimand. If anything, there was an openness to her words. 

Edelin’s shoulders squared, seemingly emboldened. “Then I will speak plainly.” Her voice softened, though urgency still simmered beneath the surface. “Why not go to him?” Why not let him put a stop to it?” She hesitated just slightly, as if weighing her words. “He’s your husband–”

Daenera’s expression darkened, and the flare of irritation was immediate. Her lips curled into something that was neither a smile nor a scowl. “He is my brother’s murderer,” she said flatly. 

The words settled like iron between them, heavy and immovable. Aemond’s name was not spoken, but it didn’t need to be. His presence loomed over the conversation all the same. 

Edelin did not flinch, though the tension in her posture grew, her hands tightening ever so slightly around the strands of Daenera’s hair as she twisted them into careful braids–had the hands been Mertha’s, Daenera was sure she’d feel the reproach burning at her scalp. 

“Then I could go to him,” Edelin said carefully. “He is still your husband. He would not allow–”

Daenera’s lips curled into something caught between a sneer and a smirk. “We may be married,” she said, her voice clipped with barely restrained irritation, “but I have no desire to rely on him.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she heard the petulance in them, like a child railing against a gentle reprimand. It irked her. She was no child, yet the stubbornness in her own tone betrayed her.

The very thought of going to Aemond–of seeking his protection, of pleading for his intervention–curdled in her stomach like spoiled milk. The notion made her blood boil. To humble herself before her brother’s murderer, to ask anything of him, would be a betrayal of all that still burned within her. The thought stung sharper than any of Mertha’s slights, cutting deep into the raw edges of her pride. She would endure a thousand small humiliations, suffer every sneer and whispered insult, before she would ever crawl to Aemond Targaryen for help. 

He had already taken too much from her. She would not give him this.

“I do not want him to know.”

She would suffer Mertha. She would suffer this prison. But she would not suffer Aemond’s protection. 

“Your pride may keep you standing, but it will not make it any easier,” Edelin murmured, finishing the last braid. “And you will only suffer for it.”

Daenera grimaced, rolling one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Perhaps,” she allowed, though there was no real concession in her tone. Then, as if to undercut the moment, the corner of her lips curled in a ghost of a smirk. “But should it ever become too much to bear… I still have a few berries left.”

She watched Edelin’s reaction through the mirror, saw the way her lady’s eyes widened, her fingers briefly stilling in Daenera’s hair. There was a flicker of hesitation–just for a heartbeat–before the tension shattered with a sudden, incredulous laugh. Edelin shook her head, amusement chasing away her earlier unease, her lips pulling into an exasperated smile.

“Gods save us,” she muttered, still chuckling, “You are impossible.”

Daenera only hummed in quiet satisfaction, tilting her head slightly as Edelin resumed her work, weaving silk through the long, dark strands. The storm still raged beyond the Keep’s walls, the wind howling through the towers, but within the chamber, for just a fleeting moment, the weight of it all seemed a little lighter.

Once Edelin finished weaving the last of the silken strips through Daenera’s braids, she stepped back, seemingly admiring her work with quiet satisfaction. Daenera studied her reflection, tilting her head slightly as she took in the intricate braids cascading down her back. They varied in thickness–some woven tightly, others looser, softer–and threaded through them were silken ribbons of varying hues. Deep crimson, pale gold, and midnight blue intertwined with the dark strands of her hair, each color catching the firelight as though a rainbow had been woven into her tresses. 

Her father, Laenor, had taught her to braid her hair like this. "To protect it," he had said, his hands deft and sure as he wove the strands together, "and to keep it from tangling into mats. You’ll thank me for it one day."

And she had.

Even now, she could recall the warmth of his hands as they guided hers, the quiet patience in his voice as he showed her how to twist and weave each section with precision. It had been one of the few things they shared—an unspoken ritual, a bond forged in simple, careful movements.

She had been young then, barely past her sixth nameday, her hair wild and unruly as the sea. He would laugh as she wrinkled her nose in frustration, murmuring, "It’s a Targaryen mane, but it has the soul of Velaryon waves. Stubborn as the tides."

She had not understood then how precious those moments were. How fleeting. But this–this, at least–was something of him that remained. And for that, she would always be grateful.

Daenera rose from her seat, rolling her shoulders as she stretched her aching limbs, feeling exhaustion seep deeper into her bones. Every movement felt weighted, as though the events of the day had carved themselves into her flesh, leaving her heavier with their burdens. The thick layers of her night robe trailed behind her, whispering against the cold stone floor as she made her way towards the bed. 

When she reached it, she sank onto the mattress with a slow, weary exhale, feeling the feather-stuffed bedding give beneath her weight. For a moment, she simply sat there, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing away the dull throb of fatigue. Gods, she was tired. The kind of tired that settled into the marrow, that no amount of sleep could truly mend. 

And yet, she knew rest would not come easily. Even if her body yielded to it, her mind would not. It would race in endless circles, retracing the same agonizing thoughts, the same bitter regrets, the same simmering anger that refused to fade. 

She let out another slow breath, lowering her hands to her lap. The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire and the steady drum of the rain against the windowpanes. 

The quiet rustle of fabric and the soft click of the drawer were the only other sounds in the chamber as Edelin moved with quiet efficiency, gathering the leftover ribbons and slipping them neatly into their place. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, smoothing each strip of silk before tucking them away, the motion precise, almost reverent. When she finally closed the drawer, the faint snick of wood meeting wood echoed in the stillness, a small, measured sound against the hush of the room.

“Would you choose a book?” Daenera murmured at last, her voice quiet but steady.

Edelin paused, glancing over her shoulder. “A book?”

“I doubt I’ll find any rest, and I have little desire to be left alone with my thoughts,” Daenera admitted, shifting back against the headboard. She reached for the pillows, propping them up to sit more comfortably. “I thought I’d read to you, as I promised I would.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Edelin’s entire face lit up, her expression shifting from wary surprise to something far softer. “Really?” She asked, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of hope, her pale blue eyes bright with something almost childlike. 

Daenera inclined her head in a slow nod, and that was all the encouragement Edelin needed. Without hesitation, she turned swiftly, the fabric of her skirts whispering against the cold stone as she hurried from the bedchamber into the adjoining common room.

Beyond the doorway, the faint sounds of movement reached Daenera’s ears–books shifting, the soft scrape of parchment, fingers trailing along leather-bound spines. The quiet rustling carried through the dimly lit chamber, each sound deliberate, searching.

Moments later, Edelin reappeared, cradling a book in her hands as though it were a relic of great worth. She held it carefully, reverently, her fingers tracing the embossed title along the gilded spine before she extended it toward Daenera. The firelight flickered over the worn leather cover, illuminating its deep indigo hue. 

The Watchers on the Wall by Maester Harmune.

Daenera’s gaze flickered over the familiar gilded spine, recognition settling like a stone in her chest. It was one of Aemond’s books.

For a moment, a stubborn flicker of defiance sparked within her. A part of her wanted to refuse it outright, to push it back into Edelin’s hands and send her to find another–any other–so long as it did not bear the mark of him. The thought of reading something Aemond had once poured over, of letting his choice in words take root in her mind, was enough to make her fingers twitch with hesitation.

But just as quickly as it came, she forced it down. It was a childish, foolish kind of obstinacy, and she knew it. It is only a book. Whatever satisfaction she might gain from spiting Aemond in this small way was not worth the effort. To refuse it would be to give him more power over her than he already held.

With a quiet resolve, she took the book from Edelin’s hands and settled back against the pillows, fingers tracing the worn leather before she opened it to the first page.

When Edelin lingered at the bedside, her hands clasped before her, Daenera glanced up, a slight furrow creasing her brow. The girl stood uncertainly, her posture stiff, as though waiting for permission she had never needed before.

Daenera tilted her head, studying her for a moment before patting the empty space beside her. “Join me,” she said, her voice softer now, lacking the usual guarded edge. “You can’t very well stand there the whole time. And–I’d like the company.”

Edelin blinked, her expression shifting between hesitation and something unreadable. But the reluctance lasted only a moment before she relented, moving with careful grace as she crawled onto the bed, settling beside Daenera atop the thick layers of blankets.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the pages as Daenera opened the book. The weight of it felt solid in her hands, the scent of parchment and ink mingling with the lingering traces of lavender from the silken sheets.

Then, in a voice steady and measured, she began to read. 

“It is said that the wind howled across the black pines of Sea Dragon Point, carrying with it the cries of wolves and the whispers of greenseers, when the Warg King had called forth a storm from the spirit wood, thick with mist and shadow, to blind his foes. But winter was coming for him, and winter did not fear the dark.”

She read aloud from the Chronicle of Sea Dragon Point, one of the many accounts compiled within the Waters on the Wall. The words painted images of long-forgotten battles, of the King of Winter riding at the head of his armies, banners snapping in the frozen wind as he marched against the Warg King and his skinchangers. The story spoke of war-wolves the size of destriers, of ravens that carried the voices of the dead, of a battle fought beneath a sky thick with swirling snow and seething magic.

Edelin listened intently, her breath slow and measured, and as the tale unfolded, her head found its way to Daenera’s shoulder. It was a quiet, unspoken thing–no hesitation, no formality, just a simple shift in weight as she rested against her.

Now and then, she murmured soft comments, wondering aloud if the Warg King had truly wielded such power, or if the greenseers’ whispers were just the fancies of storytellers. Daenera responded when she felt inclined, but for the most part, she simply read on, allowing the cadence of the words to fill the space between them.

It was… comfortable. Almost familiar in a way she had not expected.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like another life–like the nights she once spent in the nursery, reading to her younger brothers beneath the warm glow of candlelight. She remembered Joffrey nestling close, too proud to ask outright for another chapter but lingering until she gave in. She remembered the way little Aegon would nod off before the end of the tale, his small fists curled into the blankets, his silver hair tousled against her arm.

That time was gone now. Her brothers were gone too, one buried, the others out of reach.

But here, in this quiet moment, with the fire casting long shadows across the walls and the steady weight of Edelin at her side, she allowed herself–just for a little while–to remember what it was like to be a sister instead of a prisoner.

She had fallen into a steady cadence of words, weaving through one chronicle and into the next, when the distant groan of the chamber doors echoed through the quiet. It was not a sound easily mistaken–the heavy wooden doors did not yield to passing drafts or the stirrings of servants. Someone had entered. 

Daenera stilled, her gaze lifting just slightly from the book in her hands. Beyond the lattice screen, she caught a flicker of movement–a shadow gliding across the floor, tall and deliberate. Then, a glint of silver, unmistakable even in the dim light, and the sound of measured footsteps against stone. 

Aemond.

The warmth of her head resting against her shoulder vanished as Edelin sat up abruptly, her breath catching as she straightened further. 

Aemond did not acknowledge them at first. He crossed the chamber without hesitation, his long strides carrying him toward the desk tucked into the corner, moving with the same quiet purpose he always carried. A drawer scraped open, its sound sharp against the hush. He rifled through its contents with practiced ease, plucking something from within before shutting it once more.

Only then did he turn, his gaze flickering toward them.

His eye found Daenera first.

Daenera refused to acknowledge him, her gaze fixed on the weathered pages of the book before her. The words blurred into meaningless symbols, their substance lost to her entirely. Yet she kept her eyes trained on them, feigning indifference even as she tracked his every movement from the edge of her vision, her senses sharpened to his presence. Every measured footstep, every shift in fabric, every controlled breath–she noted it all, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

“Leave us.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and unyielding as tempered steel. The weight of his command was absolute.

Edelin stiffened, hesitating only for a heartbeat before swiftly rising from the bed. She had been seated near him–on his side. The very thought sent a bitter taste to the back of Daenera’s throat. Would she ever allow him in that bed again? If it were her choice, the answer would be never.

Edelin dipped into a quick curtsy, her skirts whispering against the stone as she moved. Before departing, she cast a fleeting glance toward Daenera, her hesitation evident, as though silently asking if she should truly leave her alone with him. Daenera nodded in reassurance, and with no further protests, Edelin turned and hurried through the chamber, her steps light but swift. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

Silence settled in the room like an encroaching fog, thick and unrelenting. And then, there were just the two of them.

As Aemond turned his back to her, Daenera’s gaze flickered upward. The candlelight glowed against the hard lines of his shoulders, the deep green of his doublet darkened further by the shadows. He moved with an air of quiet purpose, reaching for the flagon of wine resting upon the table. The deep red liquid sloshed against the sides of the goblet as he poured, the only sound in the heavy, suffocating silence. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in a single swallow, setting it down with a dull clink against the wooden surface before abandoning it entirely. Not a single drop left. 

Daenera forced her eyes back to the open book before her, though the words on the page blurred into nothingness. She turned the mover in her mind, trying to weave sense from them, to anchor herself in something that was not him. And yet, from the edge of her vision, she caught the way he moved–a controlled, deliberate pace as he wandered back to the desk, returning whatever it was he had retrieved back into its place–a habit, she knew.

When he turned at last, his gaze found her. She felt it settle upon her, heavy as a weight pressed into her skin. There was no mistaking his interest–his presence bore down on her, a silent force demanding acknowledgement. Her grip tightened slightly around the edges of the book, the parchment rough beneath her fingertips. The pages might as well have been blank for all she could read of them now. 

He leaned back against the desk, a picture of ease, though she knew him well enough to recognize the tension radiating off of him. He watched her for a long moment, the familiar prickle of irritation itching beneath her skin as his gaze slid over her. 

She would not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. 

Then, without a word, he pushed off the desk, his movements measured and steady as he crossed the room. Each step sent a ripple of tension through her, her pulse quickening in defiance of her will. The sound of his boots against the stone floor echoed in the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm that grated against her nerves. He rounded the bed, drawing closer, and for a fleeting moment, she bracing herself, half-expecting him to lower himself onto the mattress beside her, to claim his place without care or question. 

But instead, his hand reached out, long fingers curling around the pillow at her side. He lifted it, the fabric shifting beneath his grip, and without a glance in her direction, turned and carried it across the room. 

Daenera breathed out in relief, heart shuddering in her chest. Had he dared to settle beside her, she thought she might have driven the spine of the book straight into that cursed sapphire eye before smothering him with a pillow for good measure.

He settled on the chaise with the same quiet deliberation, shrugging off his belt and unfastening the claps of his doublet. The fire caught the hard planes of his face as he discarded the garment, his movements unhurried, effortless. Every action spoke of ownership, of familiarity, as if he had already decided this was his place to claim. 

Bitter words rose unbidden to her lips, lodging against the back of her teeth. She did not want to break the silence, did not want to acknowledge him, did not even wish to breath the same air as him. And yet, despite herself, her lips parted. 

“I do not want you here,” she said, her voice cold as iron.” From now on, if you wish to sleep well, you will do so in your own chambers–or else you’d have to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

Aemond did not flinch, nor did he seem surprised. Instead, he merely shifted, settling into the chaise with an air of measured indifference. “The chaise is comfortable enough.”

Daenera’s gaze narrowed at the page. “Not when it’s wet.”

His eye seemed to gleam with something unreliable, she felt it even as her gaze was set on the book, felt the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of his lips. “And if I have all the water removed?”

She hated the way he spoke–calm, controlled, so certain of himself. And she hated, more than anything, that he found humor in her defiance. 

And so, pettily–because pettiness was the only weapon left to her in this gilded prison–she answered, each word honed to a pointed edge. “Then I will fucking piss on it.”

The night had stretched into an eternity, an unending cycle of drifting in and out of fitful sleep, caught between waking and dreaming. Sleep, when it came, was shallow and uneasy, frayed at the edges by restless thoughts that refused to settle. Every time she closed her eyes, she found herself back in the depths of the Sept, standing in the cold, candlelit silence as the Silent Sisters worked over the lifeless boy laid out before her. His skin was pale, waxen, his golden curls damp and darkened in death. Their knives moved with reverence, slicing into his flesh, prying open his ribs as they reached inside to extract his organs–one by one–while she could do nothing but watch. 

Sometimes, the boy on the stone slab was not golden-haired at all. Sometimes, his pale curls had bled into a deeper hue, shifting, thickening, taking on the unruly wildness she knew so well. And suddenly, it was not him, not the boy she had poisoned, but someone else. A brother. 

His skin was pallid, his lips drawn into the ashen stillness of death, the cold finality of it settling over him like a shroud. The candlelight flickered across his face, casting shifting shadows over lifeless features, hollowing the soft curve of his cheeks, deepening the sunken stillness of his closed eyes.

She could almost hear the whisper of her own voice, soft and coaxing, weaving lies as gently as a mother tucks a child into bed. You are going home, Patrick. Words that had been meant to soothe, to soften the edge of his fear, yet had been nothing more than empty breath–cruel deceptions clothed in mercy.

And as she gazed at the boy laid bare upon the cold stone, she wondered if Luke, too, had believed he was going home. Had he looked toward the horizon with relief, with the quiet certainty that he would see his mother again, that he would sleep once more beneath Dragonstone’s sky? Or had he known, as Vhagar’s shadow swallowed the storm, that home was a place he would never reach?

When the Silent Sisters turned away, their robes whispering against the cold stone, something shifted. They moved as shadows, silent as the dead, carrying away the glass jars that held what remained of the boy’s insides. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh and death, clinging to Daenera’s skin like a second shroud. She should have turned away too, should have followed them into the dim corridors beyond the chamber. But she could not.

Neither the golden-haired child she had poisoned nor the dark-haired boy who had haunted her dreams remained. Instead, something smaller lay swaddled in cloth, its frail shape stark against the hard, unyielding stone.

So small. Too small.

Her breath caught in her throat, a sharp hitch of air she could not release. The cold of the Sept pressed against her skin, but she felt nothing, as if her body had numbed to everything but the sight before her. The chamber, the distant murmur of prayers, the lingering scrape of steel against flesh–all faded into the periphery. Her world shrank, narrowed to the impossibly delicate bundle lying before her.

Her fingers trembled as she reached out, longing, desperate.

And then she saw it.

A wisp of silver hair, soft and fine as gossamer, barely visible in the dim glow of the candles.

Her breath shuddered from her lips, unsteady, uneven. Too small. Too impossibly small to be here, in this place of death and decay. The chill gnawed at her bones, but she did not care.

All she wanted in that moment was to gather the bundle into her arms, to cradle it against her chest, to shield it from the cold grip of the stone. To take it from these walls, away from the death and decay that clung to the air, and let her warmth pour into it, chasing away the chill that did not belong to something so small.

Her fingers curled, desperate to grasp the soft swaddling cloth, to feel the impossible weight of it against her. If she could only hold it, she could will life into it–breathe warmth into cold flesh, whisper comfort against a too-fragile brow.

But even as she reached, the air around her seemed to still, thickening like mist, pressing heavy against her lungs. The chamber wavered at the edges of her vision, the candlelight dimming, shadows creeping in like grasping fingers. And then–

A shudder ran through her chest, sharp and sudden.

She gasped, torn from the dream, her body lurching awake as if pulled from deep waters. Sweat cooled against her skin as the room pressed down around her. The air felt thick and suffocating, clinging to her like unseen hands. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a dull ache pressing behind her eyes. The world was dark, the only illumination the flickering firelight casting restless shadows across the walls. For a moment, she simply lay there, staring at the canopy overhead, struggling to separate dream from memory. The phantom scent of incense still lingered in her nostrils, the cold touch of the Sept’s stone floor ghosting along her bare feet. 

No matter how many times she pulled the blankets over her, no matter how fiercely she willed herself back to sleep, the cycle would begin again. Each time she closed her eyes, she was back there–watching, waiting, unable to move. 

And each time, when they turned into the bundle of darkened fabric, she’d wake before reaching him. 

The only solace Daenera found in the endless, wretched hours of the night came in the form of the man she despised. It was a strange, loathsome comfort, knowing he was there–just beyond the edge of her sight, a shadow lingering at the periphery of her awareness. She could not see him, but she felt his presence like the faint warmth of a dying fire, an awareness that settled into the marrow of her bones, a tether that kept her from slipping too far into the abyss of restless dreams. And she hated herself for it.

When she finally woke, it was with a sluggish, heavy pull, as though her body had been weighted down by lead. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavy against her limbs, dragging at her movements as she pushed herself upright. She braced one arm against the mattress, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of the sheets as she rubbed at her face, trying to rid herself of the drowsy fog clinging to her thoughts.

The world around her felt strange, disjointed, as though she had woken in a place that was not her own–like a song heard through thick stone walls. The air felt cloying against her skin, thick with the scent of spent candle wax. Weariness clung to her, needling beneath her skin like trapped embers, crawling like a thousand unseen ants. 

The light streaming through the windows stabbed at her eyes, sharp and unforgiving. 

Daenera winched, turning her face slightly away, blinking against the warmth that flooded the chamber. The sun had already climbed above the walls of the Keep, its position telling her it was later than when she was usually awoken. Mertha was nothing if not punctual. The old hag roused her at the break of dawn, when the sky bled red and bruised above the horizon.

She frowned at the daylight, as if it had betrayed her. There was no evidence of the previous night’s storm–no lingering mist, no streaks of rain trailing down the glass. The sky was clear, bright, as though the day before had never happened at all. If not for the ache in her bones, the weight of her heart pressing against her ribs, she might have thought it had all been nothing more than another fevered dream.

Frowning, she rubbed her face again, the press of her fingers doing little to chase away the lingering grogginess. She forced herself more upright, her gaze drifting across the chamber, searching–until it landed on the chaise. 

Empty. 

No trace of its occupant remained. 

The pillow and blanket had been put away. There was no discarded boots, no abandoned clothes draped over its back. It was as if Aemond had never been there at all. 

Her frown deepened as a strange tightness coiled in her chest. 

The faint murmur of voices carried through the air, distant but distinct. Beyond the bedchamber, in the adjoining room, figures spoke in hushed tones, as though wary of disturbing her rest. 

Daenera’s unease curled in her chest, coiling tighter with every passing moment. She pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold stone floor with a quiet tap. For a moment, she simply sat there, listening, her senses sharpening against the strange stillness of the morning.

She pushed the blankets aside and rose from bed, bare feet meeting the cool stone floor with a shiver. Moving towards the chair, she plucked up the robe she had discarded the night before, the silk slipping like water through her fingers as she pulled it around herself. The fabric was soft, another layer of warmth, but it did little to shake the lingering heaviness in her libs. She slipped her feet into her waiting slippers, and with slow steps, she shuffled towards the adjoining chamber. 

The scent of food reached her before she stepped through the archway–warm, rich aromas of roasted meat, freshly baked bread, and ripe fruit heavy in the air. Her stomach twisted, though whether in hunger or unease, she couldn’t tell. 

She halted just beyond the threshold. 

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows in thick, golden shafts, illuminating the room in a hazy glow. The long dining table had been set in one end, its polished surface laden with an array of food–ripe fruit and shelled nuts, boiled eggs, meats sliced into neat portions, warm loaves of crusty bread. And at the far end of it all, seated with an unreadable expression, was Aemond.

Her eyes found him immediately, drawn to him before anything else. He sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed, one arm resting against the table, his long fingers absently tapping on its surface. Yet there was nothing idle about him–his presence, as always, engulfed her. His gaze drew from Edelin to her. 

With a gentle clink, Edelin set down a bowl of berries, the delicate sound barely disrupting the thick silence hanging in the room. Her movements were deliberate, careful, as if wary of disturbing something fragile, something already on the verge of splintering.

She straightened, smoothing invisible creases from her apron before lifting her gaze. Her eyes met Daenera’s–hesitant, searching–and for the briefest of moments, her expression betrayed something unspoken. A sadness, quiet and lingering, settled in the slight crease between her brows.

It was not pity, not quite, but something close to it.

“Why are you still here?” Daenera’s voice was all cool disdain as he stepped further into the room, her movements unhurried as she drifted towards the table. “I thought we had come to an understanding.”

Stopping to the chair to his left, she rested a hand against the carved wooden back, her fingers idly tracing the grain before plucking a single berry from a bowl. She rolled it between her fingers, holding it before her mouth. “I see my threats weren’t enough to deter you.” She popped the berry into her mouth, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch for a moment. “What will it take? Must I piss on all the furniture to rid myself of your presence?”

A sharp clatter split the air.

The clatter had rung through the chamber like a struck bell, reverberating off the high stone walls. Edelin stood frozen, her fingers splayed over the tray as if by sheer force of will she could undo her mistake. Her face burned crimson, shame creeping up her throat.

Daenera barely spared her a glance. The noise had startled her, yes–sent a jolt through her ribs, coiled her nerves tighter–but she had not reacted beyond a slow, measured breath. She seemed to feel the impact echo through her bones, the feeling jarring. 

Her attention returned to Aemond. 

He did not flinch, nor did he seemed to care for the source of the commotion. His gaze met hers, sharp and unreadable, the corner of his mouth curved–just slightly, just enough for her to see it. His amusement bled into something more serious, the curve flattening. 

“I have something to tell you.”

He moved then, shifting the plate before him. The scrape of metal against polished wood was soft, deliberate, as he pushed it across the surface towards her. It came to rest beside the chair she gripped, inviting her to take a seat. 

She did not sit. 

Her gaze flickered downward. The food had been arranged with thought–small portions of roasted meats, ripe fruit sliced into pieces, chilled grapes and peeled tangerines. Freshly baked bread, still warm, set alongside honey and jam. And a cinnamon cake topped with sugar. 

The scent curled into her senses. She felt a pang of hunger deep in her belly, but what fleeting warmth that came with the offering did not reach her. 

A sick, molten heat curled in her stomach. Half of her wanted to shove the plate away, to overturn it onto  his lap and let him wear his pathetic attempt at civility like the mockery it was. But she did not move. 

“Are you to soften the blow of telling me you’ve killed another of my brothers with cake and tea?” Daenera scoffed, her voice laced with venom. “Do you think it will make it easier to swallow?”

He hadn’t been gone long enough for it to be true. She knew that. But the words left her lips all the same. Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, knuckles whitening as she glared at him. The scent of warm bread and sugared fruit lingered in the air, cloying and thick, but it did nothing to soothe the tightening in her chest.

Edelin, wisely, said nothing. Without another word, she gathered the tray, her movements careful, practiced. She turned on her heel and slipped from the chamber, the heavy wooden door falling shut behind her with a muted thud.

Aemond remained composed, his expression an unreadable mask. Not a twitch of his jaw, not the slightest crease in his brow betrayed his thoughts. And yet, there was something in his eye–a flicker of something elusive. Amusement? Irritation? Pity? Worry? Daenera could not tell. He did not rise to her provocation, did not sneer or scoff as she expected. He merely regarded her, studying in that way of his, as though peeling back her layers to reveal her bleeding insides. 

The silence stretched between them. Then, at last, he spoke. 

“Sit,” He said, his voice smooth, measured. A urging that bordered on command. 

There was something in the way he held himself, in the deliberate calm of his tone, in the weight of his single eye upon her that made unease coil deep in her belly. It was in the quiet insistence of his words. The way he looked at her–with a gentleness so sharp that it cut her more deeply than his scorn ever could. 

A knot tightened in her throat. 

“I don’t want to,” she said, the words leaving her lips before she could stop then, a childish defiance she knew already was useless. And yet, she clung to it, as if voicing her refusal would keep at bay whatever terrible thing he meant to tell her. 

Aemond did not blink. 

“Sit down, Daenera.” This time, his voice was firm, unyielding as cold steel. 

Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, nails biting into the polished wood, pressing so hard she felt the strain in her joints. The wood did not give, would not break under her grip–so she did. She released her grip on it and lowered herself into the chair. Her hands found their place in her lap, curled into fists against the silk of her robe.

Aemond did not gloat. He did not smirk as she had expected him to–no cruel twist of his lips, no gleam of satisfaction in his eye. Instead, he regarded her with a quiet gentleness that unsettled her more than his arrogance ever could. And that, somehow, was so much worse. 

His arrogance, his cruelty–those things she could fight against. They gave her something solid to grasp, something to spit venom at, something to push against. But this… this quiet patience, this measured restraint, this softness–it felt like a dagger slipping between her ribs in slow, excruciating inches. It stripped her of armor, left her exposed and flailing. 

Whatever words he held back lingered in the air, an unspoken storm gathering in the silence between them. It clung to her skin like damp fog, coiling around her ribs, settling in her chest like water filling a drowning woman’s lungs. She felt it, the suffocating dread creeping through her, the gnawing certainty that whatever he meant to say was not anything good. 

Aemond inhaled slowly, deliberately, the movement measured and precise. His fingers twitched idly against the polished wood of the table–just the faintest motion, absent and unhurried, betraying some restless thought stirring beneath his composure. Daenera’s gaze flickered towards them before she forced herself to look away, to return her focus to his face. 

And yet, she could still feel them. 

The ghost of his touch lingered, seared into her skin as if he had only just held her, as if his grip had never loosened. She still recalled the bruising pressure of his fingers, the way they had burned into her flesh, branding her in ways she could never truly scrub away. She still carried the bruises on her thighs, small blossoms of purple. 

Aemond shifted slightly, brow contemplative. He parted his lips as if to speak, then hesitated, exhaling through his nose in a soft hum. It was not so much uncertainty that held his tongue, she thought, but something else. He was choosing his words with care, as though the right words would lessen the blow of what he wished to tell her. 

At last, he spoke. 

“We’ve received word,” he said, his voice a quiet drawl, “that your mother has returned to Dragonstone.”

Daenera exhaled, a slow and measured breath, though it did little to steady the storm within her. Her mother had left Storm’s End. Had returned home. 

For a fleeting moment, relief washed over her, swift and forceful, crashing over her like a wave breaking against the shore. But just as quickly, it retreated, dragging something heavier in its wake. Grief surged to take its place, welling up inside her like the rising tide, lodging itself between her ribs. It pressed against her throat, made it difficult to swallow, difficult to breathe. 

Had her mother abandoned the search?

Or worse–had she found what she was looking for?

She closed her eyes. Just for a moment. 

And in that single moment, she saw him. 

Her brother lay upon the cold, unforgiving stone. The Silent Sisters worked over him with quiet reverence, their hands steady in their duty. She saw the pale, waterlogged flesh, the places where his skin had turned grey, kissed too long by the sea. Salt clung to him like a second burial shroud, glistening against the limp, tangle mess of his curls–curls that had once been soft, once had been warmed by the sun, now stiffened by the ocean’s embrace.

But would he truly look like that after all this time? After all that happened?

The thought coiled inside her like a living thing, sinking its fangs into the tender flesh of her heart. She almost wanted to ask him, almost wanted to force the truth from his lips, to demand if her mother had found something, anything. But the fear held her still. Because she already knew the answer. 

There was nothing left to find. 

Daenera forced herself to breathe, slow and steady, though it did little to ease the tightness coiling in her chest. The weight of exhaustion pressed against her ribs, heavy as a millstone, and the warm air of the chamber felt thick in her throat. She willed herself to keep her composure, to smother the grief before it could bloom into something she could not control. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe, nails biting into the silk.

She gave a small nod, a single, curt motion that barely disturbed the strands of silver hair falling over her shoulders. Her lips parted, then pursed, as if to trap the question before it could leave her tongue. She swallowed, forcing down the bitter taste of sorrow.

And then, at last, she spoke.

“Is that all?” Her voice was a blade’s edge, honed sharp, but strained–fraying at the seams. She would not break–not in front of him.

The silence that followed was brief, but it dragged, a heartbeat too long, as if the weight of what he was about to say needed that extra breath to settle. The tension drew taut as a bows string before the arrow was released. 

Aemond’s gaze remained on her. “No,” he murmured, softer than she expected. He straightened slightly, a mere shift in posture, yet it felt deliberate, careful, as though bracing himself. His hands, long-fingered and calloused, stilled against the table. “Your mother lost the child.”

A thousand thoughts stormed through her mind, each one crashing over the next. She thought first of Jace. The last she had head, he was at Winterfell, far beyond the Green’s reach–surely beyond their reach. But then–Joffrey? Aegon? Viserys? Had something happened to them? Had the war already stolen more from her than it had already taken?

And then, at last, the truth settled in. 

It was not them. It was not one of her brothers. 

It was the child–the one her mother had been carrying. 

The realization landed like a blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. She felt the weight of it sink into her bones, cold and merciless. Grief swelled in her chest, thick and cloying, rising like a tide she could not hold back. The air thickened, turned to something unbreathable. The room blurred at the edges, light wrapping around her vision as nausea coiled in her gut, sharp and violet. 

She rose, too quickly, the legs of the chair scraping roughly against the stone floor. The sound barely registered. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning out the distant murmurs of the Keep beyond these walls, drowning out the warmth of the fire, the lingering scent of sugared fruit and cinnamon still cloying in the air. 

Her composure slipped, crumbled through her fingers like sand. 

Her sibling–gone before they could even be held, before they could take their first breath. 

The grief curled inside her like a living thing, sharp-toothed and ravenous, tearing at the fragile seams of her restraint. Her throat burned, bile rising, but she forced it down.

Out of the blurred edges of her vision, Daenera caught the slightest movement–a flicker of motion that, for a moment, she mistook for hesitation. But it was not hesitation.

Aemond reached for her.

His fingers hovered just shy of her own, the barest breath of space between them, as if he meant to grasp her hand, to still her, to ground her. But she wrenched away before he could touch her, as if his fingers were flame and she had already been burned too many times. The motion was sharp, instinctual, a recoil from something she could not bear to endure. She turned her back to him, closing herself off, severing whatever fragile moment might have passed between them before it could take shape.

A sharp ache bloomed in her chest, spreading like a bruise, pressing heavy against her ribs until it felt as if they might crack beneath the weight. She strained to breathe, to force air past the tightness in her throat, but it caught and stuttered, shallow and uneven. Her hands found her hips, fingers pressing against the curve of her spine as she tried–gods, she tried–to steady herself.

Her gaze lifted skyward, as if seeking solace in the high vaulted ceiling, in the distant light that streamed through the windows. But the tears burned hot behind her eyes, threatening to spill, and she clenched her jaw, willing them away.

And she did not want him to see. 

She did not want him to watch her unravel, to bear witness to her pain, to see the raw, ugly thing that grief made of her. Vulnerability was a weapon turned against its wielder, and she would not offer him that blade–not again.  

A sob rose in her throat, thick and strangling, but she swallowed it down, forcing it into the put of her stomach where it could rot unseen. 

Her mother had wanted this child–had longed for it. Daenera had seen it in her eyes, had heard it in the quiet way she spoke of the babe, in the way she touched her stomach as if the child were already there in her arms. 

And now, there was nothing. 

Her hand rose, fingers trembling slightly as she tugged at the collar of her dress, as if loosening the fabric might somehow loosen the tightness coiling in her chest. She pressed her palm against her heart, felt the frantic beat beneath her skin, fast and uneven, as though her own body rebelled against the weight of the truth. 

Her mother had lost a son. 

And now, she had lost another child. 

Another life stolen, another piece of her mother torn away. And the gods were silent. 

Daenera closed her eyes.

For a fleeting moment, she no longer saw her brother stretched out upon the Silent Sisters’ stone table, his chest broken open, his curls stiff with salt.

Instead, she saw something smaller.

Too small.

A bundle of fabric lay upon the cold, unforgiving slab–wrong, out of place, never meant to be there. The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows over the swaddled form, over the impossibly delicate curve of it.

And then, a wisp of silver hair.

Soft. Fine as gossamer. Barely visible in the dim light, but there all the same.

Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between her ribs, aching as though something inside her had cracked. The room around her faded, the weight of the present slipping beneath the tide of grief pulling her under.

Oh, gods. The letter. 

The realization dawned on her, settling in the pit of her stomach like a stone. 

By now, Fenrick would be on his way to Dragonstone, carrying the letter she had written with such careful, measured words. She had tried–foolishly, naively–to offer her mother some semblance of solace, to give her something to cling to amidst the reunion on loss. She had told her that the child she carried would bring her comfort–that not everything had been lost. 

Regret was a sharp, bitter thing, curling around her ribs and sinking its teeth deep.

Behind her, Aemond spoke, his voice low, careful. “Daenera…”

She lifted her hand, fingers trembling slightly as she motioned for him to stop. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to turn, to face him, to bear the weight of his gaze pressing against her as it always did. 

Her grief twisted into something worse–guilt. It tore through her anew, sharp and relentless, pulling her apart at the seams. 

Had she done this?

Was this her punishment? A cruel retribution from the gods for what she had done to the boy who trusted her? For the poison she had slipped into his food, for the lies she had whispered as she sent him to his death?

Her breath shuddered in her chest, jagged and uneven, but she swallowed the turmoil down, forcing herself to steady. She wiped at her cheek, smearing away the single tear that had escaped before it could be seen. Before he could see it. 

“When?” Her voice came, quieter than she had intended, hoarse with the effort of keeping herself together. “When did this happen?”

Aemond was silent for a beat too long. Then–”Does it matter?”

At last, Daenera turned to face him. Her movements were slow, reluctant, as if forcing herself to meet his gaze would make the weight in her chest any easier to bear–but it did not, it only made it all the heavier. Another tear slipped free trailing in a  slow descent down her cheek before she wiped it away with a trembling hand. It was a futile effort. More clung to her lashes, catching the light like glistening shards of glass. She could feel them tremble, feel the heat behind her eyes threatening to spill over again, but she refused to let them fall. 

She met his gaze, and it nearly undid her. 

His expression was carefully neutral, yet there was something guarded in the set of his jaw, something restrained in the way he held himself. And his eye–gods, his eye. It was not cold as it so often was, nor sharp with mockery, nor darkened by cruelty. Instead, there was a softness there, a quiet, somber patience that only deepened the ache in her chest.

“I–” the words caught in her throat, breaking apart before it could fully form. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Did I–?”

Her lips parted, but she could not finish the question. Was it my fault? The words remained trapped behind clenched teeth, rattling inside her skull like a dying thing. Did I do this? The thought alone sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her. Had the gods seen what she had done? Had they cast their judgment, taken something from her mother in retribution for what Daenera had stolen from another?

The guilt gnawed at her, a ravenous beast sinking its teeth into her ribs. She could not bring herself to ask him, could not bear to voice the thought that had already sunk its claws into her mind. 

And worse–why, why in all the gods’ names, was she looking to him for reassurance? Why was she searching his face for some denial, some certainty that this was not her doing, that she had not willed this tragedy into being?

Hatred curled inside her–hatred for herself, for the shameful, desperate way her heart clung to his presence in this moment. She swallowed again, fingers curling into the silk of her robe as she forced her voice into something steadier, something more composed, though it still trembled. “When did it happen?”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, watching her in that way he always did–like he saw more than what she gave. He studied her, peeling back the layers of her composure as though he could see the raw, open wounds beneath. 

“It was before.”

Before. 

Before she had killed Patrick. Before she had sealed her own damnation.

For the briefest of moments, the relief came swift and sharp, crashing through her like a desperate breath breaking the surface of deep waters. It was a cruel, fleeting thing, barely there before it was swallowed whole by something far worse. A wave of guilt surged up in its place, heavier than before, pressing down on her like a boulder against her chest. She felt sick with it, sick with herself. What did it matter when it had happened? What difference did it make? The child was still gone, lost before ever taking a breath. And yet, for the smallest fraction of time, she had felt relief that it had not been her fault. That it had not been her sin that had stolen another life from her mother’s arms. 

She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, nails biting into the flesh of her palms until she could feel the sting of it, grounding herself in the pain. She could not allow herself that feeling, could not let herself grasp onto it. Her mother had lost her son, and now she had lost another child. 

There was no comfort in the timing of it, no absolution in the fact that it had been before Patrick. And yet, she had sought it anyway, like a coward grasping at scraps of solace in the face of an unbearable truth. 

She forced her shoulders back, forced the breath into her lungs, forced the grief into something small and quiet, something she could lock away until she was alone. Because no matter how much she might feel as though she was drowning, she could not afford to let herself sink. 

“Before,” Daenera echoed, the word curling bitterly on her tongue. Her brow furrowed, and something inside her twisted. The grief threatening to pull her under began to harden, cooling into something sharper and accusatory. “When before?”

Aemond inhaled through his nose, slow and measured, though his posture stiffened slightly. He bore the weight of her accusation as he bore all others–like armor, as though he had long since learned to let such words slide from his skin like rain against steel. He did not flinch, nor did he waver. Instead, his head tilted, just enough for the sunlight to catch the angular lines of his face. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was the same even, measured tone. “Before.”

Before Patrick.

Before Luke.

The child had been lost before he had ridden to Storm’s End, before he had given chase in the rain, his rage and wounded pride spurring him forward, before the storm had swallowed them both whole. Before the sky had split with the crack of thunder, before Vhagar’s massive jaws had closed around Luke and torn him from the sky. Before the sea had claimed whatever was left, dragging it down into the cold, endless depths, leaving nothing but salt and silence in its wake. Beforeher mother had searched those very waves, desperate, grieving, calling for a son who would never answer. BeforeDaenera’s own hands had been stained with the blood of the innocent, before poison had coated her fingertips, before death had followed in her shadow.

Before everything.

And yet, no matter how she turned it over in her mind, no matter how she tried to unravel the cruel weaving of fate, she could not shake the truth of it.

It did not matter.

The order of their suffering changed nothing. The loss remained. The grief endured. The dead did not return.

“It seems the news of our father’s passing brought it upon her,” Aemond continued, his voice careful. And yet, his fingers–long and deft, ever steady–began to tap idly against the polished wood of the table. A restless habit, though whether born of irritation or impatience, she could not tell. 

Daenera’s lips parted, but only a breath escaped before her grief twisted into something else entirely–something raw and seething, something blistering beneath her skin like an open wound. 

“When her rightful claim was usurped.” She did not temper her hanger, did not bite back the words before they could lash out. She wanted them to land.

Not only had her mother lost her father, but her very birthright had been stolen from beneath her, torn away by those who had sworn loyalty and then betrayed her in the same breath. Her throne had been usurped, her claim trampled beneath the weight of ambition and treachery. She had carried a child, nurtured it within her, only for it to be wrenched from her before it could ever take its first breath. And then, as if the gods had not yet finished their cruel work, she had lost her son–her sweet, bright boy–swallowed by the storm, by the beast, by the sea.

The gods were vicious, their judgment as merciless as it was senseless. They were no wise and righteous overseers, no keepers of justice and fate. They were cruel, capricious, laughing down from their lofty halls as mortals broke beneath their whims. What justice was there in this? What righteousness? There was none–only suffering, only grief, only the relentless toll of loss upon loss, piling higher like bodies left to rot upon the battlefield.

How could they punish her–her mother, whose only crime had been existing as her father’s heir–while those who had taken, those who had stolen, those who had murdered were left to rule, to thrive, to wear crowns dripping with the blood of the innocent?

The gods had no justice. They only had cruelty.

Aemond’s jaw tensed, just slightly. A small shift, a twitch of muscle, but she saw it. 

“How many more must die for your family’s ambition?” She bit out, fury coiling around her grief like a viper. 

“The fault is not ours,” Aemond siad, his tone composed, infuriatingly patient, as though he expected her anger, as though he would simply weather it like a storm passing overhead.  “The child was malformed, he continued, his voice careful, as if he were offering her something close to reassurance. “It is said it had horns, scales…a tail.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It would not have survived, whether it came now or later.”

“Who?” Her voice was sharp, demanding, slicing through the thick silence between them. “Who said this? How do they know?”

Her breath quickened, her hands curling into fists at her sides, nails biting into the flesh of her palms. The words felt too heavy, too cruel to accept without a fight. Aemond had spoken them so plainly, as if they were mere facts and not a sentence of grief carved into her very bones.

“How do you know it's the truth?” She challenged, stepping closer now, her gaze burning into his.

Daenera seethed, but she could feel her fury unraveling at the edges, slipping through her fingers like sand. She needed someone to blame, needed it to make sense of it all, needed somewhere to aim her anger before it ebbed out entirely, only leaving behind an aching emptiness. But Aemond did not flinch, did not rise to her anger. 

“We have received multiple accounts,” he said, his voice dreadfully gentle, offering her no cruelty, no satisfaction, only the quiet inevitability of truth. 

Daenera felt the fight drain from her in an instant, like a blade sliding free from between her ribs, leaving behind only the gaping wound, the hollow ache where fury had once burned. The fire inside her flickered, then went out entirely, snuffed like a candle’s flame, leaving only behind the curling remnants of smoke, grief’s cold fingers creeping into its place. 

She swayed slightly on her feet, her pulse thrumming in her ears, tears pressing hard against the back of her eyes. She closed them, only to find that the darkness brought no relief. The image waiting for her there–waiting in the hollow spaces behind her ribs, in the marrow of her bones. The small bundle wrapped in cloth. The wisp of silver hair barely visible. Unbearable stillness. 

She rubbed her hand across her face, as though she could wipe away the vision along with the tears that threatened to spill. With a quiet, weary sigh, she sank back into her chair. 

She wished she had been there. 

Wished she could be there now–with her mother, beside her, as she mourned her children. 

Daenera was growing weary of grief, of loss. It clung to her like a second skin, a weight that hadn’t lessened yet, only shifted, pressing down on her in different ways, at different times. She was drowning in it. The loss of this sibling–one she had never met, one she had only allowed herself to hope for–was but a drop in the ocean of sorrow that had already swallowed her whole. 

It was a cruel thing to admit, even to herself, but it was the truth. Compared to Luke, compared to the gaping, irreparable wound his absence had left inside of her, this loss felt small–manageable. A shallow wound against a deeper, festering one. 

Perhaps that was not so strange. 

And perhaps, there was only so much grief one could carry before it became to heavy to bear. So she gathered this small sorrow, cupped it in her hands like water, and let it slip through her fingers, pouring it into some quiet place within herself where it could no longer drown her. 

“I wanted to be the one to tell you,” Aemond said softly. 

Her gaze lifted to meet his, and this time, there was no scorn in her eyes, no reproach or bitter edge to her expression. Only something quieter, something more measured. A tired understanding, perhaps. A truce, however fragile, however brief. 

The sunglint spilled through the high windows, cutting through the coldness of the chamber, catching the strands of his pale hair and turning them to gold. The light softened him, rounded the edges of his sharp features, took the severity of him and made him something almost gentle. Almost human.

Daenera swallowed, drawing in a slow, steady breath, holding it deep in her lungs before releasing it, exhaling the grief, the weight, the ache–if only for a moment. 

“Thank you for telling me,” she murmured at last. 

Aemond studied her, his gaze lingering. And then, quiet, deliberately he ventured, “I wanted to tell you about–”

“But you didn’t,” Daenera cut him off, her voice regaining an edge–something brittle. A simmering ember of anger licked at her ribs. It did not blaze into a roaring fire, but it smoldered there, deep and slow-burning, waiting. 

“I waited for you,” she said, the strain in her voice betraying the wounds that had yet to close, the kind that festered beneath the skin and leaked poison into the blood. “I waited for you, but you never came.”

For the first time, Aemond broke her gaze. He turned his face ever so slightly, his eye flickering away, his shoulders going taut beneath the fabric of his doublet. The shift was small, but she saw it bathed in the light of day as it was–the tension in his jaw, the almost imperceptible curl of his lips, the way his fingers twitched against the table as if resisting the urge to move. It could have been mistaken for annoyance, but it wasn’t. 

Shame, she thought. Regret, perhaps.

His next words came as softly as they had the last time, spoken with the same quiet weight, the same bitter aftertaste. “I wanted to give you one more night.”

The same words he had spoken when they sat together in the ruin of her chambers, amidst shattered glass and scattered blood. One more night believing her brother was alive. An explanation. A bitter solace. A stinging mistake. 

One more night–one night too long. And yet far too little. 

“It wasn’t enough,” Daenera murmured. Her voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “It would never be enough.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, the silence between them thick with everything neither of them would say. Words unspoken tangled in the space between them, unsaid truths pressing against the weight of air. 

And still, neither of them looked away.

“You should have been the one to tell me,” she murmured, finally breaking her gaze, her voice quieter now. “Just as I should be the one to tell Patrick’s parents of their son. 

Her fingers curled slightly against the table’s surface as she lifted her gaze back to him. “I do not expect it to bring them peace. But at least they will know. I owe them that much.” It was the kindest thing she could offer. “Let me write to them. Let me be the one to inform them of his passing.”

Aemond studied her. His lips pressed together, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face–perhaps a sharp remark, a cutting jest waiting on his tongue, but if so, he swallowed it. Instead, his gaze flickered downward, settling on the plate of food in front of her, untouched, the warm of it long since dissipated.

“If you eat,” he said at last. 

Daenera blinked at him, caught off guard by the audacity of it. It was so unexpected, so absurdly him that she nearly let out a sharp, humorous laugh. Instead, her expression darkened, her brows pulling together as a scowl twisted her lips. She briefly entertained the idea of overturning the plate onto his pristine doublet, watching the food spill into his lap with a pure, spiteful satisfaction. She could already picture it–the way his lips would tighten, the sharp edge of his glare, the inevitable snap of his patience. 

The thought was tempting. 

Spite crackled beneath her skin, hot and restless, but she forced it down. 

It should be her that told Patrick’s parents. She had taken their son’s life–whatever justification, whatever mercy she had told herself had softened it, it was still her hand that had ended it. And for that reason alone, she begrudgingly reached for the plate, sliding it towards herself with slow, reluctant movements. She picked up a piece of tangerine, lifting it to her lips without breaking her glare, scowling at Aemond as she chewed. 

Across the table, the corner of his lips curled–just slightly, just enough to make her scowl deepen. 

The first few bites were an effort, her throat constricting, her stomach coiled so tightly it felt as though it might reject the food entirely. But the more she ate, the more the tension eased, the tightness giving way to something else–something she had not realized had been gnawing at her. Hunger.

She had barely eaten since the day before yesterday. Perhaps even longer than that. She had forced herself to move, to speak, to endure, but she had done so on nothing but sheer will. And on some level, she suspected Aemond knew.

Her eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly as she caught him watching her. “Are you not going to eat?” she asked, her tone sharp, edged with irritation. 

“I’ve eaten,” Aemond replied, entirely unbothered.

“Are you just going to stare at me while I eat? If so, I’d much prefer if you left.”

If anything, he seemed amused by her hostility. His hand lifted lazily from the surface of the table, reaching for her plate with deliberate slowness, plucking a single grape between his fingers.

Daenera reacted before she could think.

Her hand snapped out, slapping against his with a sharp smack. The sound echoed between them, louder than she had expected, but she did not regret it. Resentment flared in her chest, hot and immediate. If he had wanted to sit here, if he had wanted to share her food the way they had once done before, then perhaps he shouldn’t have murdered her brother.

The vitriol did not make it to her voice, though. Nor did it reach the glare she leveled at him. Instead, her tone was cold, flat, edged with something quieter, something just as sharp. “If you’ve eaten, then leave. Or get your own food. Don’t steal mine.”

Aemond’s gaze flickered to where she had struck his hand, then back to her, something unreadable passing over his expression.

Then, with an infuriating little smirk, he popped the stolen grape into his mouth.

The doors swung open with a quiet creak, and the sharp rhythm of approaching steps cut through the silence. Daenera barely had time to register the intrusion before Mertha stood before her, her hands folded neatly, her face in that ever-present mask of tight-lipped disapproval–though now, it was drawn even tighter, as though she had bitten into something sour and found it worse than expected. 

Edelin hovered behind her, expression worried. 

“My prince,” Lady Mertha said stiffly, inclining her head. “Forgive the intrusion, but the Lord Confessor’s patience has worn thin. He insists that they begin the search now.”

At the words, Aemond leaned back slightly in his chair, the shift slow, deliberate. Whatever flicker of amusement that had lingered in his features vanished in an instant, his face hardening into something cold and impassive–his familiar mask of steel and ice. Every trace of that infuriating smugness from moments before was gone, replaced by something unreadable, something distant. 

His fingers twitched idly on the tabletop, betraying the only sign of his irritation. He inhaled through his nose, the sound quiet but edged with something restrained. 

“Very well,” he said at last, his voice carrying no emotion, nothing but the crisp weight of obligation. 

Mertha did not move. She did not bow her head in dismissal, did not turn to fetch the Lord Confessor. Instead, she lingered, her dull gray eyes dragging from Aemond to Daenera, her gaze narrowing as her expression tightened. 

“Princess,” she said, her tone stiff with expectation. “We must get you dressed properly. You are in no state for company.” With a sharp flick of her wrist, she gestured for Daenera to follow, already turning towards the bedchamber. 

A cold prickle of unease ran down Daenera’s spine, a familiar dread twisting deep in her chest. She knew what waited for her behind the dressing screen, beyond the sight of others. Knew what Mertha’s cruel hands would do. The evidence of it still lingering on her skin–every cruel pinch, every warning squeeze, every silent reproach. The thought of it–of standing there, bare beneath Mertha’s fingers as she worked over her with disapproving hands and sharp, muttered words–made tension coil in her stomach. 

But still, she rose to her feet. 

“Lady Mertha,” Edelin interjected smoothly, stepping forward with an air of quiet insistence. “Allow me to see to the princess. I will dress her.”

Mertha’s head snapped toward her, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line.

Edelin did not falter. “The Lord Confessor’s men will need to be supervised,” she continued, her tone carefully even. “They will tear through this chamber like hounds after scraps. Someone must ensure they do not leave a mess we will only have to clean later.”

Mertha’s lips twitched, her displeasure barely concealed. She exhaled sharply though her nose and turned back to Daenera, her eyes narrowing in quiet suspicion. Her gaze lingered for a beat, as if considering whether to press the matter, to drag Daenera to the screen herself. 

But then, without a word, she pivoted sharply on her heel. “Very well, make her presentable,” she said and strode to the doors, her skirts sweeping across the stone floor as she went to admit the Lord Confessor and his men. 

Daenera let out a slow, controlled breath, grateful for Edelin. 

She stepped into the bedchamber, the warmth of the late morning sun filtering through the tall windows, casting golden light against the cool stone walls. The air was still, thick with the lingering scents of candle wax and the morning meal. 

Crossing the room, she made her way to the basin, dipping her hands into the cool water before bringing it to her face. The sudden chill sent a shiver down her spine, but she welcomed it, relished the way it momentarily cleared the haze from her mind–and washed the salt from her face. Droplets slipped down her skin, trailing along her jaw, and she reached for a cloth to dry them away, pressing the fabric against her cheeks with slow, deliberate movements. 

When she finally lifted her gaze to the mirror above the basin, she understood why Mertha had been so quick to comment on her appearance. 

Strands of hair had slipped free from their braids, some curling in wild disarray around her face, the carefully woven plaits loosened from restless sleep and the wear of the day. The silk strips woven into them had come undone, some hanging limply, others barely clinging to the braid at all. Shadows bloomed beneath her eyes, a testament to the fitful rest that had done little to ease the weight pressing on her shoulders. 

She looked tired. Worn. 

And she was. 

The distant murmur of voices drifted through the open archway, punctuated by the shuffle of boots against stone. Low, hushed tones woven together, an indistinctive hum of men speaking, orders given. Yet amidst it all, one sound stood apart–the rhythmic, deliberate tap of a cane against the floor. 

Daenera’s breath stilled for a fraction of a moment, an instinctive reaction, though she forced herself not to tense. The sound unsettled her. The slow, measured beat of it, never hurried, never uncertain. A herald of unpleasant things. 

Edelin’s hands remained gentle, undisturbed by the noise beyond the chamber. With practiced efficiency, she helped Daenera out of her nightgown, the fabric slipping from her shoulders in a whisper of silk. A moment later, she was easing her into a fresh gown–a modest, loose-fitting dress of grayish-blue brocade, its fabric soft against her skin. 

The girl worked swiftly, fingers deft as she moved to Daenera’s hair, undoing the intricate weaving she had secured the night before. The ties slipped free one by one, and with them, the last remnants of braids unraveled. Her dark hair spilled down her back, loose and soft, waves curling from where it had been bound. 

Edelin hesitated briefly, as if expecting some instruction, some desire for her to gather it up, to set it with pins and ribbons. But Daenera gave none. She let her hair fall as it was, unbound and unstyled, unwilling to fuss with it. She had neither the patience nor the mood for it. 

“Would you prepare ink and parchment?” Daenera asked, her voice quiet but firm as Edelin removed the final braid from her hair. Strands slipped free, falling in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back, pooling like dark silk. “I expect I will need more than one sheet.”

Edelin gave a small nod, setting aside the silk strip she had unwoven and placing it neatly on the surface of the dressing table before turning to fulfill Daenera’s request.

Daenera exhaled, lifting her hands to her hair, running her fingers through the long, thick strands to smooth them out. Rising from the chair, she swept the mass of it over her shoulder before letting it fall back behind her. It cascaded down past her hips, heavy and unbound.

Mertha would surely find fault with her appearance–the simplicity of her dress, the lack of jewelry, the way she left her hair undone instead of setting it in careful plaits and coils as a lady ought to. But Daenera could not bring herself to care. Not today.

Without another word, she turned from the mirror and made her way toward the common room.

The room was a whirlwind of movement, a flurry of restless energy as men tore through every corner of the space with methodical precision. Cupboards were thrown open, drawers upended, books lifted and set aside, decorations shifted from their places as hands dragged across every surface in search of something unseen–something they would not find. The scrape of wood, the rustling of parchment, the dull thud of objects being set down or discarded–all of it filled the air, mingling with the thick oppressive tension that hung like a storm waiting to break. 

As Daenera stood at the threshold of the room, men moved past her with single-minded purpose. They did not pause, did not acknowledge her presence beyond the necessity of stepping around her, their focus set entirely on the task at hand. 

Her gaze swept across the room, cutting through the chaos–until it landed on him. 

Larys Strong. 

The Lord Confessor stood apart from the frenzy, watching rather than searching, his sharp gaze meeting hers. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. But the way he looked at her–calculated, considering–made something crawl beneath her skin, made indignation flare within her chest. 

She gritted her teeth and turned away from him, tearing her gaze from his prying stare, intent on ignoring him. 

Her eyes drifted to the far end of the table, where Edelin had already set out the ink and parchment with meticulous care. The quill rested neatly beside them, its tip glistening faintly in the afternoon light. Her seat from earlier had been pushed in, the remnants of her interrupted meal cleared away–no trace of the bread or fruit remained.

Only the cup of tea lingered.

It had been moved, no longer in its original place, but now sitting beside the pot of ink at the opposite end of the table, as if subtly repositioned to accompany her new task. The gesture was a small one, yet Daenera recognized Edelin’s quiet consideration in it. A reminder. A kindness. A way to steady her hands before she set ink to parchment and wrote the words she did not want to write.

But she hardly had time to register the small act of consideration, her gaze barely flickering over the carefully arranged parchment and ink before her attention was drawn elsewhere–to him.

Her eyes found him without meaning to, latching onto his presence as though pulled by an unseen force. Aemond.

He had not moved. He sat where he had before, poised yet at ease, as if entirely unaffected by the commotion around him. His profile was sharp in the glow of the sunlight, the golden strands of his hair catching in its warmth, making him seem almost otherworldly–almost soft. But Daenera knew better.

She had half-expected–half-hoped–that he would have left by now. It would have been easier, cleaner, not to have to share space with him, not to be reminded of the tangled, wretched mess that existed between them. And yet, bitterly, begrudgingly, she felt something cold and treacherous loosen in her chest at the sight of him still lingering. She could not call it relief–she refused to call it that.

She said nothing as she passed him, her steps measured, controlled. She felt herself brush past him without sparing him a glance, settling into the chair before the parchment–at the opposite end of the table where he was sitting. Her fingers smoothed over the parchment’s surface, grounding herself in the task. 

“Her herbs are over here,” Mertha said, her voice clipped as she gestured towards the far corner of the long room. Her tone held its usual note of authority, sharp and reproachful. 

At the entry to the apartments stood Maester Gilbar and his apprentice, their washed-out gray robes blending into the stone walls, their presence unassuming. The eldest maester’s hands were clasped before him, knotted with age, while his much younger charge stood attentively at his side, watching, waiting. 

“You can remove all of it–”

“No,” Aemond’s voice cut through the room like the edge of a blade. 

From his place at the other end of the table, he barely shifted, only tilting his head slightly as he spoke. He lounged against the wooden surface, leaning lazily on one elbow, his posture deliberately relaxed, yet anything but careless. A book lay flat before him, its pages untouched, as it had merely been something to occupy his hands rather than his mind. 

“You will look through it,” he continued, his voice steady, cool, leaving no room for argument. “Remove only what is necessary. The rest, you will return as it was.”

Mertha stiffened, her lips pressing into a tight line. Her disapproval was palpable, her fingers curling ever so slightly against the fabric of her skirts. “The Dowager Queen ordered it all removed.”

“And I am giving you new orders.”

Aemond’s gaze met hers, cold and controlled, his brow lifting ever so slightly in challenge. There was no raised voice, no outward sign of irritation–just that quiet, unwavering authority that left little room for defiance. His mere presence seemed to consume the room, filling every empty space, pressing against the walls like something unseen but undeniable. There was an air of danger about him, something quiet and coiled, like a blade resting in its sheath–hidden, but no less lethal.

He did not need to raise his voice, did not need to move with any grand display of power. It was in the way he carried himself, the effortless command in his posture, the sharp edge to his gaze. He was a man who did not need to remind others of his authority–he simply was.

And everyone in the room felt it.

Maester Gilbar cleared his throat, the sound rasping in the thick silence, his aged frame shifting slightly as he adjusted his stance. The chain around his neck swayed with the movement, metal links clinging together in quiet protest. His apprentice remained still beside him, rigid, uncertain, while Mertha lingered a moment longer, the weight of unspoken words seemingly pressing against her lips. 

Reproach flickered in her eyes, her mouth tightening as if she might yet voice her displeasure. But in the end, she swallowed it down, gritting her teeth. Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and gestured for the maester to follow. 

Daenera barely spared them a glance. 

She could still feel Aemond’s gaze on her, heavy, unwavering, pressing against her like the ghost of a touch. It prickled against her skin, demanding acknowledgement, but she refused to meet it–refused to feel grateful that he would let her have her herbs. Instead, she turned her attention to the parchment before her, dipping her quill into the inkwell. The dark ink clung to the tip, and she tapped it twice against the edge to shake off the excess, watching the tiny droplets stain the rim. 

The quill hovered over the parchment, poised and ready.

But no words came. 

Her mind, once full of thought, so burdened with what needed to be said, now sat empty, blank as the page before her. The silence stretched, her breath shallow, her fingers tightening around the quell as though she could will the words into existence. 

The nose of the search continued around her, a steady drum of disruption–the shuffling of boots, the scrape of furniture being moved, the voices cutting through the space as orders were given and carried out. Daenera remained still, putting it out of her mind as she stared at the blank expanse of parchment before her. 

How do I even begin?

What words could she possibly offer? What comfort could she give when she knew there was none to be had? No sentence, no carefully chosen words could soften the sting of their loss. 

She dipped the quill into the ink, pressing the tip lightly to the parchment, watching as the black stain bleed into the fibers. The soft scratch of the quill met the paper, delicate, hesitant, but the wound was swallowed by the nose around her. 

Lord and Lady–

The words sat before her. She stared at them, then with a frustrated breath, dragged the quill through them, striking them out.

Setting the quill aside, she crumbled the ruined parchment, tossing it aside before reaching for a fresh sheet. 

I have no words to offer you comfort in this–

Her jaw clenched. No, that wasn’t right either. It was the truth, but the truth was a hollow thing. She scratched through the sentence, crumbling the parchment and tossing it aside again, reaching for another. 

The pile of discarded parchment had grown into a small mountain of frustration, crumpled remnants of failed attempts littering the table like fallen leaves. Each rejected letter, each scratched-out sentence, only fed the gnawing irritation curling in her chest. The right words would not come–not ones that mattered, not the ones that might dull the edge of grief for the parents of the boy she had taken. Nothing was enough, nothing could be enough, and the futility of it all made her stomach twist. 

With an aggravated sigh, she set the quill aside, fingers stained with ink curling slightly before she flexed them in an attempt to rid herself of the tension coiling in her knuckles. 

Leaning back in ehr chair, she pressed her spine against the unforgiving wood, tilting her head until it met the backrest with a dull thud. She stared at the ceiling, letting her breath escape in a slow exhale before dragging her gaze back to the ruined parchment strewn across the table. A waste of paper.

Her hand lifted, fingers ghosting over the rim of the now-cool teacup beside her inkpot before she sighed once more, this time softer, quieter. “Edelin,” she murmured, her voice no longer edged with irritation but something wearier. “Bring me more tea.” A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “And pour one for yourself as well, if you’d like.”

Edelin, who had remained silent at her side, flinched slightly, as if the request had startled her. Daenera turned her head just enough to watch the girl’s expression shift, the small crease between her brows deepening with confusion.

“I’d like it if you’d join me,” she said, offering a simple invitation. 

“Princess?”

“You can practice your letters,” Daenera continued, her voice softer now, almost absent as she reached for one of the discarded parchments. Her fingers smoothed out the crumpled sheet, revealing the tangled mess of scratched-out words, failed beginnings that never found their end. “Or draw, if you’d rather,” she added, turning the parchment slightly in her hands before glancing back at Edelin. “It seems such a waste to discard them entirely.”

Edelin’s eyes widened in surprised. Then, before she could stop herself, her lips curled into a smile. “Really?”

Daenera gave a small nod, watching as Edelin tried–and failed–to temper her excitement. There was something almost childlike in the way her expression brightened, a rare glimpse of unguarded joy that had no place in a world like this.

But before Edelin could utter another word, a sharp, disapproving noise cut through the moment like the scrape of steel against stone.

Mertha.

The older woman stood rigid, her scowl carved deep into her face, hands planted firmly on her hips, her entire stance radiating displeasure. Her lips curled downward, thin and bloodless, eyes narrowing as she fixed Edelin with a look meant to wither whatever foolish notion had taken root.

Edelin hesitated, her fingers twitching faintly at her sides. For a fleeting moment, she looked down, studying her hands as though considering whether to retreat, to bow her head and fall back into the quiet, obedient role expected of her.

Then, as if making a decision, she lifted her gaze once more–this time meeting Daenera’s eyes.

“I would like that,” she said at last, her voice steady despite the deepening scowl Mertha shot her way. A quiet defiance, a choice made.

She reached for the empty teacup, fingers wrapping around it with deliberate intent.

“Thank you,” she added, as if daring Mertha to object.

As Edelin moved through the room towards the pot of tea hanging over the fire in the hearth, her steps light but unwavering, she seemed intent on ignoring Mertha’s sharp, narrow-eyed scowl. The older woman’s silent disapproval lingered, thick as smoke, still, Edelin did not falter. If anything, she carried herself with more purpose, as though determined to have this small act of defiance. 

The Lord Confessor’s men continued their search–ransacking, really–their hands trailing over every surface, their eyes scanning each object as if the very stones of the room might whisper her secrets. Drawers scraped open, rugs were lifted, shelves emptied only to be hastily repacked–much to Mertha’s displeasure. No corner was left undisturbed, no possession too insignificant to escape their notice. They moved with the cold efficiency of hounds on the scent of prey, though whatever they sought would not be found. Because there was nothing to find.

And then, amidst the chaos, Larys Strong moved. 

Unlike the others he did not search. He did not paw through her belongings or upset the furniture with prying hands. He did leave the marks of disturbance in his wake. Instead, he drifted through the chamber like a shadow, his presence deliberate, unhurried. The slow, steady tap of his cane accompanied each of his steps, the sound too precise to be anything but intentional. 

It was not necessity. It was a reminder.

Larys was not a man who commanded a space the way Aemond did, with his sharp-edged presence and the sheer weight of his gaze. No, he was something far more unassuming. He did not demand attention–he crept into awareness, slipping through the cracks of conversation and silence alike. A cripple who wore his affliction like a mask, a man who allowed others to see only what he wished to see–less–while beneath the surface, his mind wove its webs. 

His presence felt like a violation. 

Not just his, but theirs. The men rifling through her things again, treating what little she had as though it belonged to them. The first time had been her old chambers, where every object, every piece of fabric, every book had been hers. They had torn through it as they did not, leaving nothing untouched. 

And now, in this new chamber, this space meant to be hers, meant to be a sanctuary–even if it was the one she had desired–it felt the same. 

Violating.

It reminded her too much of that night–of how he had ordered her stripped, of how his men’s rough, indifferent hands had seized her, pulling at laces and fabric with the same disregard they now showed to her drawers and cupboards. They had peeled her apart, layer by layer, until she had been left standing in nothing but her smallclothes, the cold pressing against her skin.

The memory curdled in her mind, but she pushed it down.

The tap of his cane against the stone made the muscles in her spine tense, the hairs at the nape of her neck prickling as Larys approached. This time, his gaze was not on her–his attention was, however. His head tiled slightly, his sharp eyes flickering towards the far wall, where a great tapestry of the finest greens hung. It was a beautiful piece, expertly woven, depicting a vast forest bathed in golden light, its canopy breaking just enough to allow the sun to dapple the moss-laden earth below. 

“Such fine work,” he murmured, his voice smooth, carrying the careful cadence of a man who measured every word before he spoke it. His fingers curled over the head of his cane, watching the tapestry with something unreadable in his expression. “The details are exquisite.”

Then, his gaze slid back to her, keen and knowing. 

“But I wonder, Princess… Were you displeased with the ones I gifted you”

Daenera inhaled slowly through her nose, her fingers tightening around the quill before she dipped it into the inkwell, watching as the dark liquid clung to the tip. She set her gaze firmly on the parchment before her, the fine script of her unfinished letter waiting to be continued. The quill hovered above the sheet, ink threatening to drop onto the page as she let her silence stretch just a little longer than necessary. 

“I did not care for them,” she said at last, her words cool, edged with quiet finality. She saw no reason why she shouldn’t be so blunt. 

She did not want his gifts. Did not want anything hanging in her chambers that bore his influence, anything that served as a reminder of his betrayal and all that had followed. She did not want his eyes watching her–even in something as inanimate as a tapestry. 

Larys did not so much as blink at her curtness. 

“I had thought they were just to your liking,” he mused, unbothered. “They are not so different from the ones you have up now. I had them woven with such care, you see… selected by my own hand. A thoughtful gesture,” he continued, his fingers drumming idly atop the head of his cane. “I had hoped they might bring you some joy–a touch of something familiar, perhaps. After all, I know how fond you once were of your time in the Kingswood along with my brother. 

Daenera’s fingers tightened around the quill, ink pooling at its tip as it hovered above the parchment. Her jaw clenched, fire burning in her chest. When she lifted her gaze, she met Larys’s sharp stare with a glare of her own, her lashes fluttering slightly as she steeled herself against the venom curling on her tongue.

“Indeed,” she said, her voice cool and flat, though there was no mistaking the sharp edge beneath it. “I do have fond memories of your brother.” She let the words linger, let them settle between them like a blade laid across the table. “He was a good man. Honorable. Trustworthy.”

Unlike you.

“He understood loyalty was not something to be bartered but something to be upheld,” Daenera continued, her voice smooth but edged with quiet steel. “A shame such virtues are not inherited by blood.” Her quill tapped lightly against the parchment. “He was a man who deserved better fate than that that befell him. He would be disappointed in you.”

Larys came to a slow halt before her, the steady tap of his cane ceasing as he reached for one of the many crumbled pages strewn across the table. His fingers plucked a discarded letter, smoothing over the creased parchment, peeling it open with a care that felt almost like mockery. 

“Perhaps,” he mused, almost a hum. “But he is not the only one who deserved a better fate than the one that befell him…”

The soft scratch of parchment unfurling filled the space between them, the sound prickling against her skin like the scrape of a dull blade. 

Daenera remained still, her breath shallow, as she watched his gaze skim over the parchment, absorbing the tangled scrawl of condolences, of words she had tried and failed to shape into something meaningful. The weight of it, the intrusion, made her stomach twist. Though the letter was unfinished, though it contained nothing but fragmented apologies and half-formed regrets, it was hers-

It was as though he were peeling back the layers of her skin, prying into the raw, festering wound beneath, sinking his fingers tino the rot of her guilt and pressing–just to see where she would break. 

Daenera gritted her teeth. Grief, anger, and shame stirred tight within her chest, each emotion tangled so thickly she could no longer separate one from the other. She refused to meet his gaze, would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply his words struck. Instead, she focused on the quill in her hand, though it trembled ever so slightly. Ink pooled where the tip met the parchment, spreading across the sheet like spilled blood, soaking greedily into the fibers. 

“It is not an easy thing, is it? Larys mused, as if he understood, as if he had ever understood. “Writing to the bereaved.” His tone carried the same insidious softness, the kind that soothed while it pried. “He was a young boy. Such a shame…”

The words slithered between them, curling in the space like smoke, like something that could not be battered away.

A sharp, seething urge shot through her–to reach across the table, to rip the letter from his hands, to tear it apart piece by piece until there was nothing left for him to inspect, nothing left for him to pick at.

“A shame, indeed,” she said, her voice cool but brittle.  He was a child, yet you imprisoned him as though he were a traitor grown. A child who fell ill in a cell, a child who could have been saved had any of you thought to do so.”

“Children grow into men, Princess. And men take up swords,” Larys murmured, his voice smooth, deliberate, each word measured as though he were weaving a trap with silk instead of steel. “It would be foolish to ignore the seeds of treason simply because they have yet to bear fruit.”

His fingers released the crumpled parchment, letting it fall open on the table before her, the unfurled words laid bare like an exposed wound. His head tilted slightly as he regarded it, as if contemplating the weight of what she had tried–and failed–to say.

“I do not envy your task, Princess,” he continued, his tone almost gentle, as though he were offering condolences instead of pressing a blade deeper into an already festering wound. “Telling grieving parents of their child’s fate… such a burden.”

The way he said it sent a slow, crawling heat up Daenera’s spine, something between fury and unease. But before she could summon a response, before she could shape her anger into words, he exhaled softly–almost thoughtfully–and added,

“I do hope they will find solace in your words. That they will read them and know their son was… cared for.” His gaze flickered back to her then, his lips curling in something that was not quite a smile. “Unfortunately, he put his life in the wrong hands.”

“Lord Larys.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and unyielding. Cold steel wrapped in quiet authority.

“Refrain from speaking to my wife.”

He did not so much as glance up from the book before him, his posture as composed as ever, as if the matter was beneath his notice–as if Larys himself was beneath his notice. Yet there was no mistaking the warning beneath his words, the subtle finality that severed whatever the Lord Confessor might have continued to say.

“You are not here for company,” Aemond continued, turning a page with deliberate ease, as though entirely unbothered. “You are here to supervise the search. Do your job.”

Silence settled between them for a heartbeat, thick and weighted.

Then, Larys released a slow, measured breath, his expression unreadable. “Of course, my prince,” he murmured, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Forgive me.”

His gaze lingered on Daenera for the briefest of moments, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he turned away. The rhythmic tap of his cane punctuated his retreat as he drifted back into the middle of the room, vanishing into the controlled chaos of the search.

Even as he moved away, Daenera could still feel the lingering presence of his words, the weight of what had been said–and what had been left unsaid. 

Agitation and guilt simmered beneath her skin, a restless, needling sensation that refused to settle. It pricked at the edges of her composure, rising in waves, pressing against her ribs, tightening around her throat like unseen hands. It burned low and slow, like embers waiting to catch flame, and she despised the way it made her feel–feeling she could not name.

Her gaze drifted, drawn as if by some unseen pull, towards Aemond.

He sat at the far end of the table, his posture deceptively relaxed, yet nothing around him was truly at ease. One elbow rested against the wood, supporting his weight, while two fingers ghosted along the sharp plane of his cheekbone, the others curled at his jaw, cradling his head in an absentminded pose. His eye remained lowered to the book before, expression unreadable, his gaze steady on the pages–but Daenera felt his attention all the same.

Even as he remained still, she knew he missed nothing. 

She watched him through her lashes, unwilling to fully turn her head, unwilling to acknowledge that she was watching at all. The midday sun poured through the high windows, spilling golden light across the room, illuminating the polished wood of the table, the cold stone walls, the shifting shadows of those still searching through her belongings. It bathed him in its glow, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them almost white, almost golden. He looked terrible and beautiful all at once.

Yet even in the warmth of the sun, even in stillness, he reamined himself–a blade, a beast dressed in civility. 

Protector. Monster.

He was both, and she did not know which unsettled her more. 

She hated that his mere presence steadied her, that even without a word, without a glance, he anchored her in a way she could not understand–did not want to understand. Hated that the weight of him in the room, the quiet force of his authority, was enough to make Larys retreat, enough to remind everyone present of who truly held power here.

She despised the way it settled the storm inside her, the way it quieted the trembling in her fingers, the unease coiling tight in her chest. That it protected her, even when she did not want it, even when she had no wish to rely on it.

And still–still–she found solace in it.

As much as she wanted to recoil, to push against the feeling, to reject the bitter comfort his presence provided, it was there nonetheless. A truth she could not deny. A truth she hated herself for.

Daenera forced her gaze downward, fixing her attention on the parchment in front of her, where a heavy blot of ink had spread like spilled blood, seeping through the sheet beneath, and the one under that. Her fingers curled around the quill, her grip too tight, too stiff, as she stared at the ruin of what should have been her letter. 

For a fleeting moment–briefly, childishly–Daenera entertained the thought of snatching up one of the crumpled letters and tossing it at his head. 

His blind side was to her–an oversight, a vulnerability he rarely allowed.

Aemond had honed his reflexes through years of relentless sword training, his body molded for combat, his instincts sharpened to near-perfection. On the battlefield, he could read an opponent’s movements before they even struck, knew the rhythm of the fight as intimately as a dancer knew the steps of their routine.

But here?

Here, where there was no battle, where he was at ease, unexpecting–he was vulnerable.

She knew he struggled with his peripheral vision, with his depth perception. A flaw he compensated for in war, in the controlled chaos of combat, but outside of it? It was different. He might catch her movement in the last instant, might sense the shift in the air, but too late–the crumpled letter would already be sailing toward him, already bouncing off his head before he could react.

She could see it so clearly in her mind–the sharp flicker of awareness flashing across his face, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the briefest beat of delay before he turned toward her. His single eye, always watchful, always seeing too much, would land on her at last.

There would be no true surprise in his gaze, only that quiet, knowing amusement he always carried, that lingering intrigue that never quite left him when it came to her. He would not scowl–not truly–nor would he chid her–no, he would smirk, if not with his lips, then with his gaze alone, a gleam of something half-mocking, half-entertained. 

And if there had been no one else in the room, perhaps he would have picked it up and tossed it back. Perhaps he still would.

She exhaled, shaking the thought from her mind, dismissing it as she reached instead for the ruined parchment. Setting aside the ones the ink had bled through, she placed them neatly near the chair beside her, making room just as Edelin returned. 

The girl carried two steaming cups of tea, the rich, earthy scent of it curling through the air, grounding Daenera in the presence. Edelin set them down with quiet care, the porcelain clinking softly against the wood before she settled beside her with a small, pleased smile. 

Without hesitation, she turned her attention to the page in front of her, her fingers curling around the dry quill, bringing its point to the words, tracing over them. A learning habit, Daenera realized. The motion of following the letters an attempt to make her body remember them, as though committing their shape to touch, she would be able to write them at a later time without jumbling their order. 

Daenera turned her attention back to the blank sheet before her, forcing herself to block out the distractions around her. The shuffling of boots across stone, the scrape of drawers being opened and closed, the rustle of pages as books were shifted from their places–she ignored it all. Even Mertha’s sharp, shrill reprimands, snapping at the men to return everything to its proper place once their prying hands had finished disturbing it, became nothing more than background noise.

The midday sun poured through the high windows, its warmth spilling over her back, pressing against her skin like a heavy cloak. It should have been comforting, that steady heat, the way it wrapped around her like a blanket. But she barely noticed it now.

Instead, she reached for the quill, dipping it into the inkwell, watching as the tip darkened before she brought it to the parchment. The first few words came hesitantly, uncertain, and before she had even formed a full sentence, she was already reaching for a fresh sheet. Again and again, she wrote–each attempt falling short, each line either too impersonal, too forced, too hollow.

It took several discarded pages, ink bleeding across the table from her hurried scratches, before she finally settled on what needed to be said.

The letter toed the line between formality and something more personal. Not distant, but not too familiar. Careful. Measured.

It would not bring comfort. She knew that much.

But at the very least, it would be something.

The letter read:

To Lord and Lady Piper,

I write to you with a heavy heart and deepest regrets to inform you of the passing of your son, Patrick. 

There are no words in this world that can mend the wound left by the loss of a child, nor do I dare offer you empty comforts, knowing they would be unworthy of your grief.  It is a poor thing to learn of such sorrow through ink and parchment, a message carried by dark wings instead of spoken by the lips of one who knew him. And yet, it is all I can offer. 

Patrick was a boy of great heart and keen mind. He was kinder than most, and I cared for him as though he were my own blood. He did not deserve the cold isolation of a cell nor the sickness that crept upon him while he was there. I do not pretend that my words will change what was done, nor will I insult you by pretending what happened was just. He was imprisoned when he should not have been. That is the fault of the men who placed him there. And mine as well.

I blame myself for his fate, for not doing more, for not being able to save him. I did all within my power to protect him, to see him freed from that cell, to have him home in your arms where he belonged–but it was all for naught. I do not ask for your forgiveness–I do not deserve it.

When the illness took hold, I was there to hold his hand. I told him he would be going home. And in the end, I can only hope that he believed me. 

I wish I could give you something more, something to make this loss less cruel, less unbearable. But I have only this truth to offer you, and the promise that I will carry his memory with me, as I carry my own grief. 

May the gods grant you the strength to endure what they have taken from you.

Daenera Velaryon.

A shallow breath shuddered from Daenera’s lips as she leaned back, watching the ink dry on the parchment. She leaned back slightly, as if putting distance between herself and the words now sealed in ink. They now sat before her, each letter etched in careful, deliberate strokes. Yet they did nothing to ease the weight pressing against her ribs, the ache deep in her bones.

She blew softly over the parchment, coaxing the ink to dry, though she knew it was more out of habit than necessity. No amount of breath could lift the weight of the words she had written, nor could it undo the truth they carried–or ease the lie that kept it all together. Her gaze lingered on the letter, her fingers gripping the edges with just enough pressure to crease the parchment. 

Ink stained her hands, dark smudges trailing across her fingertips, smeared in uneven blotches along her palm. It had dried in places, turning her skin a mottled mess of black and gray, sinking into the fine lines of her palm. The sight of it stirred something uneasy in her–it looked too much like blood. 

Her jaw clenched, and she forced herself to blink the thought away.

She traced the edges of the parchment absently, the rough fibers pressing against the pads of her fingers as her gaze flickered over the lines once more, as if searching for something she had missed. A mistake. A word too cold. A sentiment too weak. But no–there was nothing more to add, nothing that could make it enough.

A thought crept in, unbidden.

Had her mother received one such letter?

Had she held a piece of parchment in shaking hands, inked with the confirmation of her son’s death? Had it carried some semblance of comfort, or had it only deepened the wound, made it real in a way that even grief had not yet managed?

She tried to imagine it—the moment the letter arrived at Dragonstone, the moment her mother’s fingers had broken the seal, the way her breath must have caught as her eyes traced over the words. Lord and Lady Piper. Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. Did it make a difference? Did the words soften the loss, or only sharpen its edge?

Was it ever a comfort?

Her fingers stilled against the parchment, her breath shallow, the ache in her chest pressing deeper.

No.

It never was.

“Edelin,” she murmured, turning slightly towards the girl at her side. Her voice was quiet, strained, as though the words caught against the tightness in her throat. “Take this to the prince.”

She held the letter out, fingers curling slightly as though reluctant to part with it. For all her certainty in her choice, a part of her still balked at the idea of handing it over–to let him be the first to read the words she had beld onto the page. 

Edelin nodded without hesitation, settling her quill down. Rising from her seat, she smoothed her skirts before stepping away, her movements quiet against the ruckus the room held. The soft rustle of fabric accompanied her as she brushed past Daenera’s chair, slipping away like a shadow towards the other end of the table. 

Daenera did not watch her go. She did not follow the letter’s small journey. Instead, she let her hands fall to her lap, curling and uncurling her ink-stained fingers as if she could shake loose the lingering weight of what she had written. 

But the stain remained.

And so did the ache. 

Aemond’s gaze lifted from the book, slow and deliberate, as though drawn from distant thought. The golden light streaming through the windows spilling over his features, casting sharp relief over the high cut of his cheekbones, the straight curve of his nose. It caught in the dark sweep of his lashes, making the silver flakes of his eye gleam as he lifted his gaze.

Edelin approached, extending the letter towards him. He took it without a word, his fingers brushing against the parchment, turning it slightly in his grasp before his eye began to move over the page.

Daenera did not turn to watch him directly, but she observed nonetheless–from the corner of her eye, from the shift in his posture, from the slight tightening at the corner of his lips as he read. He said nothing at first, only tilted his wrist slightly, as though weighing the letter, his mouth pursing.

Then, after a long pause, he handed the parchment back to Edelin with a quiet murmur, his voice low, measured.

“If you wish it sent, sign your name properly.”

A simple statement. A pointed one.

And though his tone remained smooth, unbothered, Daenera did not miss the meaning beneath it.

Frustration flared hot in her chest, her teeth grinding together as she shot Aemond a sharp glare. The audacity of his demand grated against her, and it did not help that he had made it with such maddening ease–voice soft, measure, but pointed. Across the table, he remained composed, watching without so much as a flicker of irritation, his patience sharpened by quiet amusement. 

Edelin hesitated beside her, shifting slightly before placing the letter back into her hands with a sheepish expression, as though she were a guilty child caught between warring parents.

Daenera snatched the parchment from her grasp, fingers tightening around the quill as she dipped it into ink, bringing it down with a sharp, deliberate stroke.

Velaryon–scratched out.

The ink bled into the fibers, a jagged line slashing through the name like a wound. Without pause, she wrote another in its place–Baratheon–deliberate, bold, unmissable beneath the old name. He wanted another name, then so be it. She’d give it to him. After all, had that not been her name too?

She felt a sharp flare of satisfaction at the name she had written, knowing well the sting it would carry. Her former husband’s house. A name that no longer belonged to her, but had been hers nonetheless.

She knew he would not accept it–of course, he wouldn’t. But that was never the point.

It was meant to needle him, to press against the edges of his control, to remind him–even now, even here–that she had been someone else's, and she did not yield so easily. A deliberate act of defiance, a small rebellion carved in ink, meant to test the boundaries he had set around her. 

It was childishly spiteful, she knew. A petty thing. But in that moment, she didn’t care. 

She did not look at Aemond as she thrust the letter back into Edelin’s hands, her irritation evident in the quickness of her movements. 

Edelin turned on her heels, practically flying back to Aemond’s side as though she were a raven sent across great distances, bearing news between warring houses. She presented the letter once more, and Daenera watched as Aemond’s gaze dropped immediately to the name she had chosen to sign. 

His eyes sharpened. 

His lashes fluttered ever so slightly as he glanced up at her, a slow, knowing shift of his gaze, before the corner of his lips curled–not in displeasure, but something far more infuriating. 

Unabated amusement.

He leaned back in his seat, the movement slow, deliberate, the very picture of unbothered ease. With little ceremony, he handed the letter back, his fingers releasing it effortlessly, as though the exchange was of no consequence to him–as though he had expected as much from her.

His gaze did not return to his book, nor did he so much as glance at the letter again. Instead, his eye remained fixed on her, watching, studying, waiting.

Daenera met his stare with a glare of her own, sharp and unwavering, though it only seemed to amuse him further. There was no irritation in his expression, no hint of frustration–only that quiet, infuriating amusement, lurking at the edges of his lips, flickering in the depths of his gaze.

As though he was enjoying this.

As though her defiance was not a thorn in his side, but something else entirely–something expected, something welcome.

The realization only made her grip tighten around the quill, her fingers aching with the force of it. She snatched the letter from Edelin’s hands, her movements sharp, unrestrained. The tip of the quill scraped against the parchment, the sharp sound slicing through the air as she pressed down, almost hard enough to tear through the delicate fibers of the page. Ink pooled at the tip, bleeding into the paper in thick, deliberate strokes, the force behind her writing betraying the anger simmering beneath her composed exterior.

She knew she should temper her hand, ease her grip–but she didn’t. She let the pressure build, let the sharp drag of the quill against the parchment carry the frustration she would not speak aloud. Let it show in the harshness of the lines, in the way the ink settled too dark, too heavy in places.

The tension in her fingers refused to abate, and for a fleeting moment, she almost wished the parchment would rip. At least then, it would be a tangible break, something to match the slow, grinding strain inside her.

She struck out Baratheon with a single, merciless slash, the ink bleeding into the fibers, dark and final. But she didn’t stop there.

Her grip on the quill tightened, her fingers aching from the pressure, but she barely noticed. The anger coiling in her chest, hot and unrelenting, demanded release, and so she let it spill onto the page in jagged, furious letters:

‘Daenera Strong, or so my stupid, long-faced, one-eyed prick of a husband likes to call me.’

Without pause, she shoved the letter back into Edelin’s hands, uncaring of the way the parchment wrinkled under her fingers, crumpling slightly as it was passed over once more. 

This time, when Aemond took it, the amusement in his gaze grew. 

His eye flicked over the words, his grip tightening just slightly at the edges of the parchment. The telltale shift of the corner of his lips, the slow inhale through his nose, the way his eye fluttered up to meet hers–smug.

Daenera watched him, the sharp curl of satisfaction twisting in her chest–until it soured.

Aemond, ever composed, merely handed the letter back once more, his movements slow, effortless, expectant. He had known she would do this. Had known she would try to needle him, to test the limits of his patience. And still, the outcome had been inevitable.

The only way to have the letter sent, to have it reach Patrick’s parents as she intended, was to obey.

Her pride bristled at the thought, a fresh sting of resentment flaring in her chest as Edelin returned to her side, wordlessly offering the letter back.

Daenera took it, unfolding the crumpled parchment with deliberate care, smoothing the creases between her fingers. The ink had bled slightly where she had pressed too hard, and she knew she would need to copy it onto a fresh page. A part of her burned with the urge to refuse entirely, to dig her heels in out of sheer defiance.

But her pride was not worth more than this letter.

And so, she gripped the quill with steady fingers and began again, each word carefully rewritten, each sentence weighed with the same deliberate precision as before. The slow, rhythmic scratch of ink against parchment filled the space between them, replacing the silence that had settled over the room like a thick, heavy fog.

When she reached the end, she did not hesitate.

She signed the letter, firm and unflinching:

Daenera Targaryen.

The name felt heavier than ink alone, final in a way she could not bring herself to dwell on.

Without another glance at the words, she sent it back to Aemond. Daenera’s gaze drifted toward him, drawn by something she could not quite name–resentment, perhaps, or the unwilling pull of inevitability.

She watched as Aemond read over the letter once more, his eye moving steadily across the page, his expression unreadable save for the faintest purse of his lips. But she saw it–the satisfaction lurking in the subtle pull at the corners of his mouth, a quiet triumph in the way he held himself.

When he lifted his gaze to meet hers, it was with a look of quiet acknowledgment, a brief but pointed glance that told her what she already knew: this was always how it was going to end. He gave her a single, curt nod–nothing more, nothing less–before turning his attention away, already moving on to matters of greater importance in his mind.

His gaze landed on Maester Gilbar and his young apprentice, who stood a few steps away, engaged in hushed conversation with the Lord Confessor.

“Maester,” Aemond called, his voice smooth but firm, effortlessly drawing their attention. He extended the letter toward him with the same effortless authority he wielded in all things. “See to it that this letter is sent immediately–and that the boy’s body is returned home to his parents.”

The aged maester blinked, his rheumy eyes flickering with brief hesitation before he inclined his head in acknowledgment. The chains around his neck swayed with the motion, the dull clink of metal filling the space between words. Without turning, he lifted a hand in a slow, deliberate gesture, beckoning his young apprentice forward.

The boy obeyed at once, scurrying through the room with hurried steps, weaving past the men still shifting through Daenera’s belongings. He reached the letter where Aemond had left it and plucked it up with careful fingers, clutching it as though it were something precious–hough, if the boy had any true understanding of its weight, he did not show it.

Returning to his maester’s side, the apprentice lingered, wide-eyed and eager, standing as still as a well-trained hound awaiting its next command.

The maester, for his part, barely acknowledged him.

He inclined his head once more, the movement stiff with age, offering a murmured farewell before turning on his heel.

The apprentice followed close behind, the letter tucked beneath his arm, his other hand grasping the small woven basket filled with dried herbs and tinctures–remnants of whatever search they had conducted through her chambers

Daenera did not look away.

Even as the weight of it left Aemond’s hands, even as the finality of it settled over the room, she kept her gaze on him, knowing–hating–that he had won this battle, small as it was.

Daenera swallowed, her throat tight, her emotions tangled in a bitter knot she could not untangle. She felt grateful–resentfully, unwillingly grateful–that Aemond had not only ordered the letter sent but had also ensured Patrick’s body would be returned home. It was the least that could be done, and yet the taste of that gratitude was sour on her tongue, thick with resentment.

She pushed back her chair abruptly, rising from her seat and abandoning the small ruin of failed attempts that littered the table–a mountain of crumpled parchment, discarded words that would never be read, ink-blotted sheets soaked with frustration, and the quill still dripping onto one of them, its black stain spreading outward like spilled blood.

As she stepped forward, she rubbed her stained fingers together absently, the ink smearing across her skin. She would have to scrub them clean later, but for now, she let it sit there, let it linger like something earned.

Aemond’s gaze lifted as she moved, his eye following her, tracking her without urgency.

There was something almost lazy about the way he watched her, his head tipping back against the chair, his body sinking deeper into its frame. He studied her through dark lashes, the way a cat might watch the shifting light as it basked in the sun–idle, observant, but never truly unaware.

She did not slow as she neared him.

Instead of stopping before him, she moved around his chair, stepping between him and the towering bookshelves behind him. She did not hesitate, did not break her stride, circling him with deliberate ease before coming to a halt at his side.

And then, without a word, without so much as a glance toward him, she reached down and swept the book from the table, stealing it from his grasp before he could react.

She did not want to read it.

She simply did not want him to.

The weight of the book settled in her hands, cool against her ink-stained fingers, and before he could protest, before he could even move, she turned on her heel and strode into the bedchamber, taking it with her.

[airconditionertm]

Aemond x daemon’s ward reader part 2

Summary: the ward of daemon Targaryen y/n is constantly wrapped up in his schemes but having to get aemond Targaryen to propose to her had to be the hardest

Word count: 2499

Read part 1

Y/n was once again eating breakfast with daemon. “Things have been going well aemond he escorted me back to my chambers yesterday and asked me to call him by his first name” she reported to the daemon. “ good well then everything is going to plan, “ he said placing down his goblet. “Do not forget the purpose of your marriage don’t get caught up in your feelings dear”.

——————————————

Y/n walked in the garden considering how to further wo Aemond when she suddenly overheard voices coming from one of the gazebos. “ you are so dramatic brother”,“ mother he cannot be allowed to continue like this stumbling drunk through the castle harassing lady’s “,” I’m not harassing anyone I don’t even remember what you’re talking about “,” yeah because you where too drunk to remember”, ”just because your a boring repressed fuck doesn’t mean everyone wants to live like you “. It was Aemond and Aegon arguing. “Boys there’s no need to fight so early in the morning” Alicent tried to scold them however Aemond started yelling in high valerian his brother only replied in Broken sentences. Y/n stayed standing on the path too scared to move and be discovered eavesdropping. But she suddenly heard footsteps. She tried to sneak away but Aemond saw her . “ what are you doing here “ he asked. “I was taking a walk in the garden I didn’t mean to hear I’m sorry Aemond, “ she said . “ it’s alright y/n,” he said. “Was the argument caused by what I told you yesterday?” she asked looking at the floor. “Yes but it’s not your fault he’s been behaving like this for a while it was just the straw that broke the camel’s back, “ he said gesturing for her to walk with him. “ I see I’m glad I don’t have siblings like him “ she replied he let out the smallest chuckle. “ certainly, “ he said. A silence fell over the two while they walked.

Y/n looked over the wall of the garden at the beach below stopping Aemond stopped with her. “ is that Vhagar “ she said pointing at the dragon flying over the sea. “Yes it is she’s probably hunting “ he explained. “ she’s waiting for a whale to surface right and then she pulls it out and eats it I remember seeing her do that on Dragonstone it’s impressive yet terrifying.” She asked leaning on the wall to look at Vhagar.” yes I suppose it is a little terrifying if you're not familiar would her,” he said looking out at the sea with her. “ I suppose so” They both look out at the sea for a while until Aemond speaks up.

“Can I ask you something which may be rude,” he asked. “Of course you can what is it” she replied looking over at him. “Daemon said you're here to find a husband but I have hardly seen you socialize with any men at court,” he asked.

Fuck y/n had not considered having to keep up the ruse that she was looking to marry any man but Aemond. “ if I’m honest I…” 7 hells why couldn’t she think of anything “ I’m not the most social, I find it hard to talk to people especially when the result of that interaction is anything as important as marriage “ she spoke rushed. “You speak to me and I’m considered less approachable than most” he retorted. “ well I already know you in a way Aemond from childhood and royal events even if we haven’t spoken much, it is also that you happen to be everywhere I go “ she replied rubbing her hands nervously. “I know I should socialize more but being hiding in the library and talking to you is far more enjoyable, I know if I don’t find a husband soon I might never find one “She looked at him trying to gauge his reaction. “You will find a husband you just need to talk to men” he replied matter of fact. y/n chuckled “What makes you so sure of that “ she asked him. “ you’re a noble lady with close ties to the royal family, you’re beautiful, you’re polite and kind and surprisingly smart and analytical any man would be lucky to marry you y/n ” he looked straight at her and back at the sea. “You are too kind ” she spoke moving closer to him and placing her hand above his which rested on the top of the wall. “ I am not too kind I am speaking the truth, “ he said.

" so this is where you have gone off.." the two instantly jumped apart at the sound of Alicents voice " To Aemond.. y/n?". " I should go " y/n

blurted out walking away. It was good for Alicent to see them together but it might be too early she wanted to talk with Alicent first before being caught together in a garden holding hands. For some that may not mean a lot but among the nobility, it was practically like being caught naked together on a roof. Oh no, would people gossip would they give her weird glances?

——————————-

Alicent had invited y/n to tea. She had spent a while choosing her dress and readying her hair. Though she likely knew what Alicent wanted to speak with her about, tea with the queen was never to be taken lightly. She waited outside the door to be let in.

” Come in sit with me “ Alicent commanded. Y/n sat down across from her. “ I want to know what I saw in the gardens yesterday “ she got right to the point. “ we met each other when he walked off from his argument with his brother. We walked together for a while until I spotted Vhagar above the sea and we stopped and started talking.” Y/n stated matter of fact. “Well you’re talking seemed quite intimate what did you talk about “ she asked. “ well first we spoke about Vhagar but later he asked me why I didn’t socialize with many men at court when I was trying to find a husband and we spoke about that and I started to get a bit distressed worrying about not finding a husband and he reassured me” Alice wasn’t convinced yet. “ you placed your hand atop his “ she said. “ I did yes“. “What are your intentions with Aemond you're supposed to be finding a husband at court yet you have been focusing on my son instead, “ she asked. “ in truth, I may have developed an infatuation with him at first I was simply curious to see the boy I knew grown up but then I discovered he is quite handsome all grow up I know it’s immature and inappropriate ” she tried to explain. “ so you only like his appearance than “ Alicent accuses her. “No no that’s the difficult part if it was just about his appearance it would be easy to get past if that was the case but he’s dedicated intelligent dutiful and he’s closed off in a way that makes you feel so special when he opens up to you “ y/n tried to seem as genuine as possible which wasn’t to difficult since all she was saying was technically true.

“So you truly care for him not his looks or his title “Alicent asked looking straight at y/n . “ yes I do Your Majesty “ y/n shifted in her seat. “ I do think that it is time for Aemond to find a wife I think it would be good for him but alliances are also important in royal marriage if he loves you and he comes to me I will not deny him but I will not help you “ she explains. “I understand Your Majesty “Y/n couldn’t help but smile a little at the queen's lack of disapproval it wasn’t quite an approval yet but it was close.

———————————-

“Your mother invited me to tea yesterday,” y/n said looking up from what she was reading. Aemond groaned “Yes she spoke with me too, about us holding hands in the garden it was…”. ”indeed it was strange she asked me what my intentions with you are” y/n replied. “ well what are your intentions with me y/n,” Aemond said smirking. “ genuine “ was all she said. “ my mother talked to me about marriage I’ve been trying to avoid that conversation I blame you, “ he said. ”well I’m sorry aemond, she spoke with me about marriage too, I felt like she was interrogating me“ y/n broke eye contact. “what did she say to you, “ Aemond asked. Y/n wasn’t sure if telling him might feel too forward but she knew she couldn’t avoid his questions. “She expressed her lack of disapproval if the two of us would marry…. I think it’s a bit of a dramatic reaction to people holding hands to start talking about marriage “.

“ it isn’t dramatic truly, we aren’t even officially courting technically we should not even be anywhere alone together and generally when a young man and lady interact it has something to do with marriage, also think my mother assumes something else may have happened,” Aemond explained looking more serious than before. “ I suppose we have not been following court procedures I don’t want to cause any scandal for you Aemond but I still enjoy spending time with you, “ y/n said. “ I suppose we could officially court to allow us to continue our time together “ Aemond at this point paid no more attention to his tomb.

“If we were to officially court would it be to simply continue spending time together or would it go towards a possibility of marriage I cannot court multiple men so officially courting you would not do well for my plans of finding any other husband ” y/n explained, of course, she didn’t care about courting other men but it was a good excuse to ask whether he would marry her. “as I’ve already said any man would be lucky to marry you, however, I am a prince so my marriage has to be considered more carefully, but what is more important is do you want to go towards that possibility, “ he asked reaching his hand across the table to meet hers. “ yes, “ she said quietly. “ why is it you wish to marry me is it my title, my house or do you feel you can not refuse me “ he rubbed her hand gently. “ I cannot say that your position has no part in the appeal however to speak truly I first started seeking you out because well .. you are quite handsome…. And then I grew to realize you are quite intelligent and we like similar things and I quite enjoy your company so I think you would be a suitable companion for me and maybe in a way it is also that by marrying you I would finally be officially part of the family I have spent my whole life with and this marriage does provide security for me and with a guardian like daemon security would be a nice change “ she looked at Aemond for reassurance he did not give her any. “I will discuss the topic with my mother I’ll tell you by tomorrow so you must not worry about it too long, “ Aemond said. Y/n already worried was she going too fast had she messed everything up bringing up her meeting with Alicent she hadn’t expected Aemond to start seriously talking about marriage. This was it she thought everything could fall apart all the research the planning and the scheming she never thought it could make her this anxious. She felt like her heart might explode.

————————————

She walked to Daemon's chambers knocking on his door. “ who is here so late “ he opened the door “Oh hello is everything alright “ he asked. “ I don’t know Aemond he started talking about the possibility of officially courting” she spoke breathlessly.” Isn’t that a good thing dear why don’t you come inside” daemon gestured inside the room and closed the doors. “ yes it would be good if he had decided then and there but he said he needs to speak with his mother about it and I don’t think Alicent likes me particularly much I mean at the tea she practically interrogated me, and it wasn’t supposed to happen this fast, god why did I have to bring it up I I I don’t even really get if he wants to marry me he said that any man would be lucky to but that’s a thing people just say right and he w-“daemon cut her of “ dear you need to calm down alright we won’t know until tomorrow even if this plan fails you know I always have a plan b alright “.

————————

Y/n awoke forgetting for just a second what she was so worried about the night before it was a beautiful second before it all came crashing down on her again.

——————

The day was almost over and Aemond hadn’t spoken to her yet she was sure this was it she had failed. She sat on her bed sketching something in her sketchbook. A sudden knock disturbed her “Who is it” she called out. “Aemond” shit she got up trying to fix her hair and smith her dress. ”Come in,” she said. Aemond stepped into the room “ I wasn’t able to find you I spoke with my mother “ he said standing at the door. “What did she say “ y/n asked trying not to sound too desperate for the answer. “She agreed that we might court,” he said. “ gods are why didn’t you just say that I was certain you were going to give me bad news” y/n looked at him. “My apologies y/n I didn’t mean to worry you”. He said. “ it is alright “Y/n replied taking his hands he recoiled a little at first but let her hold his hands. “We must announce that we are courting officially.” He said. “Yes, we must when should we do that “ y/n replied. “Where having dinner together my mother makes us at least once a week we can announce it then if you and daemon would join us ” he was silent for a moment “Does daemon approve “ he asked unsure. ” Yes he does I spoke with him about it,” y/n said. “ that surprises me in truth, he doesn’t seem particularly in favor of me ?“ Aemond questioned. “ I can be quite convincing Aemond “ y/n replied smirking hoping he bought that she convinced him.

[venusbyline]

i'll NEVER forgive HBO for not showing Aemond's kisses with the Baratheon girls.

probably i would be jealous as hell? ofc. but it would be sooooo fucking hot

THE HAND ON HER NECK-

THE HAND ON THE CAMION-

[xxnymeriatargaryenxx]

more aemond please!!!!

plz lmk your honest feedback and if you want more ! ✨

my fav p links for aemond 🐱🐱🐱🌊🌊💓

UNDER REVISION BC 2/4 links don’t work 🙄

riding him

soft prince regent aemond on his wedding night

his favourite view

pulling your hair in doggy (gently💖)

[hotdaesthetic]

Aemond Targaryen aesthetic

Aemond is a complex and contradictory personality. He is ambitious, intelligent and has a strong character. However, years of rivalry and injustice have, in his opinion, hardened his heart. He is a born warrior, fearless and determined. His childhood was spent in the shadow of his older brother Aegon and half-sister Rhaenyra, which created in him a sense of jealousy and a desire to prove his importance.

He is a colorful character that combines cruelty, ambition, and tragedy.

Please subscribe to my Instagram: @yourmouseae

[ladydreamfyyreee]

𝐀𝐥𝐲𝐬 & 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝’𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐬 𝐈𝐈, 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐬, 𝐃𝐚𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐚, 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐚, 𝐀𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐲𝐚, 𝐌𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐫, & 𝐑𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐧𝐚’𝐬 𝟔 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 : ( @𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲𝐭𝐨𝐦𝟎𝟕𝟏𝟐 )

[babyblue711]

Stfu they look like the same glasses. He brought his own props?! 🤣🤣😍

Another one thank you

[hauntedfictionland]

You're serving cunt? There's a war going on and you're serving cunt?

Gif: @hoosbandewan, @peachysunrize

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

alicent, aemond and helaena in the season finale.

credits for this art drawing to @paiges_of_art

[dolicekiss]

Apple Of Their Eye

part two here

PAIRING: Dark! Aegon Targaryen X sister!reader X Dark!Aemond Targaryen

CONTENT WARNING: smut (18+, mdni) incestuous relationship, dark!targaryen brothers, innocent virgin!reader, dubcon, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex, handjob, riding, breeding, threesome, kissing, possessive behaviour, nipple play, throat fucking, drunk reader, praise, pretty much the targaryen brothers giving their sister sex lessons and claiming her as theirs.

SYNOPSIS: Being close to both your Targaryen brothers had its own perks. Drinking wine together, going horse riding and reading books. It was all a dream but when Aegon heard the talk of your betrothal, he decided it was finally time to taint you. What you didn’t expect was Aemond walking in on you indulging in your older brother’s sickly pleasures.

Giggles erupted from your lips when your sweet brother, Aegon made a weird face to encourage sweet giggles out of you. His favorite sound in the world, as he liked to address it. Your bond with both your brothers was something never seen before among house Targaryen. Fiercely loyal to each other, defensive and protective. You were the perfect trio of destruction — well, with a honeyed touch of peace.

That was your vital role.

To calm down the blood of the dragons.

You had grown so attached to one another that both your brothers denied the responsibilities of the throne, wishing to spend time with you.

You had to convince Aegon to sit upon the throne and he agreed in one go when his little sister asked for it. How could he not? You were looking up at him with such hopeful, glimmering eyes, those long lashes of yours coating the apple of your cheeks.

He often wondered if his bridled desires would break out of control one moon and find way to you?

Aemond entered the room, hand resting atop his sword as he analyzed the room, which was in shambles. You and Aegon again had enjoyed a pillow fight — pieces of feathers and cotton everywhere in the room. Pale sheets on the floor and wine spilled everywhere.

He was the youngest, yet he felt as though he was the oldest amongst you three. You and Aegon behaved like little children, even when you were younglings. Aegon and you would disturb the council members and pull hilarious pranks on them meanwhile Aemond paid them no mind.

“You two.” His voice put a hold to your giggles, your attention diverting to your brother. Your silky strands — similar to Aemond’s — were a mess. They reached your hips, only at such a young age and Aemond couldn't keep his one eye off the loose strap of your dress over your creamy shoulder.

Aegon smirked to himself, knowing well him and his brother shared their feelings about you.

You smiled at Aemond, a big grin of excitement adorning your soft, delicate features. “Aemond! Come here, have wine with us.”

He shook his head. “I have duties to tend to, sister. You carry on.”

Your lips formed a frown. “But Aemond, I miss you. You rarely ever spend time with Aegon and I. Do we bore you now, do you seek fun in planning war and those boring councils?”

Aegon nodded in agreement and Aemond shook his head, walking closer and taking a seat on the bed with you. Aegon had his head on your lap, staring at you with love sick eyes of a puppy. Your flushed state and rosette cheeks were a vision for Aemond — his callous hands aching to touch you.

“Aemond how can you neglect our beautiful sister here?” Aegon taunted, reaching out to wrap a finger around a strand of your silver hair and curl it. You smiled at him, cheeks round and Aemond swallowed. “I am not neglecting her, I am merely occupied with tending to my duties since no one else will.”

He diverted his one eye to Aegon and the older brother groaned, tugging on the single strand of your hair. You whimpered at the pain, lips puckering into a pout. “Aegon, stop it.”

“You shouldn't trust Aegon so much, sweet sister. He is all but a twat,” Aemond’s words made you turn to him and he looked away from you, not wanting his gaze to linger somewhere below where he was allowed. His own reluctance at being around you proved that he too struggled with the same demons his older brother did.

Aegon sat up now, eyes boring into Aemond’s. “And why shouldn't she? I pay her more mind, more attention than you ever would.”

“I trust him, brother. You should too, he's our king and he cares for me.” You softly spoke.

Your soft soothing voice was like the sun against their cold words. Aemond pondered late at night how their monstrous house got blessed with such a sweet little thing? Repentance was not something that came to house Targaryen — so why were they bestowed with you?

Your kindness, to the maids — the highborn ladies and even the members of the small council made you quite the perfect candidate for queen, especially when the realm loved and adored you. The sweet daughter of Viserys Targaryen, left behind to bring prosperity and love.

“Yeah, she trusts me.” Aegon said, scooting behind you. His chin nestled over the small cup of your shoulder, staring straight ahead with mischief in his gaze. “Don't you, sweet sister?”

You nodded, coyly.

He was almost taunting Aemond, being able to stay this close to you while he was busy with preparing for war. It was not fair, definitely to Aemond it was not. He inhaled a sharp breath as Aegon buried his face in the crook of your neck, accidentally pressing a kiss to your exposed skin. Your body shuddered and you quickly pulled away from him, staring at him in confusion.

Aemond felt a lump form in his throat.

Fuck, you were so innocent. Oblivious to the sick desires of both your brothers.

“Be careful, sister.” Aemond said to you, gesturing towards the other Targaryen brother. “You're too innocent for your own good.”

Then he got up, parting from your chambers, hoping that the next time he enters, he finds you all alone and not with that foolish brother of his. He did not harbor resentment towards Aegon necessarily, but ever since they were children, they fought. For a dragon, for toys and for your attention. It had been a constant battle of who'd bring you the prettiest flower first, who would be first to dance with you at feasts, who's horse you'd sit on and ride.

For everyone else it was draining but you relished the attention you got from your brothers. Enjoying each and every bit of the fight going on for you — only you didn't knew it went beyond the walls of brotherly love and they were horrifyingly obsessed with you.

Aemond had turned down every marriage alliance, not interested in securing the future of the realm if it came at the expense of being far from you. A woman would only act as a wall between the two of you and Aemond did not want any walls. He would gladly crush them, with or without the help of Vhagar.

You prepared another cup of wine to drink but Aegon was called to the council — arranged by the dowager Queen. Crestfallen, you let your brother go as he fixed his attire and departed from your chambers, after leaving a sweet kiss on your forehead.

As soon as Aegon entered the council room, he's greeted with everyone there. Each member and with a scowl on his face, he takes his seat. Evidently upset by having to leave his sister, even though he could go back to her at anytime.

“Your Grace.” Everyone greeted him, standing up and heads low. Aegon gestured them to sit and they obliged, following into their comfortable seats.

Alicent looked at the council members, knowing that the discussion they had come to would eventually upset the King. Everyone was hesitant and Aegon noticed that. He raised a brow, confused. “Are we here to stare at one another? If we are, do excuse me. I have pressing matters to attend to.”

Everyone knew pressing matters meant giving his undivided attention to his little sister.

“In order to secure house frey and gain access and control to the passage in riverrun, we think it would be best to form a marriage alliance with them.” Alicent’s words didn't actually hit Aegon how they were supposed to, as he grinned. “We cannot offer a dragon, we can offer a dragon.”

Assuming the marriage alliance was for Aemond, his younger brother not his little sister. “Great, it is about time Aemond finds himself a pretty bird too.”

He was cheerful. If Aemond was married, he would have your attention all to himself and he became overjoyed with that, a little too fast. Alicent swallowed, exchanging glances with the master of coin and the maester. Her hesitance was in existence because she did not know how maturely her son would handle to the news of sending his only sister away from him.

“Your Grace, the marriage alliance is for your sister, the Princess. House frey has suitors available and the Princess gets to choose with whom she wishes to ma—”

Aegon’s palms slammed down against the wooden table, rising up from the table. His gaze searing and his lips quivering from the sheer courage of Tyland Lannister’s, to marry his sister off without even inquiring him about it. The fact that they even thought of doing that filled him with a rage so overwhelming, he felt like burning the whole small council to the ground.

“That is my sister you're speaking of.” He reminded them. “I will have your fucking tongue for even suggesting to get her married off in the first place.”

The whole council flinched at the King’s outburst. Alicent had expected it to be a tantrum but this was more than a childish tantrum. The room was elevated with tension as Aegon panted, his body quivering from the rage coursing through his veins.

Alicent took a deep breath. “It is for the best, my King. You need to win this war and the Freys are demanding a dragon which we cannot provide.”

“So you give them my sister, like some fucking piece of coin?” He snapped, turning to her. “She is the princess of house Targaryen, my sister. I will not have you subject her to the same fate as all the other women.”

Aegon dismissed the council, walking out of there. Alicent sighed, holding onto tethered pieces of hope that maybe talking to Aemond about it would be better, since Aegon did consider him his closest blood and best sword. Little did she know she would be riling up another dragon and awakening it.

The next few hours were unbearable for Aegon. He had visited your chambers but you were nowhere to be found and when he asked your maids, he was told you'd gone out to collect flowers for the vase in your room. Countless times both your brothers had told you to either tell them or command the servants to bring you flowers — still you did what you felt.

Upon your return, you found your chambers not deserted. Aegon was there, situated on your bed. Hair a mess, tunic unbuttoned revealing his pale chest. Your brother was disheveled and you couldn't recall the time you two spent together being the cause of this.

So what had happened?

Worried and upset, you dropped the basket filled with flowers by the side of your door and walked over to him. Your purple dress, a match to your purple eyes, flowing behind like the waves of the sea. You sat next to your brother, small hands reaching out to cup his face in them.

“Brother, is everything alright? You seem upset.” You inquired and when Aegon raised his head, you saw just how devasted he appeared.

Devasted and drunk.

Your eyes noticed the cup in his hand, as well as the pitcher on the floor. Something happened at the small council, that much you figured out. But what had happened, now that was for Aegon to tell you.

Though your brother only stared at you, bringing the cup to your lips. “Drink, for me.”

You were in no mood for wine but you still obliged him, parting your lips and consuming the wine. The crimson tainting your lips red as you swallowed it, gulp after gulp. Even for you that was a lot and when you were finished, Aegon refilled the empty cup.

“Drink more.” It was a command.

You frowned. “Did I do something wrong, brother? Is this your way of reprimanding me?”

He stared at you, eyes droopy and full of glimmering lust for you — unbeknownst to you. “I want us to be drunk together, like old times. Please.”

You heard the plea in his voice and nodded, softening at the disheveled state your brother was in. You parted your lips to take sips as Aegon held the cup for you. He pushed it, more and more until the wine had overwhelmed you and drops spilled over your dress, trailing down your chin.

The red had absorbed into the purple but you finished your glass, staring at Aegon after the glass had been tore from your lips.

Aegon moved further into your soft bed, veiled by pellucid pale curtain and you followed, laying next to him. His head found comfort on your chest, a frown so evidently ceasing his features. Confusion had clouded your senses — hoping that your brother might tell you the cause of his distress.

But all he did was lay silently on your chest, feeling the soft plush of your breasts against his cheek.

Aegon swallowed the urge to press his mouth over your pebbles and suck them, burying his face deeper into your breasts. He was a mess and he knew that his mother would go against him, to secure more power and alliances with the other lords.

He could not let it happen.

He mouthed lazily at the chiffon, attempting to take a nipple of yours into his mouth. The purple fabric absorbed the saturation of his saliva, as your brother crossed all the limits between the two of you.

As if there were any to begin with.

“A-Aegon, what are you doing?” You whispered in a breathy gasp when he sucked on your peaked nipple through the cotton, his other hand moving to provide your other breast with attention.

Your back arched slightly and your breath quickened as your brother’s hands moved down to the laces which held your dress together. As drunk as you were, you still knew this was wrong yet had no control whatsoever of the situation. Once your laces were loosened enough, Aegon tugged at the sleeve of your dress and unveiled your breast.

“Brother, this is inappropriate. You're under the influence of wine, we should not—”

Aegon looked up at you with the softest look on his face, akin to a puppy. He switched his attention to the unattended breast of yours which he had uncovered, suckling on the nipple, fingers rolling the soaked one in between them. Your soft lips were parted and made the prettiest little sounds of pleasure foreign to you.

“I'm your brother, sister. If I don't deserve to have you like this when who does? Those fucking house frey suitors?” He snapped, voice fallen to a few octaves. Your breath hitched in your throat at his words, not being able to understand what he was insinuating with his words.

Your brows scrunched and your crinkles formed on your nose. “H-House frey, Aegon?”

He chose silence.

Aegon moved to lean up against the bed, his unbuttoned tunic revealing his bare chest beneath his small clothes. You watched him, your silver hair a mess — cascading beautifully down your shoulders and narrow back. Aegon patted his lap, a silent order for you to sit on it but you could only blink innocently.

Having no regards of such matters.

“Crawl to me, sister.”

You nodded, as puzzled as you were, slithering to settle yourself over your brother's lap. Both hands on his chest as your thighs sat over each side of his waist, looking down at him. This was all new to you but you were not complaining.

His hand extended to grasp your chin, pulling your face closer to him. He could see everything, all the subtle features which made you all the more beautiful. The mole neath your left eye, the way your pupils enlarged whenever you locked eyes with him, how your pretty lips quivered. “Today I will teach you how to make your brothers the happiest. You wish to learn, don't you sister?”

You eagerly nodded.

Aegon grinned. “Kiss me, my little dove.”

You obliged, pressing a kiss to his cheek and Aegon released a chuckle. In complete awe of the naivety you possessed. “Here, sister. This will make me and Aemond the happiest.”

You were hesitant with it but still leaned your head, pressing a subtle, feather light kiss to Aegon’s lips. His hunger was far from satiated as he stared at you with a hooded gaze, his blood heating up at the feel of your lips against his. He was over the moon with only a peck, he could only imagine the power of a proper liplock.

“Did I do good? Was that okay, brother?”

Aegon shook his head. “No, little dove. You have to do more, kiss more of my lips. Try to suck on them, yeah?”

You puffed out your cheeks, irritated at your own incompetence at making your brother happy. Still, you kissed him once more but this time like a baby bird trying to eat it's food with untrained beaks, you tried to suck on Aegon’s lips. Closing them around his upper lip, your saliva glossing his lips. Aegon’s cock stirred awake in his breeches at how inexperienced you truly were. An innocent girl getting ruined by her brother.

You closed your eyes, focusing at the task at hand. Aegon reached for your nape, locking it in place as he finally kissed you back. Soft kiss of yours evolved into something harsher, something more passionate and you whimpered, your endeavor to retreat declined by your brother. Your small hands nestled over his chest — trying to push him but it only strengthened the kiss, Aegon trying to drown in the sweet nectar.

“Open your mouth, little dove.” Your endeavor to speak was mistaken as consent by your brother, his tongue running over the edge of your perfect teeth — making way to your tongue. He wrapped around the wet muscle and began to suck on it, the saliva dripping from your mouth and slipping into his. Light headed you had become due to the vigorous kiss and how your brother dominated your mouth with his tongue.

Aegon soon broke the kiss and allowed you a few moments of air, staring at how swollen your lips had become. He had tasted you and it only fuelled his desire more for you. To claim you and never let anyone else's sight fall upon you. Heart fluttering at being the first man ever to put his cock inside you.

“This is what good sisters do for their brothers.” He said to you, his hands rested on your thighs and thumbs swiping across the pale skin. “You're such a good girl, my Princess. You'd do anything for your King, won't you?”

You nodded your head impatiently, doe eyes looking into your brother's purple ones. Chest falling and rising, sharp intakes of breath breaking through the silence. Aegon smiled and that was the biggest achievement for you, ever. He lifted one hand from your thigh, taking your small hand into his. Aegon loved how your petite hand disappeared into his — a perfect size you were for him.

He wondered in that very moment how you'd look taking Aemond’s cock into your small mouth, considering he was bigger than the both of you. Taller, toned from the constant training of wielding a sword. The thought of both of them taking you at once riled him up like nothing else.

Aegon brought your hand to his crotch, laying it over it. Your coy eyes widened. “B-Brother.”

“Unlace my trousers, sister.” Albeit it was an order, his tone was soft. You had never seen such a dark look in your sweet brother's eyes, violets always glimmering with excitement and happiness.

You were hesitant at first, reluctance dripping from the way your shivering fingers pulled at the soft laces which tightened his trousers. Aegon watched with a curious gaze, knowing very well he was about to defile his little sister and ruin the innocence she so wholeheartedly showcased. It almost made him sad but this was necessary, to wed you to him. Or even Aemond.

He couldn't care less who you married as long as it was one of them.

With bated breath, you loosened his trousers and then looked at him for further instructions.

“Pull out my cock, sister. You should feel something hard, that is my cock.” Your silver lashes fluttered, fingers getting to work. The second you felt something hard, skin but rigid — you grasped it to free it. Aegon hissed upon your cold touch and you retreated, feeling bad.

He was quick to reach for you. “No, no. Do not worry, for I am fine. You shall continue.”

So you did, given the reassurance, your gaze focusing on the unclothed cock of your sweet brother. Aegon reached for your hand and wrapped it around his own cock with your neath it. “I need you to move your hand, sister. Pursue my actions, this will truly please me.”

Aegon began to move his hand in slow, sensual strokes and you followed. The more you touched him, the more he lost his composure. Little sounds falling from his parted lips and his hand fell to the side over his thigh — letting you take the lead. You picked up your pace, hand undulating over his throbbing length.

Palm stained with his precum, you used it to slick his twitching cock and then moved your fingers up. A shuddered gasp of fulfillment slipping from Aegon’s mouth upon that accident. You smiled, in victory and pressed the pad of your thumb deeper into his little hole. Watching as more of the pale liquid spurted out.

The more you stared at it, the prettier you found it — shade darker than the rest of him and cock head the same pink as his agape lips. Varicose veins, a deeper hue of purple than the ones of your irises embedded in neath the flesh.

Eyes sparkling at the thought of touching Aemond in the same way, getting to see such an intimate part of him. You wished he was here, to be able to do this for him would be a great blessing.

Your mouth watered the more you gazed at your brother's glistening cock head. Without paying much mind to it, you leaned lower and closed your lips around it. Aegon’s eyes immediately snapped open when he felt the warmth your mouth provided and stared down at you.

“Oh, Gods.” He groaned, almost a whine. “Who taught you this, my sister? Have you engaged in such acts before?”

You quickly backed away, shaking your head with a guilt ridden face. “No, Aegon. I am so very sorry if this was something I was not supposed to do. I promise I have never done this before, I promise. I swea—”

“Hey,” Aegon whispered, caressing your face with his large hand. “I believe you. You see I do not wish for you to get involved like this with someone else. It is only right if you do it with me, and Aemond.”

You nodded your head understandingly. “I would love for you to continue, my little dove but right now I need something more. Could you give it to me, my sweet girl?”

“Yes, brother. Anything my King wants.” You smiled, lips shimmering with his residual and Aegon’s cock twitched.

He pulled you on his lap once more, hands on your waist. Then the pair dropped lower to your bare thighs and Aegon bunched up your dress, revealing your unclothed, bare pink cunt. You were never too fond of wearing small clothes under your dresses — summer of Westeros unbearable for a delicate thing like you.

He licked his lips deliciously.

“Just as you touched me, I have the full right to touch you too. You understand?” You nodded like an obedient student, stomach churning in anticipation for your brother's next move.

Aegon pulled you closer rather harshly by your thighs and your shoulders went slumped, feeling his head brush against your pearl. Your eyes widening at the electrifying contact. “I need to do this in order to make my cock fit inside you, so be a good girl and let me, okay?”

“Yes, brother.” You whispered, stomach fluttering in anticipation.

Aegon’s fingers moved to your cunt, running in the center of your soaked folds. He found it amusing how you had no idea of the pleasures taken between a man and a woman yet your body had reacted like this, cunt drenched and wet. He knew your maidenhead was still intact, after all he rarely ever let you be in the presence of someone else.

If Aegon was occupied, it would be Aemond who would linger around you like a new born shadow.

They knew how innocent you were, how fucking naive and monsters lurked in the red keep. You needed their protection more than the people of the realm. Careless they were about the iron throne, Aegon wished to fuck you on it before properly ascending it.

“Oh.” Your eyes slightly rolled back at the way your brother caressed your folds, pinching your pink pearl. “You've got such a beautiful cunt, my sister. I am sure you will put it to good use to make your brothers happy, won't you, little dove?”

Eager you were to please them.

They had brought you everything, anything your heart had ever desired. Allowed you to ride their dragons with them, brought you the most beautiful gifts from the north and drowned you in lannister gold. Both brothers even went as far as getting you jewelry from Dorne since Aemond caught you complimenting a dornish necklace.

Aemon’s thumb prodded at your bud, swirling it around, watching how your face contorted in pleasure. Lids fluttering shut and head thrown back, fingernails digging into your brother's chest. You were a fucking sight, all disheveled. With his other hand, he entered a finger into you and your pleasure-clad face evolved into one of pain.

“Ow,” you complained at the sting of being stretched out. “Aegon, that hurts.”

“I know, my Princess but you mustn't rush. I will bring you pleasure soon, it is a promise.”

You believed him, waiting out the sting as Aegon fully sunk his finger into you. Driving it in and out of you, all the while rubbing your swollen attention seeking bud. Your expressions were the prettiest, the most breathtaking and he questioned himself why did he not do this earlier?

Just what was stopping him back?

He was the fucking King, goddamnit. He could have you whenever he wanted and you would give yourself up to him, everytime. Just like right now how you were serving yourself up to him on a silver platter like those animals during feasts.

“Brother, oh my god. This feels weird, I feel weird.” You whimpered, hips moving on their own accord over your brother's fingers and Aegon licked his lips, furthermore sinking his canines into his lower lip.

Aegon added another without warning and you whined out, a loud one which made him reach over and press his palm over your lips, sealing them shut. “As much as I absolutely adore your sounds, we should not let anyone find out.”

You nodded, and Aegon removed his hand, letting you breathe. You decided to keep it blow but everytime Aegon would move his finger inside you and you would feel it run at your gummy unclaimed walls, little whimpers would escape you. Feeling his fingers curve up and rotate, hitting into a spongy spot of which’s existence you too were unaware of, you cried out.

Aegon smiled.

That was enough preparing.

Aegon pulled out and you gasped when he brought his lips to his mouth, sucking on your sweet arousal.

He wanted to take you on your back but that was how he took his whores. He would never let them sit on top of his thighs and look at him like this — all dolled up yet disheveled. You were his sister, the apple of his fucking eye and Aegon was not going to take you like some whores.

They existed to keep his sick desires for you at bay, but he knew after this, he would not be needing them anymore.

“This is going to hurt, sister but worry not, I assure you I am right here. It shall feel better soon, just like with my fingers.” His comforting words and soft tone helped with your trepidation — allowing your brother to raise your hips and align his cock with your drenched hole.

Aegon allowed you to sink down on him and when his head breached your entrance, a sting worse than before spread like a virus, consuming your whole being. Your eyes welled up with tears and your lips quivered, a brusque tremor awakening in your petite hands. He was quick to come to your rescue, holding both your hands and leading the pair to his nape, making you latch onto him for support.

“Here, hold me. As tight as you can, my little dove and carefully slide down. Be careful and gentle, alright? No rush here.” He continuously comforted, guiding you and you nodded, inhaling a deep and brief breath.

Then you sunk more, his girth expanding your hole. Little movement and reassuring words from your brother helped you take the entirety of his cock and when your ass finally met his thighs, Aegon groaned. You felt his cock twitch inside you and your hold around his nape tightened. The pain was throbbing and hot — consuming your whole being but the fact you were so full with your brother's cock, contempt, you let out a drunk giggle.

Short on breath but still, you smiled at Aegon.

While you two descended deeper into forbidden pleasures, Aemond had gotten free time to come see you.

After intense sword training and back and forth of sharing strategies of the war with Ser Criston Cole, Aemond had found his feet switching route — bringing you to the hallway where your chambers were located. As he walked, with each step, he felt extreme excitement build up in his stomach. Finally having enough time to spare you a visit and get drunk, bask in your presence.

He hoped that Aegon would not be there as he wanted you all to himself, especially for tonight.

Upon opening the door to your chambers, the view before him left him astonished and there were rarely many things that left Aemond Targaryen astonished. He was quick to close the doors, not wishing for anyone to come across the Princess’ bed chambers and witness such sin.

His hands formed into fists — how you sat on top of Aegon, hips oscillating in a sensual manner. Too sensual for someone as innocent as you and he knew Aegon had managed to ruin and defile the only pure thing about house Targaryen. Yet fucking again. You two were so indulged and far gone in your pleasures that Aemond’s presence was barely noticed.

But then Aegon caught his brother's tall figure by the door.

“Oh brother, welcome.” He called out, although it was more of a moan and you turned to look at Aemond.

Your cunt tightened at Aegon when gaze laid over your brother, the one you missed the most since he barely had time to spare. Aegon let out a hoarse chuckle, shaking his head at his brother. “You will not fucking believe it but our sister's cunt became more tight upon seeing you.”

Aemond’s teeth gritted. “Mittys, that is our sister.” (Fool)

“Do not pretend as if you have not wished to do this more than I have.” He voiced it out, hand pressing into your waist. You whimpered as Aegon made you move on his cock and by now the pain had subsided, pleasure coming in to take control. You began to roll your hips over his thighs, eyes locked with Aemond.

You needed him too, your eyes screamed for him to come closer and as if you had telepathically communicated, Aemond sauntered towards the bed.

You whined when Aegon pushed his hips up, breaching furthermore of your cunt. “Aemond.”

Aegon was inside you but you were moaning for Aemond and the older brother did not even find it upsetting. Rather his cock hardened even more — if possible, hearing you whine and ache for your younger brother with such need. He did not mind sharing you with Aemond, as long as he could have his fill of you too.

“A-Aegon said I could make you both happier like this. I want to, I love you. You're my brothers.” You expressed your profound love for them, nodding your head as Aemond slipped of his leather gloves. He tossed them aside and reached for your hair, taking a strand and curling it around his finger. His nose catching a whiff of the perfumes and oils you were basking in, yet the natural scent of roses was enough to drive him fucking crazy.

He leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to your bare shoulder. Eye following the stretch mark trailing down to your breasts and the stretched flesh made him realize that you had grown. You were not a little girl anymore but you were still their little sister. Your rosy nipples were peaked — demanding attention and Aemond hissed.

His own cock bulging against his leather slacks and Aegon saw it.

Aegon moved inside you, thrusting up and you lost composure. Lips breaking apart to let out the most feminine sounds, silver strands glued on a perspired forehead as Aemond watched you bounce on his brother's cock with vigor. Your fingernails had dug into Aegon’s nape and tears sat beautifully like pearls in your waterline.

It was evident that you were sensitive, nothing like the common whores.

“Does she not look fucking beautiful, bouncing on her big brother's cock like that?”

Aemond wanted to punch Aegon but he was not wrong. You did look celestial, out of this world with how you bounced up and down on his cock, trying to desperately please him.

Aegon rolled his eyes at Aemond. “Are you only going to just watch? I have taught her things, with her hand and mouth. Be a dear and show him, sister.”

Like a trained puppy, you were quick to oblige, hands extended to work gracefully over Aemond’s leather slacks. You undid them, pulling at the leather and he watched how eager and desperate you were. Hands moving with a significant tremor.

“Aemond,” he raised his eye from your hands to your face. “may I please have you in my mouth?”

If the offer had crawled to him on its fucking fours with the most precious doe eyes, who was he to deny? He, too was a man at the end and had perpetually craved you the same as Aegon. Only he was subtle with his desires.

“Yes, my sweet sister.” Aemond whispered, staring at you. His consent made you flourish like the moonlight, bright and glowing right in his face.

Aegon decided it would be better to switch positions and he pulled out, bringing you on all your fours and giving space to Aemond against the bed headboard. He shifted, sprawled out before you, leather slacks and small clothes long gone. In the process, Aegon had stripped himself bare too but the brothers wanted you to not remove the dress.

Just how easily they had access to you despite the dress, it enticed them.

With Aemond’s cock in your hand, you came to a conclusion that his was the prettiest. It was longer than Aegon’s but had almost the same girth. Protruding veins embedded inside the pale skin, his balls hot and throbbing with an ache. You looked up at him and smiled and all Aemond could do was return it and fucking melt.

“Aemond, remove your eye patch. I want to see you whole.” You voiced out your desires and he reached for the eye patch, sliding it off and tossing it aside. The sapphire sparkled like crazy in his eye and you had always found it to be the most coolest and breathtaking thing about Aemond.

Having less of a part than the others did not make him less human too.

Though he appeared more like a god. The fire from the fireplace casting a soft golden glow over both brothers, leaving them heated with pent up desires.

Aegon had already pummeled his cock back into you, not after witnessing the blood staining his length. Testament of your chasity staining him fully and his wanton for you only grew more. You pressed a little kiss to Aemond’s tip — watching him with your deer like purple eyes and he hissed, hand moving to interview with your silver strands.

Eventually you wrapped your lips around his head, slowly taking him deeper and deeper into your mouth while using your hand to stroke the rest which failed to fit. All while Aegon drove himself deeper inside your sweet, innocent cunt, drawing pathetic little whines out of you.

Aemond groaned, fingers tightening around your roots when the vibrations from your moans sent waves of electricity straight into his loins. You choked when he breached your throat, sputtering around him. Drool and cum glistening around your mouth. Your younger brother sighed pleasure, primary focus of his one eye.

“Messy little girl,” he taunted, the fluids dripping from your chin.

Aegon nestled his cock over and over into your sweet spot, urging you to reach your peak and unravel. “L-Look at her. So fucking obedient and pliant. I want to watch her stomach swell up with my babe. That way mother won't try to marry her off to someone else, some fucking riverrun lord.”

Aemond’s attention snapped to his brother's words, and Aegon only nodded. Letting him know that they were close to losing their sister but not anymore. The sweet dove was tainted, used and claimed. Even if their mother tried to marry her off, she was already tainted by her brothers and no lord would want her. That pleased both Aemond and Aegon.

“Gods, what a blessing you are.” Aemond praised you, highly, palm pressing deeper on your head, encouraging you to take him deeper and you did. His head sliding into the confines of your tight, wet throat. “Perfect little girl, a cocksleeve.”

With each thrust from Aegon, your body moved forward against Aemond’s. A sweaty mess of pleasure and bodied you three were but that did not matter. Aegon felt his peak near, tethering onto it and soon he finished inside you after delivering harsh, potent stutters of hips into you. Your cunt tightened, sucking him in, like a vice.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned. “Like that, little dove, take me in, all of me. Milk me fucking dry, let me breed you so you carry my silver haired children.”

Aemond didn't mind his brother having you first and defiling you, since he pretty sure had your throat first. You were theirs and that's all that mattered. Gagging sounds reverberated in the room along with strong sounds of skin slapping against skin. Your peak danced around too, and when Aemond fucked his cock harshly into your throat, you squeezed around Aegon’s cock and came all over. Tears splurging out, making a mess on your face.

Your whole body twitching from the intense climax. Thighs shaking and sensitivity heightened. Followed by your release, Aemond pursued. Release spurts of white into your mouth, spending fully inside you. Yet he did not unhand you, holding your head in place to fuck his hot load into your mouth.

Once he was done, he pulled out and grasped your chin, peeking inside. “Swallow it whole, Princess.”

And you did. Gulping down the remnants of his spend.

Your head, tired from being in one position, laid right on Aemond’s bare thigh. Aegon was still inside you and when he pulled out, he saw your gaping hole spurt out his white residual. Parts that failed to reach your womb but it did not matter. He would breed you over and over again until you were to end up with his child.

Or Aemond’s.

As long as it was a silver haired babe.

“A-Are you happy now?” You asked, a question for both of your brothers and Aemond nodded his head, running his slim fingers in your hair.

Aegon crawled upto you, laying next to Aemond. A subtle smile playing at his lips, eyes hooded and body weary from all the hard work. “Very happy, little dove. We could not have asked for a better sister.”

Your pale flushed skin reddened as Aemond moved you, bringing you closer to his chest and wrapping his arms around you. Aegon admired the two of you, pleased with the fucked up dynamics of his family. This was a pleasure he could not have found or ever would find in the bed of a whore. You were the apple of their eye and they could not let you go, even if it meant restoring to such methods.

Your hands cupped your younger brother's face, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.

Aemond had expected it to be a gentle peck but it grew needy and hasty, exactly how Aegon had taught you. Your lips suckling on his like a babe, trying to pry his mouth open and meet your tongue with his. You seemed addicted, desperate to kiss your younger brother the same way you had kissed your older. The kiss grew heated as Aemond opened his lips, finally taking control and dominating your mouth.

You whimpered, and Aemond could taste the residual of his orgasm. It did not phase him as he continued relishing in the sweet kiss, feeling your cunt beginning to rut against his already hardening cock.

When you broke the kiss, Aemond admired you before shifting his attention to Aegon who had a nasty grin on his face. “You're responsible for this.”

“Proudly. Only had to teach her once and look at how she's already sucking on your lips like it's a fucking cock.” He cheered, reaching over to pinch your cheeks. You giggled and hugged your younger brother, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

The three of you did not leave your chambers that night while the whole of red keep searched endlessly for the sword, the King and the maiden.