#The Vale Shadow of the Crown | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

author-morgan · 9 months ago

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Title: A Dove and a Hound Rating: T Pairing: Sandor Clegane x fem!Reader Summary: A little dove with broken wings must save her wounded Hound. Or in which Sandor Clegane finds something sweeter than killing. Word count: ~3.7k Warnings: Injury/blood and typical Westerosi shenanigans.

ARYA STARK LOOKS at the bleak landscape around where they had made camp for the night in the northern Riverlands—almost in the Vale. It’s all craggy with sharp boulders and high patches of land, and hardly any trees. The names roll off her tongue as they do every night. The Mountain, The Hound, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant...she doesn’t make it to the next name after hearing the scraping of boots on rock nearby. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Syrio Forel’s words are burnt into her memory.

"What’re you going on about now, girl?" The rasp of the Hound's voice makes her jump, and she curses him, looking up at the night sky, watching for shadows when she hears the soft noise again.

“We’re being watched,” she tells him, turning on her bedroll to face the Hound, her hand resting on the hilt of Needle.

His laugh cuts through the air—a rough sound that hurts her ears in a strange way. A man like the Hound should never laugh. "Here, in the middle of fucking nowhere?" His scarred face looks all the more hideous with the light of the fire licking at his skin. "Finish your little list, girl, then go the fuck to sleep." Arya frowns and looks around again at the land but sees nothing but boulders and empty plains, but she knows someone is out there.

Sandor Clegane won’t admit it, but the Stark girl’s warning is the reason he stays up for over half the night. Then, when he’s certain Arya is asleep, he rises from his bedroll and unsheathes his sword, setting off to search between boulders and in the shadows cast by their dwindling campfire. But there’s nothing there. The Hound moves to return to his bedroll, but that’s when he hears quiet cursing and soft crying. And then he finds a woman huddled between two rocks, trying to nurse an injured leg.

You see the hulking shadow approach too late to muffle your grunts and groans of pain. “Come any closer and I’ll put a fucking arrow through your eye!” You shout. But Sandor Clegane can see the bow in your hand is broken, even if you try to hold the two wooden pieces together to make it seem whole. Then he sees the broken arrow shaft sticking out of your swollen calf, too—the reason for your caterwauling.

“With a broken bow and the only arrow you got stuck in your leg?” The Hound asks, laughing. “Pay a couple of hundred silver stags to see that done.” Sandor drives his sword into the dirt and awkwardly kneels near you, looking over the wound. He can feel your eyes on him, gaze nigh burning. But the soft white light of the moon softens the sight of his half-burned face. He looks familiar. Like you’ve seen him in passing somewhere—or maybe on the parchments nailed outside taverns noting bounties and the enemies of the Crown.

You swallow the knot in your throat and look up at him—you might not be able to place who he is, but you know he’s dangerous, a killer. “Well, go on,” you snap, tears stinging in your eyes. “Kill me and get it over with.”

The Hound recoils as though stung by the words—he knows he’s put a lot of people in the ground, but for some damn reason, he can’t stomach the thought of landing the mercy blow now. You close your eyes and wait—no longer fearing death or pain. But the cold bite of steel never comes. Instead, Sandor Clegane lifts you into his burly arms and heads back toward the dying campfire.

Arya’s surprised when the Hound returns and lets you down to rest against the boulder nearest the fire. The girl’s quick on her feet, bringing a half-filled skin of water, and you greedily drink. "Think I'll end up losing it?" You ask the girl—wiping your mouth with a torn sleeve—a glint of humor shining through as you pat your thigh, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain that shoots down to your calf and makes your toes curl.

“If you’ve gone this long” —Sandor crouches down and looks closer at your injury— “it’ll take more than an arrow to kill you,” he says. It earns him a dry and humorless laugh with a surprising grimness. Given enough time, he thinks he could come to enjoy the company, but right now, he and Arya Stark are already pressed for time, luck, and coin. Neither of them needs the liability of an injured woman—another mouth to feed—on the path to the Eyrie. Be best to leave her come the morning, he thinks, but now that he’s brought you back here, he knows the Stark girl won’t let that happen.

“May I have your name, good ser?” You finally ask—it only seemed proper to know the name of your white knight.

Sandor Clegane looks at you, and the firelight paints the tangled and twisted mass of scars on his face red—pocking the flesh with craters and cracks. “Not a fucking knight,” he bites back.

And then you can piece everything together—his brute size, the burned half of his face, the posters scattered around the Riverlands. The rumors people whispered are true then, you think. Joffrey’s dog tucked tail and ran while the Blackwater burned. “You’re The Hound.” He grunts. You glance at the girl staring down at you with wide ice-grey eyes. If he’s the Hound then... “You’re Arya Stark.” The girl nods.

The silence that grows between the three of you is heavy and tense. You shift and grimace again. Then your gaze flits back over to the Hound. “Well, are you going to help me get this arrow out my fucking leg or not?” You ask, not understanding why he hauled you back here if he didn’t mean to do something about your current state. “'Cause if you aren’t, I’d sooner you cut the damn thing off or put me out of my misery.”

Sandor moves to you after that and cuts away the fabric of your britches from the arrow, then calls Arya over to set his dagger in the flames—unwilling to go closer. She does as he says, pushing the blade into the hot coals, but then Arya Stark leaps to her feet when she sees Sandor’s hand grip the shaft of the arrow—like he means to tear it from flesh. She knocks his hand away then pushes back on his shoulder, almost hard enough to knock him off balance from where he sits on his haunches.

“We can’t just pull it out!” She tells the Hound like it should be obvious. But he’s not the one who grew up with a maester in Winterfell or spent time reading any books.

“Then how you gone get it out, girl?” He asks, gruff and impatient. You glance between the odd pair, wondering how they haven’t killed one another by now. Arya crouches down and prods the swollen and bloody flesh, then without warning, she grips the arrow shaft and breaks off the fletching. Seven hells, you think, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep a wail of pain at bay, I am going to lose my leg.

“Push it through,” Arya says, remembering the time she watched Maester Luwin remove an arrow from a hunter's shoulder. The Hound grunts and draws a second, smaller dagger, starting to whittle away at the splintered end of the broken arrow shaft.

Arya goes to fetch more water and brings back a cloth with her before settling down to watch with wide, curious eyes. Blood starts to seep down your calf around the entry and exit of the arrow shaft from being handled so roughly. Satisfied with his woodwork, the Hound steadies your leg against his trunk and starts to pull on the iron-forged arrowhead.

You grit your teeth together, fingers digging into the soft earth below, as he begins to ease the wooden shaft through gently and quickly as he can. Arya watches your face twist in pain, but somehow, you don’t cry out. It feels like an eternity. Sandor sets the arrow aside and takes the waterskin from the Stark girl, dumping the cool water over your leg to wash away the blood—there’s a cool but welcome sting.

Sandor tosses the empty skin back to Arya. "More water, girl,” he rasps.

“Bring wine too,” you insist, and the Hound howls with laughter.

“Seven hells,” Arya remarks. You’re just like him. The girl heads off, then comes back with more water and looks at the open wound on your leg with a scrunched-up nose.

“Needs to be sealed with fire,” Sandor says, sitting back on his haunches, that’s why he already had Arya put a dagger into the flames. They don’t have salves and ointments and teas and brews to keep infection at bay, and despite his fear and hatred of the fire, he knows it’s the best way to clean and seal a wound like this.

“I’ll do it,” Arya offers. Her hands are steady, and the fire and heat don’t bother her like it does the Hound. He nods, and the girl goes to fetch the hot knife. They give you a strip of leather to bite down on, and then the Hound looks away when the girl presses the flat of the blade against your flesh—you do scream then. He knows that pain—that scream—and the putrid scent of burning flesh that jumps into the air. Black dots and white stars dance around in your vision. It hurts worse the second time. But you fight through it.

Your gaze settles on Arya after a while, struggling to stay awake. “Where are you taking her?” You ask, eyes flitting to Sandor Clegane. The two are an odd traveling party that much is certain—a Hound and a wolf—made even stranger by your sudden arrival.

“The Vale,” he tells you, “she has an aunt there.” You hadn’t expected a man with his reputation to do something so kind, not even if heavy coin purses were offered as rewards. A hush falls over you, but then the Hound rises and picks up a threadbare blanket from his bedroll. He drapes it over your shoulders, not ungently. “Best get some rest,” he says. “It’ll hurt worse tomorrow.”

THE DAYS ARE both quick and slow to pass, and soon, you’ve lost track of the time since meeting Arya Stark and the Hound—it could have been a few weeks or maybe months. But since that fateful night, your wounds have healed cleanly, and the only reminders of them are a fading scar and the limp in your stride after long days or over strenuous terrain. You remember the first time you insisted on walking instead of riding Stranger—a great black, unruly destrier. When you slowed, Sandor Clegane slung you over his shoulder like a sack of flour before depositing you back on the horse and complaining about the slow pace. Arya Stark was particularly amused by it all.

Disappointment is all that awaits you all at the Bloody Gate of the Vale. Lysa Arryn is dead, and her young son and named protector, Petyr Baelish, will not accept visitors—not even one of Lysa’s own kin. So at the point of arrowheads and tips of steel blades, the Hound turns back, and you and Arya follow, trekking through the Vale and back to the Riverlands, unsure of what to do and where to go. Arya says they should go north, to the Wall—she has a brother in the Night’s Watch—or across the Narrow Sea.

There’s a small village not far, and you take a handful of silver stags and copper stars in hopes of replenishing your stock of ointments and bandages—especially with the now festering wound on Sandor’s neck, a nasty bite from a rogue—and maybe a decent bottle of wine or ale too. But by the time the sun is beginning to set and you return to Sandor and Arya, they’re not to be found.

The campsite is empty. The fire still burning. The bedrolls laid out for the coming evening. You look around the craggy landscape, feeling panic seize your heart and stomach—mind racing. “Arya!” You shout, but there is no response from the girl. “Sandor!” And again, there is nothing but silence.

If not for the fading evening sun glinting off tarnished pieces of silver armor, you think you might not have found him. You stumble over to him, kneeling at his side, fearing the worst. But his chest still rises and falls, and he starts when you touch his cheek, hand wrapping around your wrist, leaving a thick smearing of blood.

There’s something in your eyes, not pity, but he’s not seen that look before —almost doesn’t want to think of what it could be, could mean. Sandor’s grip goes slack, and he grimaces, each breath a ragged rasp. You look over his mangled shoulder, the bruises and scrapes on his face, the muscle-deep cuts on his palm, and his lame leg. These wounds are beyond your skills, and there are not like to be any travelers on this path for days.

The Hound tugs free a dagger from his belt and places it in your hand. "Go on,” he rasps, nodding toward the knife, resigned to his new fate. “Get on with it." The Stark girl wouldn’t put him out of his misery for the hatred she still bore toward him, but maybe you would.

Your fingers curl around the hilt of the blade, grip tightening, but frozen in place—unwilling and unable to move. "I can't," you breathe, fervidly shaking your head. I won’t. He curses you when you drive the blade into the hard earth and not his heart. Sandor Clegane saved you from certain death, and now you’ve a chance to return the favor.

You wet a strip of cloth and dab it over his bloodied face until he turns his head to look at you. "If you think I'm some wounded pup you can redeem, you're stupider than I thought, woman,” he snarls like an aggrieved dog.

But you don’t pay any mind to his hateful words. “Be still,” you chide, gently, going to collect the pack of supplies from Stranger’s saddle. The Dornish strongwine eases the pain, and he lets you clean the rest of the cuts and bruises to the best of your abilities —his broken leg, though. You aren’t sure what to do, but you know if something isn’t done soon, Sandor Clegane won’t be using that leg again in this lifetime. You lose track of how many times you have to wander down to the nearby stream. All you know is the limp in your step has come back. By nightfall, the wine and pain claim him, and you’ve said your prayers to the Seven, asking them to spare your poor wounded Hound.

There’s a dim lantern on the dark horizon, steadily drawing nearer and brighter, and then you can hear the rattling of a cart and the braying of a mule. You rise from your post and go to intercept the rickety cart thumping along the winding trail. The mule comes to a halt—the path forward blocked.

The driver has a kind face, rounded from smiles and wrinkled with wisdom, and eyes that are deep and thoughtful but speak of the horrors of the world. “A lady and her knight,” he muses, sparing a glance at the makeshift medicinal supplies illuminated by faint firelight and the state of the brutish man sleeping—half-dead more like.

“Can you help us?” You ask. “Please.” And the broken plea strikes something deep down in the man’s heart.

He thinks on it for a moment. “Aye,” the man says, “I can try.” If he couldn’t, the others on the Quiet Isle could—especially the Elder Brother. His dusty brown robes dust across the rocky ground as he goes to the Hound’s side. It takes all your strength combined to lift Sandor Clegane into the cart—even with the weight of his armor gone. Then you clamber to the front of the cart next to Sandor, letting his head rest in your lap, and with a snap of the reins, the mule walks on again, heading south along the bumpy road—it would be a long night.

Weary and exhausted, you look between the Hound and the driver. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Ray,” the kindly man says. “I’ll take you both to the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother can help.” You’ve heard tales of the isle—where men go to atone for their sins and take vows of silence. Some even say those who reside in the Bay of Crabs live in a world unlike the one ravished by war and pain. Brother Ray can see the growing trepidation on your expression. It’s nigh common knowledge women are not allowed to dwell on the Quiet Isle. “Won’t force you and your knight to be parted,” he tells you.

“He’s not a knight,” you murmur, eyes trailing from the road ahead to Sandor, knowing he doesn’t like being called a knight—and for good reason.

“No, but it seems he’s your knight,” Ray says with a chuckle, sparing a wayward glance back at you and the Hound. You flush at the thought and turn your gaze to Sandor, his head resting on your thigh.

A FEW MONTHS pass and Sandor is as well as he’ll ever be. The damage done to his leg makes him limp after long distances or strenuous tasks, but no one would be able to say such injuries made the Hound a feeble man. Even now, you’ve never seen a man split firewood with so much power and anger. Sometimes, you wonder if he hates you for not ending it when he pleaded for the blade’s mercy. But on the day when the brothers let you see him again, he wore a fleeting smile, soft and weak—the first time you’d seen such a sight.

Storms roll in for the night, and lightning flashes through the window—thunder rattling your featherbed. You pull the covers tighter, squeezing your eyes shut, praying for sleep to come. It feels childish to be afeared of a storm, but it’s a reminder of the night the Lannister men destroyed your home and family and put an arrow in your leg. Rousing from the uneasy rest, you pull on your dressing robe and wrap the wool and linen blanket around your shoulders before setting off in search of company.

His bed is empty, and you frown. Disheartened, you turn back only to bump into a solid wall of flesh and muscle. No man his size had a right to move around so quietly. “What are you doing awake, little dove?” Sandor asks, and you’re unable to meet his gaze with your flushed cheeks as you search for a valid answer. “Can’t sleep?” He surmises, and grateful he spake first, you nod sheepishly. The hand that wraps around your wrist is warm and calloused, yet his touch is light—as though you’re some bird with a broken wing. But wordless, you climb onto the bed next to Sandor, still huddled under your blanket, but not alone, and even with the storm raging outside, within these walls with him, you’re safe.

The morning light breaks through the small window—only glowing embers remain in the hearth, not enough to chase away the chill in the air. You wake to find yourself alone, and it sends a strange pang of sadness through your heart. Making your way back to your chambers, you change into a plane shift and stride from the cottage to find him—the wet grass tickling the soles of your feet as you head down a winding path toward the water’s edge.

Sandor is sitting down on the rocky shore of the island, his dusty brown cloak fluttering in the wind. You go to him and sit on the weathered rock next to him. The morning is cool, and the spray of waves breaking against rocks in the bay kisses your cheeks. Wordlessly, the Hound pulls his cloak free and drapes it around your shoulders. In comfortable silence, you pull the coarse material tight and rest your head against his arm, looking out over the water and the clear blue sky—as though the Old Gods had not unleashed their wrath upon the land last night.

After a long while, Sandor rises, knowing it’ll be time to head to the Sept and see what tasks the Brothers need help with today. You’re quick to follow after him, but before he can start up the rocky path again, you brush your hand against his with all the timidness of a mouse, daring to have a lingering touch as you gather the nerve to ask something that’s been festering in the pit of your stomach, in the darkest parts of your mind and the deepest parts of your heart. You take both his hands—rough and twice the size of your own—and look up at the Hound. "Sandor,” you breathe, his name like a birdsong in your voice, “will you kiss me?"

He laughs—thinking you are playing him for a fool. No sane woman would ever wish to have his touch or his kiss. “With this ruined mouth?” He mocks. But the next jape dies on the tip of his tongue when you fist your hand into his woolen tunic, hauling him down with all your strength to just the right height where if you stand on the tips of your toes, you can kiss him. And you do. Sandor is surprised at first, but his hard exterior fades, and then a strong arm curls around your middle, hoisting you up and then off the ground entirely. You pull back for only a quick second and smile for him.

“Little dove,” he rasps when you move your hands to hold his face, thumbs stroking over his cheeks—one marred by the flame—and down into his thick, wiry beard. He half expects to find a shred of fear or disgust in your eyes, but there isn’t any. There never had been. You kiss him again, softer and sweeter this time, and he returns it in full.

Reluctant to part, he places you back on the ground but is quick to pull you into his side and hold you close in the golden hour of the morning. And for the first time since he can remember, Sandor Clegane has a handful of happy memories, and perhaps, in the end, he's found something even sweeter than killing.

[Game of Thrones taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @holysmokesblog / @Idkjj04 / @lady-stark-winter-rose / @mikariell95 / @misskatiewrites / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @nyotamalfoy / @rigshak / @savagemickey03 / @xinyourdreamsx ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Game of Thrones taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

#Sandor Clegane #The Hound #Sandor Clegane x Reader #Sandor x Reader #The Hound x Reader #Sandor Clegane Imagine #Sandor Fanfiction #Sandor Clegane Fanfiction #Game of Thrones #Game of Thrones Fanfiction #ASOIAF #ASOIAF Fanfiction #my writing #i really wanted to rework this previous one-shot (posted to AO3 and Wattpad) I had with my current writing style #and thus we have Sandor being a big hard man but also soft and squishy on the inside

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ficsilike-reblogged · 3 months ago

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As High As Honour - III

Summary: You never expected Aemond Targaryen. Pairing: Soft Dark!Aemond Targaryen/F!Reader (No use of Y/N) Warnings For This Chapter: Attempted assault (not by Aemond) Emphasis on the soft and the dark! Highly dubious consent! Fem-receiving oral, unprotected p-i-v sex, age-gap, canon typical violence, babies Word Count: 26.5k (is anyone surprised?)

Book Three: The Dragon and The Lark

You scarcely remembered shoving Aemond’s hands off of you before stumbling toward your dragon. The mournful cry he let out had fresh tears stinging your eyes as you climbed atop his back. You flew back to your camp in a haze—the one thing you do remember is that Vhagar was nowhere in sight. It could be hypothesized that Vhagar had done her rider’s bidding and then flown back to the Red Keep, but surely you would have seen her massive form in the skies, even from a distance.

You did not want to believe that Aemond would do this. But what other option did you have? Other than a dragon, nothing else would be able to burn a fortress like Harrenhal. You would never forget the heat of those flames. Never forget how green…

“Not all green is true.”

What had Helaena meant?

You turned that question over and over in your mind as you went through the motions of informing the Crown of what had happened and having your traveling party turn around to return to the Vale. Their efforts wasted. In a single night, the future you thought you could have was ashes.

Your temporary apartments in the Red Keep were comfortable, as usual, but you could not shake the feeling that something else was on the horizon, waiting for you.

Rhaenyra and Alicent had been kind to you, offering their company in your sullen silences as you tried to make sense of it all. You did not tell them of what Helaena had said and you refused to ask the younger princess about it; you would not ruin the first few moons of her marriage with your questioning.

It seemed that your one avenue was Aemond. Despite knowing that he could very well be lying to you, what other choice did you have? You found him in the shadows of the Red Keep’s library, long fingers curled around the leather spine of a book.

“You have not gone to my father with your suspicions,” he mused quietly before setting it aside. The prince waved a hand at the chair opposite him but you did not move to take it. His tilted lips slowly slid into a sharp smirk when he realized you would not sit.

“You and I both know that taking anything to your father is a waste of time.” You sucked in a breath, trying to steady your thundering heart. This was someone you had trusted. Someone you had a fondness for. You wanted to believe him but you could not deny how damning it looked. “Make me believe that you did not do this, Aemond. Tell me what you know. Why you were there.”

Aemond hummed as you looked at you, eye dragging from the toes of your boots to your silver hair and you had to stop the shiver you felt trying to work its way down your spine. But it was visceral and consuming. “You seem convinced of my guilt.”

“I am giving you the opportunity to try to sway me. I do not want to believe that you did this. Do you not understand? The boy I knew-”

In a flash, Aemond was standing, pushing toward you with quiet but purposeful steps. “I am not a boy any longer, my lady.” The heat of him once again bled through your gown and your next breath stalled in your lungs. Everything about him burned. Burned like dragon fire. But you could not and would not voice that to him. It would only give him hope where you know there could be none. “You were a boy when I told you I’d race you through the skies. You were a boy when you called me a witch. A boy when-”

“Not anymore. Would you have me do to prove myself to you? What task would you set for me to prove to you that I am a man?”

“Tell me what you know, Aemond.”

He was quiet for another stretched moment before his chin tilted up. The move let more sunlight bloom behind him, framing in light but casting the sharp, beautiful angles of his face in dark shadow. He looked like some sort of dark god, craving vengeance.

Or something else. Something, someone you would not name.

“I did go to Harrenhal with the intent of seeing you. But I arrived on horseback. Ser Criston can confirm that as we traveled together. Vhagar remained in the valley outside the city. I was welcomed into Harrenhal’s storied halls by Lord Larys.”

Larys had been the only Strong to survive the fire. Everyone else had perished, having gathered together to celebrate your betrothal to Harwin. He had not accompanied you to the Red Keep but arrived later and was welcomed with softly spoken condolences and offered his father’s spot on the Small Council.

“He had invited me. It seemed I was not the only one who believed you were throwing your life away by tying yourself to an oaf like Ser Harwin Strong.”

You recoiled as if he had struck you. “Harwin was kind to me.”

“You deserve more than kindness.” The smoke of his voice had your eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You did not understand why he had such an effect on you. “And I plan on giving everything to you.”

“Aemond.”

He hummed again as if he were amused. “I left the castle after dinner, wanting to see the godswood. I noticed the fire had started when I started to walk back. There was nothing I could do. Nothing you could do.”

You shook your head. That was too easy. “The fire was green. Only Vhagar and my dragon breathe green fire. Are you suggesting I set Harrenhal ablaze?”

“Of course not. You have a soft heart.”

A scoff tore itself out of your throat. A soft heart. You did not have a soft heart. “Tell me, then, what it is I saw.”

The prince moved closer and you could once again smell him, dragon, mint, lavender, and leather. Intoxicating and-

Stop it. Stop it.

“I do not know what it was, my lady. But I intend to find out.”

Before you could tell him that answer was not adequate, he had grasped your hand and pressed a searing kiss to your fingers. And then he was walking away, leaving you only with the scent of him to burn your throat.

But Aemond, it seemed, was simply waiting for you to confront him before truly revealing his plan. On the eve before you were set to return to the Vale without any sort of answer, your presence was demanded in the Great Hall. What greeted you was nearly the whole of the court waiting in anticipation and Larys Strong in chains.

Your ears rang as he was accused of killing his family and destroying his ancestral seat. And it was Aemond who had brought forth the accusation.

“And how do you plead, Lord Strong?” Rhaenys asked.

Larys looked at Aemond for just a moment before blandly looking back at Rhaenys and Viserys, who sat slouched on the Iron Throne. Aemond stood at the edge of the royal dias, hands folded neatly over the pommel of his sword. He said nothing and the silence stretched throughout the Great Hall.

And that, it seemed, was damning enough.

“I, King Viserys Targaryen,” Viserys started, his voice shaking and wet from his affliction, “first of my name, sentence you to die for your crimes of murder and kinslaying.”

Larys turned and his eyes landed on you, almost as if he were expecting to see you. His gaze did not move from you, he did not blink, even as he was forced to his knees and Ser Harrold raised his sword. And you could not look away either, and then-

“I would prefer if Prince Aemond took my head, if it is all the same.”

The crowd held its breath as Ser Harrold turned to look at his king and the prince. But, like Larys’ refusal to speak out against the accusations, Aemond said nothing but he drew his sword from its sheath at his waist and in a handful of steps, stood in front of Larys. And still your gaze did not move. Larys was still looking at you and Aemond moved his head just enough to follow the other man’s line of sight…and saw you.

Larys’ head was cut from his neck and fell to the floor with a wet thud. His body fell, too, and crimson started to puddle immediately across the light stone. And that was the end of House Strong. A small splash of blood streaked across the high arc of Aemond’s cheek but he did not brush it away, instead focusing on cleaning his blade before walking away, his stride long and powerful.

As the crowd’s murmurs started to reach a crescendo, you blindly walked back to your apartments and tried to wrangle the thoughts coursing through you. Larys had killed Harwin. Larys had killed him and the entirety of his family…

Your thoughts came to a screeching halt with the announcement of Aemond’s presence in your rooms. You turned to see him striding him, skirting around the serving girl who had let him in.

“It is done, my lady.”

“It is.” The words sounded muffled in your ears. But it was done. Silence stretched between you, tight and uncomfortable, but you could not find the words to break it. What could you say? What else could be done? “What did you say to him to have him reveal such atrocities?” Was all you could ask.

Aemond hummed and his chin tilted up, and it reminded you of a cat who had just devoured a fat canary. “I simply appealed to him as a fellow second son.”

The simple sentence felt like you had plunged into an icy lake. You remembered how they spoke at Jacaerys and Helaena’s wedding and one thought jumped to another to another before... “It was you who gave him the idea.”

“Careful, my lady,” Aemond said softly but you could hear the iron beneath it. “Be wary of your accusations.”

“Accusations?” You hissed. “You have already confessed to appealing to him as a fellow second son. What other conclusion would you have me make? What other option have you given me?”

“It was not I who killed him. And it was not my intent to have him burnt to ash. Harwin deserved a cleaner death than that.”

“Stop it! Do not be so cruel!”

Aemond moved closer. “But he was always going to die, my lady. He claimed what was mine.” He reached out and gently set his hand against your cheek; a soft touch in contrast to his cold words. “But now you can rest knowing that it was not my hand that struck him down.” His thumb traced the curve of your cheek and he leaned in just far enough to brush his lips against your temple. You should have pulled away. Should have told him, again, that his affections were misplaced and unwanted. But you were rooted to the spot and your skin burned where he had kissed it.

The next breath rattled out of you and you felt Aemond’s lips pull into a smile against your skin. “Larys could have taken the Black.” You weren’t even sure why you were still speaking or why you even would suggest Larys still draw breath with his crimes.

Aemond pulled back just enough to look at you. He did not move far, his chest still brushed yours with each of his steady breaths. “I would not have doggedly pursued him if he had not meant to kill me as well. He had wanted to leave you no option but himself.” The prince paused and then his hands curled around your arms. “Nothing and no one will keep you from me, my lady.”

Even as you shook your head, you burned. “You will find another. Someone closer to your age-”

His grip tightened and then moved, anchoring at the base of your skull and giving you no room to wrench yourself free. “There is no one who could compare to you, your light, your fire. I have deprived myself of you and your attentions and I shall suffer no longer.” Aemond pulled in a slow breath. Calm and measured. “I will give you time to mourn. I am a man of honor and I know you felt something for Harwin, no matter how unworthy he was of your heart.” He dragged his lips down your temple to press another whisper of a kiss against the highest part of your cheek. “But I’ll not wait forever. My patience grows thin.” And then he was gone, leaving you with the echo of his scent and the burn of his touch.

If you thought that Larys’ execution was the end of it, you found yourself sorely mistaken. Aemond was not finished. The green fire that had destroyed Harrenhal had been a mystery you thought would never be solved, thinking that perhaps there was something in Harrenhal’s stone that turned the flames green. Larys was gone, that was what mattered, wasn’t it?

Not to Aemond. Rhaenyra summoned you into the Small Council chamber on the morning you were set to leave again. Aemond sat beside her as she sat next to her father who looked like he had been roused from a deep sleep. The golden mask Viserys had taken to wearing to hide the rot was loose around his head. But the light in his purple eyes was more present than it had been in years—that gave you pause, more than the tight line of Rhaenyra’s mouth. Rhaenys almost looked relieved and the rest of the royal family had also joined you alongside the Small Council. Helaena took her place beside you and wrapped a hand around the meat of your arm, as if she needed grounding for what was to come.

“Tell them, Aemond. Tell us all what you have found.”

Aemond nodded once and his lilac eye dragged across the crowd for a moment and then settled on you. He explained the Alchemists’ Guild had created something called Wildfire. A synthetic dragonfire—and wild, as the name denoted. The order to create it had come directly from the Citadel itself.

Larys had procured a handful of jars for himself and had stashed them within Harrenhal, waiting for the correct time, as he had put it. Those jars had been enough to destroy the largest of the towers of the storied fortress and kill dozens.

Larys killed them with fire. Killed his father and brother for their titles and inheritance…and for you. (His confession of that last point came to you by the shaking hand of a servant girl who had been told to wait to deliver it to you “at the right time.” She had found you the night after his execution, slipping through the passageways you had once traversed yourself as a girl in the Red Keep. The missive had been brief but would haunt you for the rest of your days. If you had been mine, my brother would still live. There had been other accusations, too, stating that you had intoxicated him the moment your eyes met his when you first were introduced at the Eyrie. It had been a cruel final act, leaving you under the crushing weight of guilt you had to suffer with alone.)

Aemond enlisted the one-time paramour of Daemon, a woman named Mysaria, who had a network of “spiders” throughout the city. When digging further, Mysaria’s spiders found that the plot was truly beyond what anyone could have been expecting. Since the Conquest, a certain powerful subset of the Conclave had been hellbent on destroying the dragons and any trace of magic left in Westeros. They had studies of how the dragons’ growth stunted since the creation of the Dragonpit. There were collected tomes upon tomes of how to kill dragons within their eggs.

The suspicions you had about something being wrong with the dragons had proven true. Did you feel any pride or righteousness about being right? Of course not. You would have preferred to be wrong—but the truth was out now.

Your mind was filled with thoughts of your dragon and how there was a centuries’ long plot to destroy him and all others like him. He was yours. Your freedom made tangible. How could you ever think to live without him? How could anyone think to take him from you?

When you were finally able to leave the Red Keep, you pressed yourself along your dragon’s spine, wanting to feel as close as you could to him. Each flap of his massive wings echoed in your chest. And he seemed to feel your want for closeness and took a few extra turns around the Eyrie before landing, keeping you atop his back for a little longer.

It was a balm to be back in the Vale. Dealing with your duties was a welcome distraction from the ache in your chest. Harwin was gone but your dragon was safe. Perhaps that was all you could have. A dragon of your own and the diadem on your head.

True to form, Viserys was slow to act upon the information Aemond had presented. He feared gaining House Hightower’s ire by demanding the maesters and archmaesters still involved in the plot be remanded to the Crown’s custody. Daemon and Aemond held no such qualms and landed Caraxes and Vhagar atop the Seneschal’s Court in the Citadel and demanded all who were involved to be handed over.

From what you had gleaned from the whispers in the Vale, there had been a short-lived stand off before Lord Ormund Hightower faced threats of a revolt of his vassals and also pressed the Citadel to yield to the princes’ demands. Your courtiers sometimes whispered of how Aemond had ordered the maesters who had taken part of the conspiracy to be fed to Vhagar and the wildfire caches to be destroyed in the maw of the Dragonmont on Dragonstone. When that was finished, Aemond and Rhaenys destroyed the Dragonpit atop Meleys and Vhagar when he returned. The dragons would be cared for on the outskirts of the city, without chains and dark roosts.

“He is a true Targaryen,” Lady Waxley said. You weren’t entirely sure if you liked the breathy tone she used but you quickly dismissed that thought. Aemond was not yours to covet.

“And I hear he is still unattached,” another woman added. “Unusual for a prince—even a second son, no?”

Aemond was not just a second son. He was his family protector. He rode the largest dragon in the world. He was studious and a master swordsman and-

You bit your tongue so hard it bled.

Moons waxed and waned, and you thought that you had rid yourself of Aemond and his attentions. And you worked to set him out of your mind as well. It was strange, how often you thought of him. He was haunting you.

And you knew that was what he wanted.

But you knew this wayward infatuation he thought he had for you would fade. He would marry a young highborn lady and you would find a suitable heir from one of your distant cousins. The events of these past moons would be…relegated to the dark of your memory. In time. Even if the ghost of his kisses still followed you in your dreams. The thought of telling Alicent of his affections briefly crossed your mind, but decided against it, knowing it would only embarrass you and Alicent. And with the burn of his touch came the realization that you would be alone. It had been a girlish, childish hope that you would find a husband and have a family of your own. You had put your obligations to the Vale above your own wants. It had been the honorable thing to do. And then Harwin had given you hope. He held you gently and kissed you passionately. He had wanted a family, too. One with you despite your differences. The tears you shed for Harwin were, selfishly, also for the life you would not get to live. A handful of new suits were brought before you after returning to the Vale and you rejected them outright after they made it seem like they were granting you a boon by even considering you as a potential bride. You could and would rule the Vale without a husband and a few were even younger than Aemond. Harwin had been the ideal choice: older than you, mostly understanding of your position, and in possession of a kind heart and handsome face. And now he was gone. So be it. As you looked over the subpar qualifications and lives of your Gulltown cousins to pick a potential heir, Ser Oswin came into your solar, holding a missive and his cheeks sunken with shock: Viserys was dead.

While you led a coalition of the highborn of the Vale down to the Red Keep, your dragon circled restlessly overhead. You would have preferred to fly with him, but you knew that leading the Vale and publicly showing your support for Rhaenyra as heir was more important than your comfort. The Houses of the Vale may not follow you blindly, but they did trust your judgment. And you were going to see Rhaenyra crowned without question.

When you arrived, the city was draped in black and mostly somber, but you did hear a few whispers about the impending coronation. You had your handmaidens distribute food on your way in, stating it was a gift from Queen Rhaenyra. It was a small way you could help sway favor. Things were changing—you just hoped it would be for the better. And as your wheelhouse continued on, you were pleasantly surprised to realize the city did not hold as putrid of a scent as it had previously. There were fresh water fountains tucked between buildings and it looked like the streets had been recently cleared. Daeron’s plans seemed to be working marvelously to better the city for everyone.

Your dragon settled in the deserted tourney grounds and you made sure some of your younger lords and ladies were comfortable in their apartments before you set off to find Alicent and Rhaenyra. You found them in Rhaenyra’s solar, quiet and holding each other’s hands. You greeted them with a curtsey followed by tight hugs. “Tell me what you need,” you whispered.

Rhaenyra shook her head. Salt from dried tears had left streaks down her cheeks. “His suffering has ended.”

Alicent brushed a lock of Rhaenyra’s silver hair away from her cheek and kissed her temple gently. She also had tears in her eyes, making the brown of her gaze all the more vibrant. “And he went into the Seven Heavens knowing you would carry on his legacy faithfully.”

Rhaenyra nodded before sighing. “He has been ill for so long, but I still feel as if he was taken from me too soon. What if I still have more to learn? More for him to teach me?”

Truthfully, you thought of telling her of how she had been ruling in his stead for years with Rhaenys and Alicent as her guides and a strong Small Council at her back. But she was still delicate and she loved her father, no matter his faults. “He was a peaceful king. And I have no doubt you will be much the same. You have a strong council, a respected and loyal Hand, and you have us,” you said, curling your hands around one of hers. “We are here for you, Rhaenyra.” You turned to Alicent and saw the ache in her eyes as well. No matter how unfair her marriage had been, Alicent was still a dutiful wife. “And I am here for you as well, please never forget that.”

After the prayers and services for Viserys were finished, Alicent was the one who crowned Rhaenyra, setting Jaehaerys’ crown on her brow and proclaiming her Queen for the Seven Kingdoms to behold. The crowd, full of highborn and smallfolk alike, cheered and chanted her name like a benediction. Jacaerys was publicly named as her heir as Helaena stood at his side. You were pleased to have been given a seat in the first row of revealers and you readily curtsied with the rest of the crowd as Rhaenyra held out her arms, like she was greeting all of them, welcoming them all into her arms. Daemon chuckled at his place beside Lucerys—his lady wife and daughter were seated beside you and were likely to be busy with courtly life as they had been away from Westeros for some time.

As the crowd continued to cheer, you caught Aemond’s eye as he stood behind Rhaenyra on the raised dias. His sword was sheathed at his side and in his fine leather and linen clothes, he looked every inch the prince of a dark fairytale of Old Valyria. His silver hair was a curtain of silver silk and his lilac eye nearly sparkled in the sunlight of the Great Hall. Yes, a dark prince indeed. And you steadfastly ignored how a flock of hummingbirds seemed to have taken up residence in your stomach when you looked at him.

You danced with Lord Blackwood’s nephew, Davos, at the festivities that night, Daemon, and then also took a turn with Aegon’s Lady Farwynd. She was a riot of spring colors and bright smiles; you understood why Aegon was so taken with her. Hopefully their betrothal would be announced soon. But as you looked at Jace and Helaena, Aegon and his lady, and Rhaenyra and Alicent, any joy you might have felt soured in your chest. Of course, you were thankful that Rhaenyra seemed to be at least mostly welcomed by her subjects, but you were alone. And you had no one to celebrate with at your side. But you shoved that self-pitying part down until you could hardly feel it. You were the Lady of the Eyrie. You had so much to be thankful for. That was what mattered.

“That’s her,” someone whispered as you nibbled on some roasted boar and honeyed carrots at one of the tables. “Ser Harwin’s betrothed.”

“Well, certainly not anymore.”

Someone tittered a laugh and your heart twisted.

“A shame, is it not? And she was lucky to-”

You stood from your chair and walked away, unable to listen any more nor caring if they saw you. Yes, you had been lucky. And that luck ran out. But you would still be an honorable Lady of the Eyrie. That would be your legacy. Something wet splashed against your neck and it took you a moment to realize you were crying. Hot, fat tears were trickling down your face and you hastily wiped them away as you ducked behind a pillar, hoping no one saw your pitiful display. Now was not the time for your heart to crack open.

Seven Hells, these last handful of moons had been confusing and volatile. You had mourned Harwin and the future you had hoped for. Larys had been dealt with. A plot to destroy the dragons had been foiled. Viserys was dead. Rhaenyra was Queen. And you would support her and quash any murmurs you heard of dissent. You had to be…content with that, with what the gods have given you.

“What has you so forlorn?” You turned to look at Helaena as she rounded the pillar to stand beside you.

You pressed a smile to your face but you knew it was not convincing as she continued to frown at you. “It is a joyous night, princess. I simply am a little overwhelmed.”

Helaena’s purple eyes moved across your face before nodding. “There are many people here. And they all seem to want something. Even if it is only a moment of our time.”

You could only imagine what an event like this would be for Helaena. It had to be an assault on her senses but she seemed to have resigned herself to soldiering through it as a duty. “Shall we hide here together, then?”

Helaena nodded, a soft laugh pressing at her mouth. “I think that would be wonderful.”

You spoke quietly with her for a few moments, letting her tell you of the newest additions to her collection and how she was settling into married life. She seemed to be handling all of it with the soft grace you knew her to always possess and that she would need as the future queen. Jacaerys eventually came to steal her away for a dance and they smiled at each other, heads angled toward one another with matching pink on their cheeks. You leaned against the pillar and watched the pair move through the steps of the dance with a wistful sigh. Yes, they would be good—together, to each other, and for the Realm. You had no doubt. It was something you could feel in your bones.

“You have been avoiding me.”

You had not been avoiding Aemond, per se. The funeral and celebrations and all the pomp and pageantry between had been exhausting. As a head of a Great House, there were certain expectations. An example you needed to set. And if all of that kept you from this exact situation? That was a happy happenstance. “What do you need, my prince?”

“You know what I desire.”

Your eyes shuttered for a moment as the smoke of his voice wrapped around you. “I know what you think you desire.” Steeling yourself, you turned to face him. Gods, he was beautiful. Even more so from this distance. You could see the fine stitching of his doublet and the silver and blue threads of the three headed dragon embroidered over his heart. It suited him, the blue. “But I do suppose I have been remiss in thanking you for uncovering the plot to destroy our dragons. You have done a great service to us all. I do commend and thank you for that.”

Aemond moved closer and you fought the childish urge to turn and flee. It was strange to find yourself feeling like prey. But with that knowing light in his eye and the set of his shoulders, what else could you be?

“I would not leave the Crown or House Targaryen defenseless.” His eye dragged down your body as he said it and you felt every inch of it. “I must protect them. Just as I must protect you.”

You were not entirely sure what you could or should say to him. You thanked him, that should be the end of it. It needed to be the end of it. Rolling your shoulders, you prepared to leave and gathered a handful of your skirts. “I will leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening-”

“I did not say I was finished yet, my lark.”

“I do not need your per…” Words stalled. “What did you call me?”

Aemond moved closer again, with all the grace of a trained warrior. One of his long fingers trailed down the fine stitching of your sleeve, and then pressed against the scar you had hidden. Again, your senses were clouded with the heat of him, the scent of him. Of metal and dragon and heat and lavender. “A lark.”

“Lark.” You knew the bird. You knew its sweet song and its gentle nature. You knew its place in the songs of lovers and on the tongues of poets. You were not a lark. You were your mother’s shrike. You were House Arryn’s falcon. But a lark? Is that how he saw you?

“Yes, my lark.”

“I am not yours, Aemond,” you nearly hissed before turning on your heel and walking away before he could whisper again. But with each step you took, the sobriquet echoed in your mind.

My lark.

You sat beneath the shadow of the heart tree and watched as Jeyne walked around the Red Keep’s godswood with Cregan Stark at her side. The young lord of Winterfell and a host of other Northern Houses had come to the capital to attend the coronation and swear fealty to Rhaenyra. And it was there that Cregan had caught Jeyne’s eye.

It would be a good match, to be sure. Politically it made sense and the way Jeyne was smiling was certainly an indication of how she felt, too. Cregan’s cheeks were often pink in her presence and you were fairly certain it was not because he was unaccustomed to the southron weather. Rhaenyra had asked you to chaperone them as they became better acquainted with each other. You were happy to oblige. The youngest princess was about to reach the age of majority and Cregan had just done so himself, after a long regency over his own seat of power. It was a little melancholy for you to see the last babe you had held in your arms now entertaining suitors.

You would watch them out of the corner of your eye as you worked on the embroidery in your grasp and look away whenever Cregan nervously looked in your direction. The last time he did so, he seemed confident enough to grasp Jeyne’s hand and press a shy kiss to her fingers when he thought you were not looking. Jeyne’s answering giggle kept you from stepping in. By the time you finished the moonbloom and dragon’s breath flowers on your small bit of linen, Jeyne was floating over to you with a smile on her face.

“Come, my little love,” you said as you rose from your seat. “Let us go speak with Her Grace, hm?”

Rhaenyra was pleased Jeyne was so smitten and you let yourself out to allow them discuss what the future could possibly hold—that seemed like it would be a special moment to be had between mother and daughter. To pass the time before tonight’s feast, you had a serving woman get you a bit of Arbor Gold from the kitchens and you sipped on it as you reclined on one of the holdfast’s balconies, watching the comings and goings of the city below.

“Lady Arryn, is it not?”

You stood and turned at the sound of the unfamiliar voice and saw a tall man dressed in extravagant silk and samite robes the color of the sky at dawn. “It is. And it seems you have caught me unawares; I apologize but I do not recall your name.”

The man bowed with a laugh. “I am Alios, a Magister of Pentos. Your queen was gracious enough to extend an invitation to me for her coronation.”

You tried to keep the surprise from your face. Inviting foreign dignitaries wasn’t unheard of but you knew the current Sealord of Braavos in attendance and the bad blood between Braavos and Pentos was storied. “And how are you finding our fair capital?”

“It is pleasant enough. But I am most fond of its art.” His sand colored eyes made a lazy path down your form as the corners of his lips turned up into an appreciative smile.

And you had to laugh at the unmitigated gall of it all. “The art is hanging on the walls, my lord. I am sure you would appreciate it all the more.”

Alios stepped closer and you found your grip tightening on the chalice in your hand. He might be handsome in certain ways, but there was something rotten about him—it did not help that his pallor reminded you of curdled milk. “What is paint and fabric compared to the beauty in front of me?”

Another laugh escaped you but it sounded stilted and uneven to your ears. “You are bold, my lord. It has been some time since I have been in Essos, but I do not recall such overtures being polite across the Narrow Sea.”

Alios waved it away. The golden rings on each of his fingers parkled in the dying sunlight. “I am an impatient man. If I see something I find beautiful, why waste my time on being polite?”

“And am I to assume that you are accustomed to getting everything you desire?” You replied. It was almost charming for a complete stranger to approach you in such a way. An affront to good decorum, but charming in a way that reminded you of a child that had not yet learned the way of courtly machinations.

He stepped closer still and smiled, revealing gleaming white teeth. “I am.”

The Arbor Gold was sweet on your tongue but you had to consciously keep your face from pulling into a frown as he took yet another step closer to you. “A pity, then, that I will have to be the first to teach you the lesson that you cannot also get what you want. Usually it is babes in arms who are learning such.” You pushed out another laugh, trying to retain some sort of jovial matter. It would not do for you to insult one of Rhaenyra’s guests, no matter how ridiculous you found them. “I would be obliged to show you where the tapestries House Targaryen saved from the Doom are hung. The Red Keep can be a maze to those not acquainted with its halls.”

“I would accept your offer, my lady. Please, lead the way.” He was saying everything correctly, aside from his overt flirtations. He was arguably handsome. Wealthy, if his clothing and standing as a Magister was any indication. And about your age. He could be…suitable. But why could you not find anything but barely checked revulsion for him? You hurriedly gulped the rest of your wine and led him through the halls to the storied tapestries. Thankfully, there were other courtiers viewing them and a small bit of tension slipped from your shoulders. You were not alone with him. “Will you not tell me their histories?” Alios asked.

Your tongue rolled in your mouth for a moment. “I do believe there are placards beneath each. They would be much more succinct than I could ever hope to be.”

“And if I do not care for brevity?” He arched a brow. “I must confess, Lady Arryn, that it seems you want to be rid of my company.”

You pressed a smile to your face. Well, at least he was not completely dense. “I do apologize for any slight you may feel, my lord, but I do not have the patience for such frivolities today. I am needed elsewhere. Please excuse me.”

You were quick to quit the hall, even when you heard him call your name with a laugh on his tongue. You would not suffer his presence any longer. And it was fortunate that you spied Rhaenyra rounding the corner a few paces later, flanked by a pair of Queensguard. She smiled as she spotted you and was quick to wave you to her side. “I have much to tell you,” she said as she linked her arm with yours.

Finally pulling in a full breath, you let her lead you into the Great Hall where the kitchen maids and staff were preparing for the night’s feast. A handful more were starting to lead carts filled with bread and vegetables out of the hall, too, no doubt being distributed throughout the city. Lady Mysaria, the new Mistress of Whispers on Rhaenyra’s Small Council, Princess Rhaenys, and Daeron had continued to voice the need to provide for the Smallfolk in abundance and Rhaenyra was happy to oblige.

Rhaenyra plucked a bit of cheese from one of the platters on the nearest table and handed it to you before popping some into her mouth as well.

“You are in a jovial mood,” you mused.

Rhaenyra’s smile widened and she drew you closer with a hand in yours. “Helaena is with child.”

Something akin to a yelp escaped you before you were pulling Rhaenyra into your arms. “Blessed news. A babe on the way. They will be wonderful parents.”

Rhaenyra pulled back after a moment, a smile still splitting her face. “I cannot fathom it. My boy will have a child of his own. And Helaena, the sweet girl, has been simply glowing.”

A giggle slipped by your lips as you shook your head. “Of course she is. I expect nothing less.” The news had something fluttering in your chest. Rhaenyra was queen, her line secure, the Realm at peace. House Targaryen was flourishing.

The feast that night was jovial, even more so with your secreted knowledge of Helaena’s condition. You made sure she had an extra plate of lemoncakes sent her way after the first course was finished and Helaena gave you a smile as bright as sunlight when they were placed in front of her. It was enough for you to focus on and not how you felt two insistent and very different gazes trailing your every move.

One burned. The other made you itch.

When the feast was finished, you welcomed your handmaidens insisting on you resting for the night. To be true, the festivities had taken a toll on you. You preferred the infrequent crowds of the Vale and Eyrie to the constant bustle and pageantry of the capital. But you would not squirrel yourself away for long. It was time to celebrate. Hopefully this would be the first, last, and only coronation you would have to attend. Focusing on the smiles of your dear friends and family would surely be enough to soothe any discomfort you had. Only a small group of your fellow Valemen had come to you with grievances they wanted you to mediate or settle during the celebration, so you supposed that was another mark of good fortune.

You slid into the near-scalding water in the copper tub with a sigh. Lavender oil had created small, rainbow slicks in the water and you let it soak into your skin as you rested your head against the back of the tub. Pulling in a deep breath, your tight muscles started to unclench and your mind finally went quiet.

Just for a moment.

Your eyes snapped open as you sucked in another lungful of the floral fragrance. Lavender. Aemond smelt of lavender. It would be egotistical to think that he had taken to using lavender oil simply because you did, would it not? But now the seed of the thought had been planted. You dragged a hand down your face and sunk a little lower in the water, letting it lap at your upper lip. Lavender. Lavender. Lavender.

The scent had always reminded you of home, of your mother. Wherever you went, so did the scent of the purple bloom. Your mother had used it, credited it to her healthy glow and soft skin. And you had always wanted to be like her and had insisted your maids use it with you as soon as you could accurately form the argument.

And now it was Aemond. Aemond who smelt of dragon and mint and leather and lavender.

Despite the coming autumn, it was a warm day. You fanned your face as you watched Jeyne and Helaena try to capture a dragonfly with a fine silk net. The younger princess had wanted to gift it to Helaena in celebration of her pregnancy, but could not figure out how to best capture the insect and eventually had to ask Helaena for help. Helaena didn’t seem to mind, spouting off all the ways she had tried before and had led Jeyne this way and that for materials for their “hunt.” It warmed the recesses of your heart to see them together. Jeyne did insist on being the one to wait in the tree for the dragonfly to pass by again, telling Helaena she was to remain “both feet firmly planted!” on the ground. Jacaerys eventually joined the pair, shouting a brotherly “be careful!” to Jeyne in the tree before sitting beside Helaena on the soft grass below.

The coronation celebrations were slowly coming to an end and you would soon be home in the Eyrie again. Away from Alios and his disconcerting attentions. Away from Aemond and his silent stares. After arriving in the capital, you thought Aemond’s quiet had meant a new chapter had started. Perhaps his feelings for you had started to wane. But he stared. And his stare burned. You could not deny the heat of his gaze nor the tilt of his mouth when you caught his gaze. He was unrepentant and would not look away.

Your thoughts of Aemond were quickly usurped as Rhaenyra settled beside you on the bench. “They are considering the name Aerion for the babe,” she said instead of a greeting.

“And what if they have a girl, hm? What shall they name her? You were quite taken with the name Visenya as a girl, if I remember correctly.”

Rhaenyra hummed, not taking her eyes off the couple as they continued to sit quietly together in the shade. “Your mother was the one to sway me from that name.”

“Oh?”

Rhaenyra nodded. “She said that some names hold more weight than others.”

You knew what she meant. Your mother had long pondered if Queen Visenya had placed a curse of some sort on her own name, guaranteeing that she would be the one and only. Tragic demises usually awaited any babe that was considered for it. “Well, we shall just have to see what they choose for their little heir when the time comes.”

That seemed to be enough for Rhaenyra who sat quietly beside you for a moment—until Jeyne fell out of the tree. Thankfully, the princess was unharmed but it was deemed best that her hunt for the dragonfly resume tomorrow. You plucked a few blades of grass from Jeyne’s hair as Rhaenyra herded everyone back into the shadows of the Red Keep.

“Lady Arryn!” You turned and saw Alios striding toward you, a gaggle of similarly dressed men at his back. “I was hoping to have a moment of your time, if you would be agreeable.”

You certainly were not agreeable but courtly politeness kept you from voicing your displeasure. “Is there something you need, my lord?”

His smile stretched across his face and it instantly rolled your stomach. “Just as I said: a moment of your time. I would have you walk with me.”

You smashed your tongue between your teeth for a moment before nodding. “A moment, my lord. I have other duties to attend to.” As you passed a handmaiden, one of Alicent’s retinue, you were quick to wave her to your side. You would not leave yourself alone with Alios and his ilk. His intentions were unclear and you did not want to know them, truthfully. The more time you spent in his presence, the less you wanted him near you. It did not leave you with any comfort when Alios eyed the handmaiden at your side with barely checked contempt, but when you blinked again, his face was back to its placid smile again.

He led your small group back out into the gardens and you again bit your tongue to avoid something unkind slipping by your lips. This was a waste of time. Surely he had to see your disinterest.

“Have you ever been to Pentos, my lady?”

“No. But I hear it can be agreeable.”

“‘Agreeable.’” He laughed. “It is far more than agreeable. It is the jewel of the Free Cities.” Pride oozed from every syllable as he tapped at his chest. “I would be honored to show you its beauty and wonders.”

“That is a most gracious offer, magister, but I must decline. I have my duties and responsibilities here. I must not shirk them. No matter how tempting the offer.” The offer was not tempting but, again, courtly politeness kept you from saying so. But you were tempted. Gods, you were tempted.

“Perhaps I shall spirit you away regardless. You would warm to my city eventually.”

The handmaiden gasped behind you—the man had just proposed kidnapping you, it was a polite reaction compared to what you wanted. But still, you reached back and looped your hand through her arm and held her to your side. “I will not be warming anything of yours. I would thank you for the company but I found no enjoyment in this exchange. Please excuse us.” You then steered you and the handmaiden back toward the Keep without fanfare and your tongue now bleeding behind your teeth with how tightly you had bit. As soon as you were in the safety of the shadows of the Keep, you shooed the handmaiden back to her duties after thanking her for her company and hurried to Rhaenyra’s solar.

Luck, it seemed, was on your side as the royal family was still inside and the Queen was fussing over her daughter, just as she had been before Alios had rudely intruded.

“Where did you go?” Helaena asked, turning to look at you from her perch on an overstuffed chaise. “You were here one moment, gone the next.”

“I was called away. It is no matter now. It shall not happen again.” You pressed a smile to your face and hoped you were telling the truth. Surely Alios would now understand that you wanted nothing from him. Short of telling him that you found his very presence repugnant, you had made your opinion of him clear. Briefly, you thought of telling Rhaenyra of Alios and his unwanted attentions, but as you watched her fuss over her daughter and then pivot to also fuss over Helaena while balancing her father’s crown on her brow, you decided against it. It was not the time. You handled this yourself. Asking anything of Rhaenyra now would simply be selfish.

Over Rhaenyra’s shoulder, Helaena caught your eye. Her purple gaze was heavy, like she was seeing something on you that you could not scrub away. The queen-to-be saw something.

The door to the solar opened and Daeron strode in with a teasing smile at the ready. “I heard you fell out of a tree trying to catch a bug.”

Jeyne squawked in embarrassment. “Who told you?” And as the room descended into familiar familial chaos, you tried to smile. You had made the right choice, hadn’t you?

The day faded into the next and you were thankfully tied up in showing a few of your younger bannermen and their families around the capital and presenting them to the Crown. It was a bit monotonous but you would not complain. You were helping, in your own way, to solidify Rhaenyra’s reign and your own power over the Vale. And it mostly kept you out of Aemond and Alios’ lines of sight. They were off…busy with their own endeavors, you were sure, and you were happy to not think of them. But your mind did wander to Aemond. Now would be the most suitable time for him to find a more agreeable match. You hoped whomever he found would treat him well. He deserved it.

And you steadfastly ignored how hope and something you could not name twisted in your chest at the thought of it.

But it was no matter as you retired to your chambers before supper service, trying to regain a bit of energy you would need in order to play the part of Lady Arryn for the masses. And it was a blessing that you had such a high title and sway. But gods be good, it could be tiresome.

As you took a moment to breathe and attempt to sort through all the dynamics between your bannermen’s houses (there seemed to be a bit of tension between Lord Coldwater and the newest Lord Elesham and Lady Waynwood had come to you in hopes of helping her son and heir secure a suitable match and that was just the last hour) and how you should approach each of them. It helped soothe your mind as you rolled one of your mothers rings around your finger. Unladylike, true, but it helped nonetheless.

A quick knock at your chamber door had you turning, thoughts halting for a moment. You expected to see one of your handmaidens, or one attending to one of the other royal women summoning you to one solar or another. But what you found instead was Alios, leaning against your closed door, fingers twirling the lock with a smile on his face. “It should not have been this difficult to get you alone.”

Something vile rippled down your spine. Nothing good could come of this and your stomach twisted. “This is inappropriate, my lord. I must ask you leave at once.”

But he only stepped toward you. “Why should I? I have gone through much and more trouble to finally speak to you like this. Without any unwanted ears listening.”

Danger. Blood. Violence. Something whispered at the back of your mind for you to run. To scream. To flee. To fight. “Leave. It has been some time since I lived on the other side of the Narrow Sea, but I do not recall unannounced and unwanted visitors being polite.”

He took another step. And then another. And you took one back—only one as the back of your legs hit the edge of your featherbed. Your eyes darted to the door behind him. Surely you could be swift enough to evade him.

“If you try to run, I assure you that you will regret it, my lady.”

Ice ran through your veins at his words. “You dare threaten me?”

“I dare,” Alios said, smirk pushing at his mouth. “And I am certain you would prefer that your mother’s transgressions were not revealed to the court.”

Questions ran through your mind as your ears rang. What could he possibly mean? What connection did your mother have to this grievous and foreign man? And what did he want? He did not wait for you to voice these questions and pressed on with another taunting step toward you.

“Pentos and Lys do not often trade with one another, but I enjoy their wares when they arrive on our shores. And one such man came to Pentos not a year past, with quite a story to tell.”

You knew instantly of whom he spoke. Ghael. Your kinslaying uncle. But you would not let this interloper know that he had struck at a part of you that still ached. “I would not have you waste your breath recounting stories. I’ll not ask again: leave.”

But Alios inched closer still. “Your uncle told me stories of his maiden niece, locked in a tower of her own making, surrounded by stolen wealth.”

“He was the thief,” you seethed. “He stole my father’s life and livelihood. He would have murdered me in my bed, a child, had my mother not spirited me away to Westeros. Whatever he has told you, you have been misled.”

And as Alios’ infuriating smirk continued to grow, you realized you had already shown your weak spot. “I do not believe I have, my lady. Here you stand, as he said. A lady of considerable standing and wealth. You are kin with the new queen. Her children seek you out for comfort and conversation. Now, tell me, why would the only daughter of a Lyseni merchant be of such high standing if she had not taken something that belonged to another?”

You rolled your lips into your mouth for a moment. It would be worthless to try to convince him in seeing how he had been led astray, would it not? But still, you could not stand for such slander. “My position in court has nothing to do with my misbegotten uncle. My mother was the queen’s aunt, she was a cousin to the late king. Anything my mother brought from Lys was my father’s. All of it was my father’s and Ghael usurped what he could after murdering him. All that my father had was my mother’s by right. I now see Ghael has not learned in these years how to handle his own affairs. He offered you a great sum, did he not, to return what he says was stolen from him? The last man he sent this side of the Narrow Sea met his end swiftly.”

“That man was not me and your uncle promised me something far greater if I returned what you and your mother stole.”

Another step.

Another.

“And what is that?” You asked through gritted teeth. Sweat lined your palms but you fought the girlish urge to wipe it away on your gown.

“You.” And then the man lunged and his grotesquely slick lips pressed against yours. Your next breath was a half muffled shriek as you shoved at his chest. He stumbled back for just a moment before he surged forward to again claim your mouth with his; one of his hands wrapped around the back of your neck as the other grasped your breast with a cruel grip. One of his boots knocked into your feet and had you falling backward against your featherbed with a yelp. Alios laughed as you, again, shoved at his chest, and you nearly screamed as his tongue traced against the seam of your tightly closed mouth.

You raked your nails down his cheek and snarled in near delight as blood bubbled beneath your fingers but you were not done. Shoving your knee up, Alios let out a gasp of pain as you found your mark and he reared back, giving you just enough room to move out from under him and stumble to your feet. But he lunged again, grasped at the sleeve of your gown and yanked. The seams popped beneath his grip but you surged backward as the fabric tore and ripped down your arm. Alios threw the ruined fabric aside as he stood straight again. His sneer returned even as his chest heaved.

The door burst open and Aemond strode in, no doubt having heard the disturbance. And to your horror, several courtiers were peering around him into the room, already whispering.

And Alios was the first to speak. “I did not know the women this side of the Narrow Sea were so tenacious!”

The whispers increased in volume but you scarcely heard them over the roaring of blood in your ears. “You impudent liar! He has attacked me-”

“She is embarrassed! You have caught us in quite the position; I daresay I usually leave my lovers much more satisfied than this.” His following laugh had your blood boiling.

“He continues to spew falsehoods!” Despite wanting to appear calm and collected, as you were known to be, as the Lady of the Eyrie should always be seen, the terror and unbridled rage was starting to gnaw at your bones. This could ruin you. Ruin everything. Your mother’s legacy. Your legacy and legitimacy as the rightful ruler of the Vale. All of it would be lost to the scandal.

But Alios simply laughed again and bent to grab your discarded sleeve. He waved it around like a tourney favor. The blue and silver fabric shimmered mockingly in the dying light. “We were in quite a rush, as you can see, Prince Aemond.”

It took you a moment to realize Aemond had his sword readied in his hand and he had not moved to sheathe it again. “And will you deign to tell me that the blood on your face is from her passionate embrace?” Aemond’s tone held the icy formality you knew him to use in court but it now had a steely underbelly you could not ignore. And his sword still glinted in the light.

Alios’ smile faltered a fraction and he touched his cheek, as if he had forgotten the small injury you had bestowed upon him. “As I said: we were in a rush.”

The whispers at the prince’s back continued to grow and your heart raced. You stared at Aemond, silently begging him to believe you. Despite your rejection of his suit, he had to believe you in this, did he not? He had to know you better than to cavort with a near stranger so openly.

“I know Lady Arryn to be a woman who holds honor above much else. Her honor has been without question.”

Tears sprang to your eyes as Aemond’s words as the smallest bit of tension fell from your spine. He believed you. “Thank you, my prince.”

But it seemed that the Pentoshi Magister was not yet finished. “Fine! I was trying to protect her honor by implying our tryst was amicable but Lady Arryn attacked me.”

Someone gasped and any relief you might have felt vanished as bile coated the back of your mouth. “Cease your lies! You are-”

“That is a dire accusation to levy against Lady Arryn,” Aemond said, his tone not wavering, but you would swear you saw the grip he had on the hilt of his sword tightening for a moment. Just a moment.

The fortress shook for a moment and your dragon’s distinctive shriek echoed through the halls and air. He had come for you, too.

“Indeed it is,” Alios agreed, the smile returning to his face for a flash before he schooled his features into a mockery of genteel resignation. “I wanted to spare her the embarrassment of-”

“You will not accuse me of your own crime.” Despite the shake in your voice, it rang out for all to hear. This would not stand.

“And I will not have you accuse me of such treachery,” Alios sneered in return before turning to Aemond again, his chin tilted up for a moment. “Your country allows trials for such matters, does it not? We should have this settled, for all to hear.”

“I choose violence.” The words spilled from between your lips and you would not and could not take them back. He had tried to dishonor you. In front of the court and your Valemen, no matter how small of a crowd. And your honor was your armor. “I demand a trial by combat.”

The smirk that stretched across Alios’ face was all teeth, like a rabid jackal. “I was so hoping it would come to that. Have I mentioned that I was once a bravo? I have killed many men for less.”

You bit back the snarl you felt growing. Alios being a bravo might give him a fair fight, but you knew Oswin would fight gallantly and prevail. The truth was on your side. He had never faltered in his protection of you. You might not be able to truly wield a mace, and your true weapon was a dragon. Your dragon. But you knew that using your dragon as such would be seen as dishonorable if not completely underhanded. Yes, you would have to rely on him, your sworn shield.

You were herded out to the training yard, the crowd growing with each step you took. Seven hells, how were you going to explain this to Rhaenyra? She was to be celebrating her ascension and you were demanding a trial by combat against one of the foreign dignitaries during the festivities. You asked one of your handmaidens to fetch Ser Oswin with haste before you were all but shoved into one of the chairs on the small overlook of the training grounds. A queensguard was posted at the entrance to the hall and you were unsure if this was to keep you safe or to keep you still. Your heart was still thundering in your chest and blood roared in your ears. How could so much go so wrong so quickly? The crowd had grown, too, much to your horror. The whispers you could catch told the story of how this could be the end of you. A harlot or a lady caught unawares by a man with ill intent? The gods would decide. Your dragon had followed you, paced atop the Red Keep, to peer down into the training yard with his blazing eyes as he loomed over you. For better or worse, he was with you.

You looked down at your hands and saw streaks of Alios’ blood beneath your fingernails and soaking your nail beds. You must have dealt him quite a blow—but you could find no satisfaction in it now. But you still pushed out your next breath as you curled your fingers together against your palms, whispering one of the few chants your mother had drilled into you for protection. She had once told you that having the blood of your enemy made it all the more potent. And with the fear and growing loathing coursing through your own veins, you knew it would be formidable. But you wished not for your own safety, but for Ser Oswin’s. His son was still growing. His lady wife adored him. And then regret started to tug at the back of your mind—should you have asked for someone else? Anyone else?

But as your handmaiden slipped back to your side—alone—your hope for protecting Ser Oswin might have come to fruition regardless.

“Where is Ser Oswin?” You whispered, blood pumping past your ears.

“I have not been able to find him, my lady.” Her eyes lowered and you saw tears lining her lashes.

Alios laughed as he lounged against a training brace, a thin and sharp sword dangling between his fingers. He no doubt heard your handmaiden. “Do you not have anyone who would fight for you and your supposed honor, my lady? Perhaps they see you as I do.” His self righteous smirk only faltered when your dragon blew green smoke into the air.

“Hold your tongue.” It was Aemond who spoke next.The gathered crowd parted for him immediately, letting his powerful stride carry him forward. He wore no armor but his sword was sheathed at his side, waiting and wanting.

Whispers ripped through the group as Aemond continued to close the distance. What would a prince of the Realm be doing here?

“I shall fight for Lady Arryn’s honor.” Your heart started to claw its way up your throat as you watched his long fingers curl around his sword’s pommel. “I know she tells the truth.”

Alios scoffed and stood straight. “The woman is a trollop. Trying to seduce me and then turning to violence when I declined her advances. She is no lady.”

Aemond hummed and looked at you as you leaned forward in your seat. “I think I should have your tongue for that.”

“You may try, princeling. But I’ll have your blood first.” Before the septon could even recite his prayer or Aemond unsheathe his sword, Alios lunged. His sword arched toward Aemond’s neck who simply stepped back to avoid the blade. With Aemond’s next step, his own sword was pulled and met with Alios’ in a heavy clash.

Aemond shoved Alios back and ducked in time to miss the blade coming at his face again and then rolled as Alios swung down, hoping to stab the prince in the back. But Aemond was quick. And cruel.

He pivoted and thrust his sword out, driving the blade through Alios’ knee. Alios tumbled into the dirt with a scream as Aemond pulled his sword free and stood tall again. Blood dripped from his sword but you doubted he cared as he calmly crushed Alios’ wrist beneath his heel. The other man’s screams choked him and you leaned further still and watched as Aemond pried the sword from Alios’ grip and cast it aside.

“Recant your accusations against Lady Arryn.” His voice was smooth and light. The fight had been short, true, and had presented him little challenge, apparently. “Now.”

Alios spat at him but it did not land, instead slithered down Alios’ splotched cheek. “I spoke true! She is-”

The point of Aemond’s sword sunk into the center of Alios’ sternum. “Careful, my lord. I would consider letting you keep your life if you proclaim that you falsely accused Lady Arryn. But I will not allow you to continue to proclaim these lies.” With a flick of his wrist, you watched blood bloom across Alios’ chest and he let out a short gasp as Aemond stared down at him.

Something you could not name stirred in the dark of your chest. Aemond was an unmoving force. A shadow of death cast across his opponent.

You could see Alios’ chest heave with each breath before he nodded, body going lax. “Lady Arryn did not try to seduce me. It was I who sought her company and was refused.”

Hushed conversation ripped around you but you could not tear your eyes away from Aemond. And, as if feeling your gaze, Aemond turned to look at you. His lilac gaze met yours—just for a moment—before he turned back to the man beneath his foot and sword. He did not move.

“You said you would let me live if-”

“I said I would consider it. I have considered it. And I still find you lacking.” He hummed. “But it would be dishonorable for me to kill an unarmed man. I shall let you try to best me.” The prince pulled his foot and weapon back and watched, almost disinterested, as Alios scrambled to find his footing and sword again. More blood started to dribble out of Alios’ chest but he still raised his weapon.

And then Aemond moved. He parried Alios’ sluggish advance and then turned and sunk the entirety of his sword through the other man’s chest. Up to the hilt. Alios froze for just a moment before pulling in a stuttering breath and then sprayed blood across Aemond’s face with his last moments before the Stranger took him.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

The crowd’s whispers reached a crescendo just as the septon, pale and shaking, stepped out into the dirt of the training ground and clasped his hands together. “Th-the Seven have spoken. Lady Arryn has been proven innocent of…of the accusations levied against her. Lord Alios was a deceiver…” He droned on a little longer but you scarcely heard it. And you could not tear your eyes away from the growing pool of blood beneath Alios’ body. Not until your dragon extended his ridged neck and took the magister’s body between his blackened teeth as the crowd below screamed again and quickly fled. But he paid them no mind as he devoured his snack before taking to the skies again, satisfied that you were safe and his own hunger sated. For now.

It took you a stretched moment to realize Aemond had gone. And you were alone on your little perch as the rest of the crowd dispersed, satisfied with your innocence and their unconscious need for bloodshed. Alone with your thundering heartbeat and racing thoughts.

You curled your hands into your skirts for a moment, trying to breathe through…everything. Your hold shook. How had this happened? All of it? And now it was over. The blood was surely cooling on the dirt now, waiting to be washed away by some squire or master-at-arms who tired of looking at it.

A soft footfall on the stone floor at your back had you rising and turning—and there stood Aemond. Crimson stained his hand. The wound he had dealt Alios must have been deep, deeper than you witnessed. Before you could form a single word, he moved, closing the distance. The blood was still warm as Aemond grasped at your face, pressing his hands to your cheeks and dragging you close. “Do you see now, my lark? Have I not sufficiently proven myself to you?”

You could feel Alios’ blood starting to grow tacky and cool, leaving streaks across your face that you would feel even after you had scrubbed the crimson away. “I did not wish for you-”

“But you have me. And I have spilled blood for your honor. For your house. For you.” His thumbs pressed into the plump of your cheeks, burning and viscid. “I have proclaimed it for the Realm to see. No one shall speak against you. Not while I have air in my lungs.” Aemond leaned his forehead against yours and his eye shuttered.

“Aemond…” The scent of blood had your throat tightening. He was safe. You were safe. “Thank you.”

His eye opened again and for a moment you thought he would kiss you but his grip on your face only tightened a fraction before he reached up and dragged one of his bloody fingers between your brows. Another hum rumbled through him as he looked at the mark he’d made before he turned and walked away without another word. As he disappeared back into the Keep, the blood grew cold on your skin.

It was not until you were back in your room that you realized that he had marked you in the way a groom would in a Valyrian marriage ceremony. And your heart ached.

You could feel Alicent and Rhaenyra’s eyes boring into each side of your face as you stirred honey into your tea.

“I have already apologized,” you muttered into the fine porcelain as you raised it to your lips.

“You needn’t apologize at all,” Alicent said, again, as she glanced at Rhaenyra. “I was the one who arranged for the magister to attend the celebrations.”

“His actions do not reflect upon you, Alicent. How was anyone to know that my kinslaying uncle had such reach or such patience?” The tea cup rattled in its saucer as you set it down. “But I must, again, apologize for having Aemond be wrapped up in this folly.”

And for the umpteenth time in your life, Alicent and Rhaenyra exchanged a look before turning back to you. “Aemond can act rashly, I will admit, but I believe that his defense of you was something we all knew was inevitable.”

You froze for a moment, fingers still half-curled around the teacup’s handle. “What do you mean?”

Rhaenyra let out a small noise—you weren’t entirely sure if it was a laugh or a sigh. “You cannot be so blind to see that my brother is devoted to you.”

Devoted. It was a terrible, heavy word. But your heart still skipped a beat at the thought of it. And you hated that it did. But it was involuntary.

Before you could form a thought to sway them away from the current topic of conversation, they were, thankfully or not, called away to wish some of their guests safe travels back to their homes in the Westerlands.

You found your way back to your own apartments and were pleased to find Ser Oswin at your door. The gold cloaks you had sent out to find him after your trial concluded had returned with news that your sworn shield had been found and was being tended to by maesters. While you had a strange solace in knowing that he had not abandoned you, it was quickly wiped away by concern for him when you saw the bandages around his head. The maesters told you that he would heal completely, but he would need some time to find his bearings again. They hypothesized that he had been struck about the head and moved into the dark alleyway near the Red Keep where the gold cloaks had discovered him. It seemed Alios had planned for nearly everything in his attempt to destroy and possess you. Having Ser Oswin indisposed when you were alone in your chambers and still missing when you called for a trial by combat had been a devious plot.

Ser Oswin was not wearing his armor and you were quick to have him sit on the chaise your apartments offered and sent another handmaiden to fetch tea for him. “It gladdens me to see you upright, Ser, but are you sure you should not be resting?”

The knight shook his head but grimaced with the movement. “The maesters said I am well enough to return to the Vale with you, my lady. And I had to see you.” He pulled his lips into his mouth for a moment. “I have not fulfilled my oaths to you as your sworn shield.”

“Ser-”

“You have given me a sacred duty to keep you safe. And I was caught unawares when you needed me most. I will wear this shame forever.”

As your handmaiden returned with the tea and quietly made herself scarce in the shadows of your chambers, you tentatively reached out to grasp Oswin’s hand. “Alios was a cunning man. Underhanded and cruel. You are a man of honor—you are not to blame for anything. I am grateful that you will be well again soon.”

Oswin set his other hand over yours and his gentle eyes met yours for just a moment before he, again, shook his head. “You have always been kind to me, my lady. You and your lady mother both.”

“You are deserving of that kindness, Ser Oswin,” you whispered, trying to press as much gratitude as you could into your voice. He was a stalwart sword and shield. A good man. A loyal father and husband. “I am thankful, truly, that I still have you at my side. And I would have no other. You must know that.”

Oswin eventually excused himself after you swore to him that he had not lost his place as your sworn shield and that you would not hear a single word against him and his honor. It was not his honor that had been revealed to be wanting. Alios was more of a villain than you had first thought. It was one thing to plot to destroy you but to also destroy the life of your stalwart shield was another. You hoped his soul was never given rest.

Princess Rhaenys, wearing the thick necklace of interlocked hands denoting her position as Hand of the Queen, had told you to refrain from drawing any more attention during the remainder of your stay. But as soon as the words left her mouth, she had to stifle a small smile. She gently squeezed your shoulder with a shake of her head. “I am glad you were not harmed further.” That was a kindness, to be sure. But you did keep to the edges of the last day’s celebrations. It was a balancing act; being seen in public to show you were victorious but not be too much of a spectacle as to invite more whispers. Everyone needed to believe the fact that you were innocent.

Daemon was the only one who found some humor in it all and bemoaned the fact that he had not borne witness to the short trial and asked you, only somewhat jokingly, to “accidentally seduce” another magister so he could have his turn at killing someone. “It’s been too long. My gentle lady-wife despises violence.” You tried to laugh. It marginally worked.

As you sat in the shadows provided by one of the pavilions set up along the courtyard to watch a troupe of mummers reenact the love story of Florian and Jonquil, you could hear a few whispers. Most, thankfully, were content with your innocence being proven by the trial by combat. But there were some that questioned why a prince was the one to defend you.

“Perhaps that simply shows her innocence all the more,” a woman bedecked in the colors of House Reyne said. “The gods sent a prince as her champion and he prevailed. And swiftly.” The woman waved a hand. “I’ll hear nothing more of it. I am not one to question the gods.”

You almost smiled at that. Almost. It was a boon that the masses of the Seven Kingdoms took the Faith of the Seven as law. It was hard to argue with a god’s will.

But you knew it had been Aemond.

As if you could not help it, you turned your head and spotted him in the crowd. He was seated behind Rhaenyra and beside Jeyne and Daeron who both looked like they were enjoying the performance. But he was looking at you.

He had once told you that his patience was growing thin. That had been many moons ago. Even with his defense of you against Alios, could he possibly…finally be seeing that whatever feelings he thought he harbored for you were mislaid?

And why did that twist at something in your chest?

You shook that thought away as the mummer’s finished the first act of their performance and you clapped politely with the rest of the crowd. The crushed velvet curtains that had been strung up that morning to create a stage closed and you smiled as Jeyne caught your eye and waved at you, full of girlish giddiness.

You stayed seated as others milled about, socializing during the intermission. A few were brave enough to give you shallow pleasantries in passing but they scattered as Alicent approached and claimed the seat beside yours with a flutter of her cerulean silk skirts. “How are you, my lady?” Her mouth tilted up with the honorific, mirth coloring each syllable.

“I am pleased Her Grace’s reign has started with such peace and festivity.” I am grateful to be going home soon was unspoken but understood with how Alicent patted your hand with a wry smile. The Dowager Queen linked her fingers with yours and stood, wordlessly tugging you to your feet and leading you away from the crowds and into the shadows cast over the yard by the Red Keep’s reaching towers. It was only when you were truly alone did she drop your hand.

“Tell me true: are you well? You have been out of sorts these last days.”

And you could not deny her and her gentle, brown eyes. “It has not been without its surprises. But I am thankful that I have not sullied Rhaenyra’s celebrations.” You sighed and squeezed her hand. “You mustn’t think any more on it. I am trying to do the same.”

Alicent nodded after a moment, accepting your want to not speak of Alios and his plots. “My son, Aemond, asks of you.” She paused and your heart thudded. What had he told her? “You must know that what Rhaenyra said was true: he is devoted to you. I want to see him happy. Content.”

Alicent loved her children, you could not and would not deny that. If her children needed warmth, she would burn the world for them. But sometimes, you noted, that she seemed to have missteps in connecting with them. Your mother had been the one to say it out loud: Alicent was a child herself when she was forced to become a mother. It was unfair and another strike against Viserys that you would never forgive. Alicent would fight for her children, support them, make sure they were cared for. She loved them. She did. Truly. But the divide persisted. It might have lessened a fraction as the years passed but you knew that families and the blood they had running in their veins were complicated.

“That is a worthy want.”

She nodded, the golden circlet atop her auburn curls catching the sunlight with the movement. Four tiny, golden dragons curled around it, each with different gems for eyes. Rhaenyra had commissioned it for Alicent’s last name day and you had smiled like a fool when you received Alicent’s raven detailing it. You were so pleased that she and Rhaenyra were so fulfilled with each other, finally free of the constraints of societal obligations and the like.

But the joy you felt fizzled when you saw her gnaw at the edge of her thumb. Why was she so nervous? “Alicent?”

“My son has told me he has been courting you. Why have you kept this from me?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “I… I assure you, he is not courting me, Alicent. He has made…overtures but I told him that-”

“He has said you make him happy. You make him happy.. Do you refute it?”

Your tongue was sand in your mouth as you stared at Alicent, your surrogate sister. “I have given him nothing to have him think that way.” It was the gentlest of phrasings you could muster at the moment. How could you tell her that her son was delusional in his affections for you?

Alicent took a single step toward you, the soft sole of her slipper silent on the stone. “But you make him happy. Surely you could at least consider him-”

“Consider him as what?” You asked, agog. “I am more than a decade his senior. He is-”

“He is devoted.” Her voice rang out, clear and unmoveable. “You wanted a family, a husband. You have been the one to encourage him in all of his endeavors and now you want to deny yourself this because it is my son?”

The unchecked vitriol in her tone nearly had you recoiling but you could do little else besides let your jaw drop. “Alicent…surely you would want someone more suitable for him. Younger, more-”

“He wants you. While I shall not force you to accept his courtship, I would ask that you do not dismiss it out of hand. My son…” She rolled her lips for a moment and her dark eyes hardened. “Aemond has been denied most everything. I’ll not have you refuse him so callously.”

“It is not out of callousness. It is out of concern. I am not… I am so much older than him. I want the best for him, as you do. I am… I have come to realize that having a family is not what the gods have planned for me.” The words hurt to say but the next rolled your stomach, “If Aemond also has a hope for a family of his own, I can help him find a suitable bride-”

Alicent scoffed and you recoiled as if she had struck you instead. “He has chosen you. You are the sole heir to a Great House and a Prince of the Realm wishes to take you to wife. There is no one else worthy of him.”

Before you could even think of a rebuttal, she turned and walked away, letting her words echo in your mind as she retook her seat at Rhaenyra’s side. Your entire chest ached. One of the few people who had been an unmoving presence in your life was mad at you. It felt like a knife between your ribs. And it only continued to bite at your marrow when you looked out into the crowd and saw Aemond watching you. Again.

Why couldn’t he see that you were trying to help him? Even if it left you feeling sick and cold for reasons you could not name. Even if the show had not finished, you murmured to one of your handmaidens that you were retiring for the afternoon and she hurried to keep step with you back to your chambers before you dismissed her for the remainder of the day.

It was better to be alone right now. To try to gather your thoughts that were racing through your mind with increasing, dizzying speed. What had Aemond said to his mother to convince her, so fervently, of his supposed feelings for you? In your desperation, you pushed the fat of your thumb into the quill on your vanity until blood bubbled across your skin. The pain was fleeting but the solace it gave you, as you murmured the chants your mother once whispered to you, was immeasurable. You would move through this. You would go home. This would end.

You licked the blood away and wished, as you so often did, that you could see your own future as you saw others when they had come to you and your mother under the shadows of the Eyrie. It had to be willingly given, not forced as it had been with Alios. If you could have seen his death, perhaps you could have… Well, that doesn’t matter now.

You eventually collapsed across the fine blankets of your bed and shut your eyes against the sunlight still streaming into your room. Perhaps more rest would help you. Or at least distract you from your thoughts for a moment. And the brief nap was restful, thankfully. When you opened your eyes a few hours later, it felt as if you hadn’t moved at all.

A knock sounded at the door—that must have been what woke you. You stood and shuffled toward it and welcomed in the handmaiden who said you were being called to supper with the Targaryens. She helped you change into yet another fine gown and straightened your appearance.

Just as she finished righting the ties on the back of your gown, another knock sounded. She was quick to answer it and turned with a small smile. “Prince Aemond, Lady Arryn.”

The silver-haired prince stepped in as the handmaiden curtseyed and dismissed herself before you could think of keeping her from doing so. Your stomach clenched as you looked at him. Both dread and a strange sense of furor swirled beneath our skin. “What do you need, Aemond?”

“Is it so uncommon for me to come and visit the lady whom I defended?”

That was a fair point but, thankfully, he did not wait for your reply and swept his hand into the folds of his doublet and produced your silver necklace, the one Alicent had given you ages ago which matched your diadem.

The necklace was one of your favorites, even if it was now always associated with the first time Aemond kissed you. But why did he have it? When did he spirit it away from your chambers?

“Aemond…” You started, already reaching out for it.

“Turn around.” He twirled a finger between you, that same smirk tilting his lips.

You wanted to argue and perhaps mention that he had stolen the necklace from you and the entirety of this situation was inappropriate and unbecoming. But you bit your tongue, hoping that this small acquiescence on your part would hurry this along. Your eyes fluttered shut as the scent of him enveloped you and the warmth of him bled across your back as he stepped closer. It was involuntary, wholly out of your control. And you could not stop the shiver when you felt the metal of the necklace wrap around your neck. It was warm, almost uncomfortably so, from when Aemond’s body heat had leached through it.

But your eyes snapped open when something heavy fell against your sternum instead of the delicate feathers you had memorized from your constant wear.

You looked down and your gasp nearly choked you as you grasped at the new addition to your necklace. The sapphire was large. It fit neatly into your palm and had been cut so it sparkled with even the smallest of movements. It took your breath away. Even more so when you noticed how the delicate silver feathers fell towards it. The clasp at the back of your neck clicked in place and Aemond’s long fingers moved over your shoulders, pressing until you turned in his grasp. His minted breath swept across your mouth. He looked down, watching as your fingers mindlessly clutched at the sapphire. His mouth tilted up into a smirk, pleased.

“It suits you.”

Your mouth opened with a rebuttal but all that came out was another soft breath. There were no words you could conjure at that moment. Nothing you could say.

He curled his hand over yours and then raised your joined hands to his mouth, brushing his lips against your knuckles. “Come. They are waiting for us.” And then he was moving, pulling the sapphire from your grip to let it rest against your sternum, and linking your fingers together as he started to lead you from your chambers. And when you tried to pull your hand from his, his grip only tightened until you were hissing. “Do not fight me, my lady. I have told you: my patience wears thin.” His voice was low, steady, but you could not deny the authority that dripped from every syllable.

It did not stop you from loosely tugging at your hand again with little success. “Yes, I have been informed by your mother that she believes we are courting.”

“We are.”

“Aemond. You must cease with this delusion. If you want a wife, I shall find you one. One that is worthy of you, closer to your age, and-”

Aemond drew you both to a sudden stop and his lilac eye blazed as he looked at you. “You are mine. You have always been mine. Did I not tell you that the gods shaped you for me? And I for you? I will have no other.” And then he was moving again, and you were pulled alongside him, trying to match his long, powerful strides. And it only took you a moment to do so. Your steps fell beside his with ease once you put in a small bit of effort. Each step was in sync. Aemond seemed to notice it as well and let out a small hum as you neared the doors to the Great Hall. The men at the doors bowed to both of you and announced your names as you walked inside.

Almost immediately, Alicent’s brow arched and Rhaenyra leaned over to whisper something in her ear as you bowed to them, seated at the high table. Seven Hells. How were you going to explain this? You had little time to think of anything before you were tucked into your seat at the table. Of course, Aemond was at your side. You bit your tongue for a moment and watched silently as food was loaded onto your plate by a few of the serving men and women but your heart gave yet another lurch when Aemond’s hand covered your plate just as a ladle of mushroom sauce was about to be poured over your boar.

“My lady does not care for mushrooms. Thank you.”

The serving man dipped his head in apology and carried on to the next plate and you stared uselessly at your unmarred plate as words tangled in your throat. “When did you learn I detested mushrooms?”

The smile that pushed at Aemond’s mouth was soft and you fought the urge to return it. “I listen, my lark.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest and you hated it, just for a moment. No one had… Your people listened when you gave decrees and held mediate disagreements. But you knew they didn’t listen when it came to small matters as to what you liked or disliked on your plate. And why did that make this small act of knowing all the more precious to you?

That realization had you pressing your fingers to your mouth for a moment. You could not feel like this. Not with Aemond. Harwin had made you smile. He was kind. But he had not listened when you tried to tell him how you felt about your dragon, what he meant to you. But you knew that Aemond would understand. Your nails dug into your upper lip for a moment, trying to will the comparison away. Aemond had overstepped. He had put into motion Harwin and House Strong’s demise. He had kissed you and kissed you and kissed you despite your protests and simply said that you were his for the taking. Surely you could not be feeling…

Your chair nearly toppled as you stood up. “I am afraid I’ve taken ill. I must retire.” You then hurried from the Great Hall after making another quick curtsey in Rhaenyra’s direction. Your heart thundered in your chest as you swept down the hall back toward your chambers. As you turned a corner, you pulled at your necklace, needing to be free of its added weight and the way Aemond’s sapphire thumped over your heart.

But it would not come free.

The necklace’s clasp would not give, no matter how you pulled or how you fussed, it would not come undone. At your wit’s end, you strode over to the looking glass and turned the necklace around so you could look at the clasp and you nearly screamed. The clasp had been replaced—you had only seen clasps like this in Lys as a child, meant for jewels denoting a man or woman’s status as a prize within a pillow house. Only the madam or master of the establishment had the small, intricate key to undo them.

And Aemond had made sure the necklace, with his jewel, his mark, would not leave your neck without his consent.

Rage and something akin to delight bubbled beneath your skin for a moment. And then you were moving, throwing the entirety of your traveling wardrobe into your trunks and yanking off your gown and changing into your riding clothes. Your handmaidens would see that you were ready to leave when they came into the room tomorrow but you would not be there.

No.

You pushed at the hidden door, muscle memory telling you to lean into it for an extra moment, before it clicked open. You hurried down the sloped staircase and finally pulled in a breath when the chilled night air hit your face. You pulled your cloak higher and slid its hood over your silver hair as you made your way through the still-bustling city streets. And while your dragon tended to roost wherever he wanted, you always knew where to find him. Tonight, it was just outside the Iron Gate and at the start of the Rosby Road. What you weren’t expecting, however, was your dragon to be coiled around Vhagar.

His large head was nestled between her wing and flank, content to watch you approach in the dark with his blazing green eyes. Vhagar rumbled a greeting, too, not moving. You weren’t…entirely sure what you should make of this revelation. True, your dragons had flown together over the city. But this was more than that. This was a familiarity usually reserved to bonded pairs. Mated pairs. And that feeling you wouldn’t name twisted behind your ribs again.

“We must go, my darling,” you said to your dragon in Valyrian.

He huffed.

“Please? I cannot stand to be in this place for a moment longer.” You hated how petulant you sounded, how desperate. But you needed to leave. Before Aemond did something else. Before another move was made against you.

Your dragon grumbled but started to move, nudging his head against Vhagar’s as they slowly disentangled from each other. It was a sight to see, to be true, to see the two largest dragons move so effortlessly around each other, imposing shapes made gentle in the moonlight. He bent his wing to you and you slowly took your seat astride his spine. The familiar heat of him settled your frazzled mind for a moment and he let out a worried grumble as you curled your hands over the spikes you usually held.

“I simply need to go home,” you muttered before leaning down to pat at his side. “We need to go home.”

The night air bit at your skin as he took to the skies but with each lungful you breathed in, your heart felt a little lighter. Home. You were going home. A loud rumble had you turning in your perch and you saw Vhagar behind you, slowly flapping her wings as she followed you north. If your dragon went left, she followed, if she curled east, he matched her movement. They were dancing. Then, just as you hit the border of Rosby, your dragon started to climb higher into the sky. You held tighter and leaned forward to counteract the sudden change in altitude, content in knowing he would never let you fall, and watched as Vhagar mirrored him. They twisted together for one turn, then two, and three before they both spit green fire into the air with a matching, heartbreaking roar as they leveled out. You shut your eyes against the flames but felt them warm your skin for a moment. But, as you opened them again and your dragon continued northward, you turned back to see Vhagar holding her spot in the moonlight, watching you and your dragon fly away.

The Eyrie was growing colder by the day. It would be a short Autumn. You tried to focus on the coming Winter instead of the unease you felt brewing like a storm in your stomach.

You had received four ravens from the capital. The one from Helaena was short and lovely, thanking you for the embroidered blanket you had given her before your abrupt departure, meant for her coming babe. Another was from Alicent who maternally scolded you for leaving without a proper goodbye and then immediately forgiving you for it. But, with the next line of her flourished handwriting, she told you, again, of Aemond’s wants. Alicent remained ever confusing. The next was from Rhaenyra who thanked you for your attendance at the festivities but also questioned you about your lack of proper goodbye. Much like Alicent, which should not have been a surprise to you as they shared much more than a close friendship, the Queen mentioned Aemond, although in a much more subdued way. My brother remains devoted to you, as ever.

Devoted. It was a double-edged word, you were coming to learn.

The last was from Aemond himself. I shall let you have your peace for now, my lark. But I will claim recompense soon enough.

You threw his into the fires of your solar’s hearth with shaking hands as if that would protect you. For a few days, there was the blissful quiet of the Vale. You were glad to see the resolution you had demanded between Houses Coldwater and Elesham seemed to be sufficient and Lady Waynwood was delighted to tell you that her son was delighted with the match you had made with Ser Oswin’s comely niece. It was fine. Until it wasn’t.

It seemed that you wanting to hear any whispers from Lys years ago was still bearing fruit. You heard rumblings of further discontent in Essos. When the Triarchy had dissolved after Daemon and Lord Corlys smashed their hold on the Stepstones (and constant infighting between the city states), there had been a tepid peace in the Disputed Lands…for a moment. But soon old grudges were reignited and war erupted again. Some captain, Shakaro, had been vying for the affections of the famed courtesan, The Black Swan, and had been murdered. That was only after the Myrmen and Tyroshi captains stewed in their anger that Shakaro had held back her fleet of Lyseni ships during a bloody and long battle with Lord Velaryon and his fleet—and it did seem to have a kernel of truth. The Lyseni suffered the fewest losses. But the specifics of why didn’t particularly matter to you right now. What mattered was that Lys was in the middle of a war and your uncle had tried to have you destroyed in one way or another for his own gain. The war must be hurting his coffers.

It started with whispers of a skirmish here or there in the Narrow Sea. Someone new called himself the King of the Stepstones and the northern Free Cities of Braavos, Pentos, and Lorath were quickly pulled into the war as well. It should have been a foreign war that you simply monitored via whispers or raven. But you soon received reports that the war was hurting trade from King’s Landing up to Gulltown.

You would not stand idly by when there was a threat to your people. Trade was crucial and necessary. Doubly so now with the threat of a looming winter. You flew your dragon down to Gulltown to receive their reports personally. And it was true. The blockade the war had created had spilled as far north as your shores. And while your granaries were full now, you would not have your people potentially starving in Winter because of a war you did not start.

Lord Torrent was watching as you looked over his reports, taken by his men as they sailed from Littlesister in the Bite into the Narrow Sea. You were not going to ask why his men were sailing in the Narrow Sea nor why he had a large gold necklace with a pendant stamped with the mark of the powerful Rogare family from Lys that looked like it had blood on it. That wasn’t your problem right now.

“You are estimating we have lost a dozen ships?” You let the parchment furl back into itself before handing it back to Lord Torrent.

“Yes, my lady. If not more.”

“Livelihoods were on those ships,” Lord Grafton said, stepping forward. His pallid cheeks were splotched with red, emotion he was trying to suppress. “House Grafton and the people of Gulltown will not survive if this were to happen again.”

You rolled your lips into your mouth for a moment. “I am giving you both leave to defend your lands as necessary but you may not engage further. There must be no aggression from the Vale until I am given leave from the Crown. I will not have our people die needlessly by inviting this war onto our shores.”

Your dragon grumbled at your back and both of the lords gave you a cautious look, wondering what you and your dragon would do. He was an extension of you. And while you had learned to swallow your anger in mixed company, he was still free to express it. But, as the years had passed, you thought he had learned to stymie his anger when others were around, too. Most of the time.

“My lords, I thank you for your reports and I pray the gods bless you all. I shall fly to King’s Landing to bring our concerns to the Crown.” And fly you did, telling Ser Oswin and your trusted handmaidens that they would be sending out ravens to the rest of the Vale, preparing them for the near-inevitability of war. You tried to focus on that instead of the growing, gnawing pit in your stomach when you thought of who else awaited you at the Red Keep.

Your dragon landed atop the remnants of the Pit and then took to the skies when you steered him away from landing atop the Red Keep again. He watched over you as you made your way through the city but finally deemed you safe when the Queensguard posted at the front bowed to you and let you in.

You were led to the Small Council by a grim-faced Jacaerys who met you in the hall and then shuffled into one of the vacant seats around the table. The somewhat spacious room was far more crowded than you had ever seen it, filled with gold cloaks, Queensguard, heads of noble houses and the like. Rhaenyra was the picture of regal power at the head, with Alicent and Rhaenys on either side and Jacaerys stood at his mother’s back, spine straight. There were already discussions of the coming conflict and you heard of the incursions onto the isle of Tarth and Estermont and the battering of the Stormlands, the edges of the Riverlands, the Crownlands and, much to your astonishment, Dorne. When the ruling Princess of Dorne, Aliandra, had refused to engage with the envoys from Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr, they had sent small but creative bands of mercenaries to Dorne’s shores to show their displeasure. While Dorne continued to prove itself a formidable adversary and quickly dealt with the mercenaries, Princess Aliandra wanted retribution.

And who better to help than the Dragon Queen? Their alliance was tenuous at best, everyone in the room knew it, but it was still an alliance. The Princess would arrive with her councilors within a fortnight and Lucerys blushed the tiniest bit when Rhaenyra announced that he was the Princess’ betrothed as part of the alliance. He and his dragon, Arrax, would patrol the easternmost Dornish shores. You could tell that it made Rhaenyra nervous, just as it did when she gave Jacaerys leave to patrol Blackwater Bay. Jeyne and Silverwing would remain at the capital as a safeguard, doubly so as Helaena could not fly in her condition, despite her love of doing so. Daeron and Aegon would bolster defenses along the Riverlands and Stormlands shores while Laena, Rhaella, and Rhaena were asked to fly above certain parts of the Royal Fleet as they guarded Dragonstone, Driftmark, and the rest of the Gullet, including their home of Sweetport Sound. Ser Laenor would provide coverage to Lord Coryls’ fleet as they pushed into the Narrow Sea with Princess Rhaenys and Meleys.

“My hope with all of this,” Rhaenyra started, hand curled tightly over the marble ball in front of her, “is to keep our people safe, to finish this quickly. We must be victorious.” Her purple gaze cut to Daemon as he sat in the chair opposite her. You had tried to avoid looking in that direction as Aemond was seated beside him. “Princes Daemon and Aemond have graciously accepted to fly to Essos and meet with the magisters of the other Free Cities.”

“Even Pentos?” Someone asked—you vaguely recognized him as Ser Alfred Broome. Why he was even in attendance was beyond your comprehension at the moment and you felt several pairs of eyes move to settle on you.

“Pentos was the first of the Cities to ask for aid. They know that Alios’ crimes against Lady Arryn were an abomination. Or need I remind you what happened?” Aemond’s voice cut through the tension-thick air with a vicious ease and you saw Aegon trying to stifle his smirk behind his hand.

Ser Alfred’s face went red and tried to hold the prince’s gaze for only a moment before looking down. “No, my prince. Everyone here knows of how you defended Lady Arryn’s honor.”

“What news do you bring from the Vale, my lady?” Rhaenys asked, effectively pulling the conversation into a different direction. But she, too, was fighting a smile of her own. It faded, however, when you spoke of the lost ships and the sightings of the boats nearing Gulltown.

“It seems we must truly fight on all fronts,” Rhaenyra said, grave. She then gave you an order to protect your shores and the Bay of Crabs atop your dragon and your bannermen were given leave to defend their shores and lands.

The queen reiterated that she wanted this dealt with quickly. There was a hint of darkness to her tone but no one commented on it. It stirred a strange sense of pride within you. She was the sword and shield of the Crown. She wanted her people safe, by any means necessary. You were thankful that the crowd dispersed quickly when she dismissed them, either to ready their bannermen or deliver news with the like. Before you could also take your leave, Rhaenyra called out your name and told you to wait a moment. A handful of people sent you glances out of the corner of their eyes but none had the audacity to linger in an attempt to understand what the queen wanted with you. And as the gods continued to test you, Alicent and Aemond were the last to leave, each of them giving you looks you could not decipher before leaving.

“I was not expecting you today,” Rhaenyra said, shoulders finally losing a bit of the rigidity they’d held throughout the meeting. “But I will never be unhappy to see you.” She rounded the table and took one of your hands in hers with a squeeze.

A small smile pushed at your lips. “I did not want to wait to bring you reports from the Vale. I had not known you were gathering others.”

“It was not planned to be so large, but I am pleased that you were able to attend. I am sure it was the gods themselves who sent you to me at this moment.” She sighed and squeezed your hands again. “I am also wondering why my brother has been so despondent this last moon. Could it be because his betrothed absconded to the Eyrie without a proper goodbye?”

Your breath stuttered in your throat. “I am not betrothed to Aemond.”

Her silver eyebrow arched. “That is not what he nor Alicent seem to think. And the way he behaves around you, and you with him, it does not seem as if you are opposed to the match?”

You tried to steel yourself to the fact that yet another person had been sucked into this delusion but all you could do was shake your head. “Your brother and I are not promised to each other, Your Grace.”

“It would be a fine match, though, would it not? Dragons in the Vale.” She sighed and you fought the urge to scream. How could Aemond be so adamant with this lie?

“I will fly back to the Eyrie. I-”

“Oh, you must stay for the night. Surely your dragon needs the rest, and you as well. Before this war truly starts, rest now; let me know you are safe for a few hours more.”

You could not deny her that, not when her purple eyes looked at you like that. But you did not allow yourself to stay a moment longer and left before the first light of dawn started to crest the horizon. You left missives for Alicent and Rhaenyra this time, wishing them and their children safety for the upcoming conflict.

And you meant that. You wanted them all safe. Healthy. Happy. Even Aemond. No matter his delusion and your own conflicting feelings, you only wanted the best for him. And soon you were consumed with readying The Vale for war. The armor your mother had commissioned for you still fit with a few additions and your dragon seemed pleased to see you in it. A small comfort to you both. Your mother was with you still. As was he.

Your handmaiden, a girl of barely ten-and-four namedays named Mya from House Woodhull, helped you out of your armor after your latest fitting. She had just started her duties at the Eyrie a moon ago and was a quiet, timid girl. You hoped her time under your care would bring her a little more out of her shell.

“You depart tomorrow for Gulltown, do you not, my lady?” She asked as she set one of your gauntlets atop the velvet cushion on your table.

“I do. And I know I shall return here to find the Eyrie just as I left it, in your and the others’ capable hands.”

Mya went pink with the compliment but nodded and tucked her chin to her chest. “Of course, my lady. I would never dream of letting anything go wrong in your home.”

She was a sweet girl and you smiled as you dismissed her for the evening after she helped you into your nightgown and robe. Your skin still smelt of lavender from your bath—you never could find the will to stop using the oil, even if it now also reminded you of Aemond. And you once again ignored how your chest twisted and your traitorous mind conjured his face whenever you closed your eyes.

You turned toward your bed, seeing that Mya had turned down your blankets for you as well. Sweet girl. Your pillow was cool, too, and you shut your eyes tightly as you murmured a chant to your mother’s gods. Tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow was the start. Tomorrow was…

You pushed out a breath.

A familiar roar rattled the night sky and your eyes shot open. Just as your feet hit the cold floor, a quick knock snapped against your door and Mya was bursting in again. “Lady Arryn, a dragon has come to the Eyrie.”

You knew who it was. In your bones, you knew it.

She led you out to the High Hall where you knew he would be waiting.

“Prince Aemond, my lady,” another of your knights said with a quick bow in your direction as you entered.

Aemond stood in the center of the cold hall, draped in his riding leathers and a deep, dark cloak stretched over his shoulders. “Lady Arryn. I would have a word with you.”

Your heart leapt and raced. He was meant to be leaving for Essos soon, was he not? Just as you were to start defending the Vale in earnest. What was he doing here? Before you could even think of doing something else, you mindlessly led him to your solar as thoughts raced. Had something happened? Had someone been killed?

Mya set about stoking the fire in the room before skittering out of the room with a quick, matching pair of curtseys toward you and Aemond. He, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to memorize the entirety of your apartments and lingered on the open archway that led into your bedchamber.

“What have you come to say?” The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could think of a proper greeting or line of questioning. “Is it Helaena? Are she and the babe well? What-”

“I am leaving for Braavos at dawn. I will meet Daemon in Pentos after securing the city’s alliance and we will then move to destroy Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh’s strongholds in the Disputed Lands.”

Even as you felt your brow furrow, you nodded. That was a suitable plan for him and Aemond, the riders of the largest and most battle-hardened dragons with matching temperaments. They would be a formidable pair and cutting off their supplies should keep their focus pulled into two directions and make them easier to defeat. Hopefully.

“I wish you good fortune and blessings upon your endeavors, Aemond.” You paused and felt his lilac gaze rake down your form. “But why are you here?”

Aemond took a step toward you and you instinctively took a step back, feeling like a mouse being cornered by a cat. But your retreat only seemed to spur him on and in a few short steps, he had closed the distance between you, filling your lungs with that familiar scent of Aemond Aemond Aemond. Leather, mint, dragon, lavender.

“Would you have me sent out without knowing that I would return? You would deprive me of one last taste of you?” The tips of his fingers were firebrands against your skin as he closed his hand around your wrist and tugged you close. His breath puffed against your mouth as his lilac eye bore down into yours.

Your next breath stalled in your lungs. Gods, he was beautiful. But you could not. “I do not wish you dead, Aemond. You must know that. I only wish that you see-”

“See what? See that you refuse to accept my affections?”

“They are misplaced!” You retorted.

His grip tightened on your wrist, just shy of painful. “They are yours. My affections, my heart, my body. They are yours. I am yours. Just as you are mine.” The prince moved ever closer and the familiar burn of him enveloped you instantly. “Ask anything of me, and you shall have it.”

“I ask that you find a lady wife that will love you as you deserve.” It was your last, gentle refusal.

And Aemond shook his head. “There is no one else. There is only you. There has always only been you, my lark.”

A knock at the door had him pulling back and Mya once again stepped inside, carrying tea for you and Aemond. She smiled at you and you must not have managed to press the answering look to your face quick enough because she lingered at the table, her small fingers still fiddling with the teapot. “Are you well, my lady?”

Just for a moment, you thought of telling her to call for Ser Oswin, for the guards further down the hall. You could have him sent away, surely seeing the error of his thoughts and actions in a way he could not unsee. You licked your lips as your eyes darted between your handmaiden and Aemond. But a small movement, just a simple change of stance, had Aemond’s hand brushing against the hilt of one of the daggers sheathed at his waist. It was a silent threat, but a threat nonetheless.

And so, you pressed a smile to your face and shook your head. So be it. You would not put an innocent in harm’s way if you could prevent it. “Retire for the night. Prince Aemond and I have much to discuss. You have more than earned your rest. I thank you for your hard work.”

She waffled for a moment longer before sighing and dipping into a curtsey. “Good night, my lady, my prince.” And then she was gone and you were alone with Aemond once again.

A satisfied hum slipped between his lips as his hand slipped from the dagger’s hilt. He had won. “See how simple that was? Not everything need be a fight, my lark.”

“Simple?” You spat the word. “When you threaten the lives of the people in my care, what choice have you given me?” Your next breath stalled in your throat but you pushed it out anyway. “What do you want? You have made it so I cannot refuse you. Let us get on with it.”

Aemond moved closer still, clouding your mind for a moment with the scent of him. For just a moment, you wished that your body did not react to him in such a way. But it was visceral and unconscious on your part. It was like every part of you was simply waiting to be devoured. By Aemond.

“Take off your clothes.”

Your heart stuttered and shattered. Tears stung at your eyes as you shook your head. “That is not fair, Aemond.”

The prince smirked. “I did not ever state that I was fair.”

“You would take this from me? Unwillingly?”

“You can deny it all you want, my lark. But I know your heart is mine. If I must start with claiming your body, so be it.” He reached out and undid the velvet tie of your robe, spurring you on, before moving back, allowing himself to enjoy the view.

Your hands shook as you peeled away your robe, leaving you only in the fine silk of your chemise. Aemond cocked his head to the side, wordlessly telling you that you were not finished. You clamped your eyes shut as you reached for the straps and pushed one and then the other off your shoulders. The fabric pooled at your feet with a whisper, leaving you in just your smallclothes and the necklace you still could not remove.

And then he moved. Again, he grasped your hand and led you through your solar and into your bedchamber, to your bed as your heart thundered behind your ribs. You could do little else but stare as he undressed, revealing his pale skin and corded muscle until he was standing tall and bare before you.

It felt as if you had walked through your dragon’s fire the more you stared at him. Gods, he was beautiful. Carved from marble by the gods themselves. And then shame burned, too.

You could not want this. “Aemond-”

But he simply reached out and pushed you back across the bed until your spine pressed against the mountain of pillows you usually slept on. Your heart hammered behind your teeth as he climbed atop your bed and closer to you. His warm hands slid up your legs and curled around the plush of your thighs and a slow breath slid out from between his lips. “I have dreamt of this. Of you. I always knew you were perfect.”

What would he do to you first? Would he simply rut into you like an animal and spill his seed inside you? Or would he toy with you more? Try to-

The questions went still in your mind and Aemond simply pressed himself over you. He reached around to the back of your neck and you heard a distinct series of clicks before your necklace finally came loose. He let the sapphire drag over your heart before he set it aside and then pressed his head between your breasts. It was almost gentle. Almost innocuous. Almost the careful touch of a lover you had quietly yearned for and read about in the scandalous books of your younger years.

Then, as if you could not help yourself, your hand found the silk of his hair. You gently pushed your fingers through it and let it glide against your skin. His next breath was a slow exhale that wet your skin.

Aemond reached up and pulled the ribbon from around his head and set it aside. And then all you saw was blue blue blue. The sapphire he had used in place of his eye glimmered in the low light of your chambers, cut beautifully and cruelly; it matched the jewel of your necklace, the collar he had given you. Without a thought, you reached out to press against his cheek but he caught your wrist before you could touch him. You could see the question in his gaze, the want, the ache. And you pressed forward again until your palm rested against his warm cheek. You traced the cruel, jagged scar beneath his eye with the edge of your thumb before simply holding his face in your grasp. You could not help it. He was beautiful. So beautiful.

And the prince leaned into the touch, like he needed it like his next breath.

“You care for me.” The words were whispered before he turned to skirt his lips against the delicate skin of your wrist.

“Of course I care for you,” you murmured. How could you do anything but care for him? Even at his worst, even when his affections scared you, hurt others, you could not simply stop caring for him.

His fingers traced circles up your sides until they brushed against the soft skin of your breasts, soft but purposeful. “You told me, promised me, that I would have a dragon. You knew it.” He turned his head just enough to drag his lips above your thrumming heart. “You came, you rode your dragon hard, when you heard of the loss of my eye. You came, knowing that I would not understand that you were risking your honor and reputation to make sure I was well.” His large, warm hands cupped your breasts fully, thumbs skirting against your nipples until they pebbled. “And, despite how I know you will deny it, I know you had a hand in House Harlaw’s eradication.”

“I-”

He turned and pressed the point of his chin to your sternum so he could look up at you. “You cannot lie to me, my lark. I have mine own spiders whispering their truths to me.” He paused, lilac and sapphire anchoring on your face. “You killed for me. Because I was harmed. When my mother cried and my father refused to move against a lesser house, you killed them.”

“Your mother did all she could.”

“She did. And she called for you and you came. For me.”

And you could not deny it. You had gone, dashed to your dragon and sped through the skies to do all you could to help heal him.

But your thoughts of how you had only wanted to heal him quickly fizzled to nothing when his long fingers started to do the ties at the sides of your smallclothes. He pulled the fabric away from you and, just for a moment, brought the bundle of cloth up to his nose and he sucked in a greedy lungful of air, like he was trying to memorize the scent of you. The simple action had heat racing through you, coiling further in your belly.

But still, he set the small bundle aside and Aemond’s warm hands skimmed up your thighs again, kneading the supple flesh there as he pulled in a slow, steady breath. It brushed against you, making you embarrassingly aware of the slick that had pooled there, betraying your own ache. His nose brushed against your curls, and the pleased hum he let out vibrated against you, stealing a whimper from between your lips.

“Divine,” he murmured. You were not sure if he was speaking to you or simply about you. But it mattered little as he pressed a kiss right above your mound before licking a bold stripe up your folds. A gasp tore itself out of your throat and another came closely behind it as Aemond continued to lick and suck and twirl his tongue. He was ravenous. Immediately insatiable. Your hips lifted, either in an attempt to buck him away from your core or to pull him closer, you could not tell—but it mattered little when he slung an arm across your waist to pin you to the bed, pliant and controlled.

His tongue continued to move, delving into you and then wrapping around your clit until your chest heaved with each breath. You still leapt when you felt his fingers start to slide against the soft skin of your thigh. Aemond deftly circled through your folds, coating them in your slick. But then he moved, and you gasped as you felt the pads of his fingers circle your entrance before pressing in. Further and further he delved, as his tongue continued to pull you apart. His fingers curled and found a spot inside of you that had you keening. Pleasure sparked up your spine and your hands tugged uselessly into the fine blankets of your bed as the prince hummed against you, drunk on your taste, before pulling your clit into his mouth entirely and sucking on it until you let out a choked wail into the sticky night air. Your entire body hummed with the aftershocks but Aemond continued to lick at you for a few moments longer, only pulling back when you whimpered. He pressed his cheek against your damp thigh and looked up at you as he pulled his fingers free of your cunt and pressed them into his mouth. His eye closed as he groaned at the taste. “I will never get enough of your taste.” He turned his head just enough to press a searing kiss where your thigh and your hip met before he sat up.

His cock was rigid and long and wanting. Your heart continued to hammer in your chest as Aemond moved to press his hands on either side of your chest, staring down at you with a sense of vicious knowing. You could feel him, warm and hard against your thigh. “Aemond?” His name broke in your throat.

“I could stuff you full of my seed right now, leave you dripping. I could put a bastard in your belly and have you need to marry me when I return to avoid the scandal.” His long fingers trailed a meandering path over your womb, dancing across your heated skin. “You’d look so beautiful, round with my child.” He hummed.

Tears stung at your eyes again, for an entirely different reason. “Please…Aemond. Please do not do this to me.”

But he simply leaned down and pressed a kiss just below your navel. “I could do it, my lady. And I cannot tell you how I have contemplated it when I am alone in the dark, with naught but your memory to soothe me. But I am a man of honor. And any child I have you bear will be trueborn.” He sat straight and gently cupped your face as if he had not just threatened to ruin you. “No, I shall wait until I return to know what it feels like to fuck you. And it will be after I call you wife.”

The next kiss he pressed against your mouth was gentle and tasted sharp and sweet as his tongue plundered between your lips. A low groan vibrated against your mouth as he pulled back and it took you a stretched moment to realize he was touching himself. His hand was wrapped around his length, harshly moving up and down, up and down with a wet sound that had your core clenching.

“It should be you,” he said through gritted teeth before nipping at your bottom lip. “This belongs inside of you. I want to see it drip out of you.” His hand moved faster, faster. You could not look away. “I am going to put a babe in you. As many as you want. Make you come on my cock like a whore, my own personal whore. My perfect lady wife.” With the last word, he came, spurting his release against his hands and the warm skin of your stomach. Aemond’s chest heaved for just a few breaths before he stood straight, his pale skin pink with the exertion. You watched, heart in your throat, as his sticky fingers gathered the rest of his spend and he brought his fingers up to your mouth. “Open,” he commanded.

And you did, allowing him to press his digits to your tongue. He tasted…salty with a hint of citrus and his lilac eye was blown wide as he made sure you licked him clean. Aemond drew his fingers back when he was satisfied but still hooked his thumb on your chin and tilted your head up just enough to press a lingering kiss against your mouth with a pleased hum.

“You were perfect. Just as I knew you would be.”

He did not let you leave your featherbed as he curled his sinewy arms secured around your frame. He had cleaned you with a strip of damp fabric and delicately kissed you, now, as if he had not just debauched you so thoroughly.

Sleep sank its claws into you a few moments later, as you listened to Aemond hum against your skin. It was a lullaby. A lullaby for you.

And when the dawn came…he was gone. But your necklace was once again secured around your neck and your skin still burned from where he had touched it.

Your dragon was well fed. But you know he craved more. And you did, too.

You had not heard a single word of how Aemond’s campaign had gone across the Narrow Sea. And no matter who you asked, no one seemed to know if Aemond was successful. Or healthy. Or alive. Your one solace was hearing that the strong defenses to the south were mostly successful and a massive dragon had been spotted off the shores of Myr but that had been the end of it.

Or the start of it. It seemed your thoughts could never be free of the prince. It was a curse, truly. You wanted to see him again. Just to know he was well. And if you spent the nights alone in your tent, hand clutching the sapphire of the necklace, that was your secret to keep. It hadn’t been a lie when you said that you cared for him. You did. You do. But you were not sure when your care had mutated into this. And you could not rid yourself of the ache you now felt between your thighs and twisting in your chest when you thought of him. It was ridiculous and cruel and left you with a sense of self-loathing. How had he manipulated you into this? Into this strange longing? You threw yourself into making sure the Vale and its people were still taken care of to try to rid yourself of those warring emotions. And that was your duty. To provide. To protect.

They still called you The Flame of the Vale. And you heard more than a few of your courtiers whisper of you and your dragon’s wrath as you passed.

Sitting astride your dragon often reminded you of standing atop a rocking boat. Waiting and moving with each of his long, slow breaths. He was an extension of you, and you of him. Both of you stared at the horizon, waiting for the telltale sight of foreign ships. You knew they were coming and you itched to meet them. This was what you needed, what you wanted. You could be a dragon now. You could be cruel and rage and reduce something to ash without care for your reputation.

Only one band of Myrish corsairs had made it ashore and they had been quickly met with the might of the Vale. All others had been reduced to ash in their boats or torn apart by your bannermen’s fleets. But more had come, trying to catch your forces unaware just before dawn. Your dragon’s roar had rattled the very ground, nearly drowning out the alerting horn blasts along the shore, warning all of you of the sneaking threat.

And now, as the sun beat down on the bloodied sand and water, you felt that biting sense of savagery continue to grow. “Dracarys!” you bellowed, diving out from above a cloud and setting ablaze another ship. Green flames danced along the wood and the screams that followed were almost musical to your ears. Another ship came and met the same fate and another and another. But the Lyseni fleet was nothing but tenacious. You had counted five scorpions—four had been destroyed before they could be fired but the fifth-

Your dragon turned abruptly with a screech and a drag of green fire lighting up the clouds. And you felt the scorpion bolt rush by your head. You let out a frustrated scream as you steered your dragon back around to dive down down down toward the ship that had just tried to kill you both. And your dragon echoed your scream with one of his one before bathing that ship in his green fire as well.

But you should have known. Should have known it was too easy. Just as you turned to set your sights on another ship, another bolt barely missed your head—you felt its fletching tear across your face. And then another was shot, clipping the edge of your dragon’s wing but doing little more than agitating him. And then another and another. To your horror and rage, you realized there was a line of small ships just cresting over a large wave, a scorpion tethered to each of their bows. For a stretched moment, you watched the sailors hurry to load their weapons again. They were not going to stop. And neither could you. With your heart in your throat, you chanced a look back toward the shore, watching the few ships that had managed to get through your line of ships and dragon fire start to batter the waiting knights and bowmen on the shore. Your men were holding them back, but you knew that you must keep them from being overwhelmed. You needed to protect them.

You urged your dragon forward with a shout and you heard the sailors screaming for the others to hurry, to shoot, that they were going to kill you and your dragon. But you could not stop. “Angos!” You cried and you instantly felt the rumbling of his growing fire beneath your legs just as another bolt shot past your dragon’s neck, and sprayed your armor with his boiling blood as he reared back, angry, for just a few breaths. But another bolt came and you had to dip down until his feet dragged in the sea for you to avoid it. But they were getting closer closer closer. Your dragon spit his fire at the first ship, turning its crew and scorpion to ash to be washed away.

“Turn! Turn! Turn!” You heard the sailors bellow.

You turned your dragon toward them, watching as they hauled their scorpions to the side, still aiming for you. But, just as you watched one of them pull back the bolt, green fire from above drenched the ship, snuffing out their screams. And your dragon let out a pleased rumble as you craned your head up to see Vhagar descending like a leviathan from the clouds above, dark and terrible and beautiful. As she turned left, you and your dragon went right and in just a few moments, the last of the scorpions and their crews were gone. The ancient she-dragon then turned toward the shore and swept away the invading forces in more green fire. You could hear the cheers from the shore, celebrating with you. Tilting your chin up to feel the sun and smoke on your skin, you saw Vhagar swooping toward you again and without your steering, your dragon moved to mirror her. The massive dragons were achingly delicate in their movements as they turned and twisted, pulling higher and higher into the sky and clouds. They were dancing. Together. An exhausted laugh bubbled out of you at the realization.

It came crashing down on you then, that your dragon was happy. You were alive. The battle was over. And you let your hands peel away from the spikes that served as your reins and held them out straight, letting the air sweep through your fingers. This was freedom. Your eyes closed for just a moment, allowing yourself to revel in the ash-covered victory, but they snapped open when you heard Vhagar’s distinctive screech. She circled left and your dragon flew right and you turned your head to see Aemond in the saddle, his silver hair mussed by the wind and his mouth tilted into his familiar smirk.

He was alive. He was here.

Your dragons eventually leveled out and slowly made their way toward the shore, the very tips of their large wings just barely brushing against each other as they kept each other close.

“Dragons!” Someone shouted as you drew ever closer. The crowds below, victorious and celebratory, darted away from the shadows your mounts created.

Sand spit beneath the pair of dragons as they landed and your dragon rumbled, pleased in several ways, as you slid from his back. Aemond descended the well-worn ladder of Vhagar’s saddle and you watched as he rolled his shoulders back before turning toward you. And your heart leapt.

And you couldn’t find it in yourself to hate it now.

But you still refrained from wanting too much. He was still so young. And you were…you.

Before he could take more than a half dozen steps toward you, he was surrounded by knights, thanking him for his help and lauding in the victory with him. You watched the smallest of smiles pushed at his mouth. Yes, this was his victory, too.

The camp was soon devolving into a somewhat refined celebration of the battle won. Food was carried in from the nearby Gulltown and set up on tables along the beach that now looked more grey than golden. But no one truly cared, not when the mead and wine were passed around and stories were shared of battles not soon forgotten and the honor they had earned. The cut on your cheek was cleaned and bandaged, and would leave you with only a small scar according to the healer. But it was Aemond’s low voice that you listened to, listened for, over the din of the revelry.

He and Daemon had easily secured the allegiance of Pentos, Braavos, and Lorath, before also managing to have Qohor and Norvos join their ranks as they moved into the Disputed Lands. It had been a bloodbath.

“Her Grace wanted this dealt with quickly. My uncle and I were happy to oblige.” His eye anchored on you on the other end of the long table and your grip tightened on the thick tankard in your hand.

Swallowing your pride, and the other rising feelings, you stood and raised your drink. “To Prince Aemond, Prince of the Realm, and hero of the Bay.” The crowd cheered and raised their cups, too. “And to each and every one of you, of my knights, the finest of the Seven Kingdoms: the Realm will speak of this day and of your bravery during this war for ages to come!” The crowd cheered again and the music that had been played in the background grew in earnest volume, letting the merrymaking continue and grow.

You hadn’t spoken to Aemond since you landed. And with every passing second, the sapphire around your neck grew heavier. This was wrong. All of it. You knew that. Aemond’s feelings would fade and yours had been so muddled and confused. You needed to be free of this all. After graciously accepting a few of the toasts given in your honor, you dismissed yourself back to your tent.

How had you become this? Hadn’t Aemond hurt you? Nearly forced you? But hadn’t he also kissed you softly and kept every single one of his promises? As you pressed a damp strip of cloth to your neck, you tried to clear your mind. Tomorrow you would be back in the Eyrie, away from it all. You just needed a bit of peace. A bit of quiet. Guidance. You pulled a small dagger from the dark of one of your bags and raked it across your palm as you settled on your knees in front of the small fire in your tent.

The undulating language your mother once sang to you felt a little stilted on your tongue, but you still continued on, asking for guidance, asking for peace, as you raised your bleeding hand above the fire and let the crimson drip into the flames.

One.

Two.

Three.

You sat on the weirwood throne, a babe on your lap. The little one’s hands drummed against your protruding stomach as they let out a happy giggle, lilac eyes alight with joy.

“Be kind to your mother, my son.” Aemond was at your side, reaching out a hand to cup the back of the little one’s head. “She is delicate right now.” And then his lips brushed against your temple and-

“My lady!”

You pulled back with a gasp, your skin burning from the flames. You curled your hand against your chest with a hiss as flashes of the vision danced on the backs of your eyes. Turning toward the sound of the voice, you saw a man standing at the entrance of your tent, his face hard and furious.

“The whispers are true! You’re a witch! A defilement of the Seven!”

You teetered to your feet. It felt as if all your limbs had been weighed down with sand and your tongue was useless behind your teeth. “I am n-not a witch, my lord. I-”

“Do not deny it! I have seen it and I shall make sure that all of the people who swore fealty to you were-”

The rest of the words were gargled as blood filled his mouth. Aemond stood behind the man, a bloodied dagger in one hand, the man’s tongue in the other. You hadn’t even seen his approach and your knees nearly knocked together as he moved to press the tip of his blade against the man’s throat. “You shall speak no word against Lady Arryn at all. And if you think to write it, I shall have your hands next.” He then grabbed the back of the man’s jerkin and all but threw him out of your tent. “Get yourself to a maester. I’ll be sure to tell everyone that you were too into your cups and mistook your blade for your fork.”

The man stumbled away with a wet cry and Aemond turned his gaze to you. He tossed the man’s tongue into the fire and set aside his dagger as he strode toward you.

“Aemond…” His name was a weight on your tongue.

“Did I not tell you that I would protect you? That you were mine to hold?” He reached up to press his thumb against your quivering mouth before he pulled in a slow breath. “I have a gift for you.” He led you to sit at the small table near your bedroll and then grabbed at a dark bag he must have dropped near the flap of your tent earlier. He set it atop the small table and opened and…

It took you a stretched moment to realize what he had set in front of you. The hair was grey, longer, too. Age had lined his dull orchid colored eyes and he still wore a single gold hoop in one of his ears. This was…

“Aemond…”

“He will never threaten you again.”

He had given you the head of your uncle.

You had not asked for it. Had not entertained the thought of killing him with anyone aside from your dark daydreams in years. “How…” the question trailed off. “Why?”

The prince did not look away from you as he answered: “I swore to you that no harm would come to you, did I not? You refused to become a kinslayer but he was no kin of mine.” Again, he reached out to hold your face as he stood above you. “I care not that you have secret rituals and gods to which you pray. I want you and all of your shadows.”

You had prayed for peace and guidance and the blood and flames had shown you Aemond and children. He had carved a man’s tongue out for you. He had bathed your enemies in dragonflame when they thought to shoot you from the sky. But, gods, there was a darkness to his affections for you. But were you not a child of shadow, too?

You stood from your seat and Aemond’s hand fell from your face for a moment, allowing you to be the one to reach out now. Your fingers shook as they pressed against his cheek. His scar was scalding beneath your thumb. “Any children we may have would not carry the Targaryen name. They would be Arryns. You would have to defer to me for counsel whenever another house came to the Eyrie to settle a dispute. I cannot and will not ask you to lower yourself in such a way-”

Aemond all but snatched your hand from his face and pressed it against his chest, letting you feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “Let me be the one to judge if something is lowering myself, my lark.”

You shook your head but couldn’t find it in yourself to take your hand back. “Aemond-”

“Your mother was a Targaryen to her core but carried the name Arryn. You were born in Lys and adopted the House and its colors only after you were named heir. You ride one of the largest and oldest dragons in the world. You may be called an Arryn, my lady, but you are a Targaryen. You are the Blood of Old Valyria. Our children, no matter their name, would be the same.” He moved closer, until you could feel each of his breaths against your mouth. “I love you, my lark. I have loved you since I was a boy and I shall love you until my heart no longer beats in my chest.”

Tears started to cloud your vision as you nodded. He loved you. There was no escaping it. And perhaps you loved him, too. With that thought, you surged forward to press your mouth to his.

The wedding was a grand but small affair. Well, your second wedding was. The first had simply been you and Aemond on the shores of Dragonstone, wed together in the Valyrian tradition with blood on your mouth and staining your tongue. The second had been in the small sept of the Eyrie, after the Daughters’ War had officially ended and the Realm was at peace. He draped you in a cloak embroidered with a three headed dragon, stitched in blue. His color. Your color.

Both of you refused a bedding ceremony. And it was probably for the best as Aemond certainly took his time taking you apart on his tongue and then again on his fingers before finally sliding his cock into your velvet vice.

His thrusts were slow but powerful. Stars burst behind your eyes with each of them, only coupled with his wet mouth clamping over your neck, the swells of your breasts, anywhere he could sink his teeth. He hauled one of your legs into the crook of his arm so he could drive deeper deeper deeper into you until you would swear you felt him in your throat.

“Do you feel me, my lark?”

“I…” Sparks of pleasure were cracking at every nerve ending and hazing your mind until that was left was Aemond. “I feel you.”

He took you three times that night, leaving you gasping and leaking of him. Sated. And, despite it all, because of it all…happy. Little Rodrik Arryn came screaming into the world less than a year after your wedding. It became a regular occurrence for anyone visiting the Eyrie to see the little lord asleep on his father’s chest as Aemond sat on the Weirwood throne beside you. When he reached his sixth moon, Aemond secured Rodrik to his chest and climbed onto Vhagar’s back, letting his son have his first flight on the oldest dragon in the world. He did the same when Artys was born a year later. Your vision had come true.

It had been a conscious decision for you both to give your children names native to the Vale. But, when your daughter was born, it had been a mutual decision to bend the rules. A subtle nod to Visenya and your mother.

“Lady Vaella Arryn!”

The crowd assembled in the High Hall cheered as you held your daughter close, nestled safely against your breast. One of her small hands was tightly curled into the soft fabric of your gown and she let out a short whine when Alicent came to hold her granddaughter.

“Well done, darling,” Alicent cooed as she let the babe get comfortable in her arms. “Oh, she is just as perfect as your boys.”

Aemond hummed and pressed a brief kiss to your temple. You could feel his smile against your skin. “Of course she is.”

When the guests had retired for the night, Rhaenyra being the last as she sang a Valyrian song to the giggling babe to help settle her, you heard a familiar rumble come from above. Echoing elation nearly consumed you as you sped through the halls of your castle until you were in the gardens and staring up at your dragon.

“Have you come to meet her?” You asked, holding Vaella close with a smile.

Your dragon grumbled, as if this was not his idea (and as if he had not come to meet your sons, too), and moved closer, his uncareful steps spitting rocks and trampling flowers. But you hardly cared. Holding Vaella a little higher, you smiled as he neared her, bright green eyes focused entirely on the small bundle in your grasp. The elation you felt settled in your bones, a far cry from the panic you’d felt only a few moons ago when you’d given birth. He always worried over you. But he knew you were happy and he was happy, too.

“This is Vaella.”

He rumbled in greeting and Vaella reached out a tiny hand toward him with a gurgle of her own. He then nudged at your hip, as softly as he could, until you got the hint and strapped Vaella to your chest and climbed onto his back and held tight.

“Just a few turns, yes?”

An answering plume of smoke curled from between his teeth and then he took to the skies, letting the winter air sting your cheeks. But your daughter smiled contentedly up at you, letting out a happy sound as your dragon burst through a cloud. She would be a fearsome little one. You knew it.

The Vale, even as the last vestiges of Winter were slowly slipping away, was prospering. As were the Seven Kingdoms. As part of the alliance with Dorne, Rhaenyra declared the Stepstones were granted to them. Lucerys was a fine consort to Princess Aliandra, and it seemed that Dorne had accepted becoming part of the Seven Kingdoms. They retained their titles and their customs and Rhaenyra seemed pleased that she would rarely have to mediate any of the disputes between Dornish houses anyway. As long as Lucerys was happy, Rhaenyra was happy. Jacaerys and Helaena had welcomed Prince Aerion just at the war’s end and then Princess Rhae soon after. Aegon and his Lady Farwynd were starting their own family on their remote island and Jeyne was busy planning her wedding festivities to Lord Stark, set to be held on the first true day of Spring. Rhaenys was pleased when she announced that Laena had given birth to another girl, a beauty named Alysanne, and Rhaenyra proposed a tentative betrothal between Aerion and newest addition to House Sunglass. Daemon and his wife and daughter had been invited to Pentos as guests of esteem and they were taking full advantage of it. Daeron was on his own adventures, too, discovering the secrets of Qohor and hoping to visit Qarth soon, as well.

Yes, the realm and your family were at peace.

Aemond was waiting for you as you landed, a teasing smile on his face. “My ladies are courting scandal by staying awake at such an hour, out of bed.”

You laughed and stole a kiss against his mouth as you dismounted and your smile only grew as he bent to kiss Vaella, too. He stood straight and your heart clenched as you looked at him, your husband. You no longer fought against the feelings he conjured within you. He was all you wanted, him and your little family.

“I love you,” you murmured against his mouth after putting Vaella in her bassinet.

You felt his smile against your lips before his hands curled over your hips and he dragged you close. “I know, my lark.”

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you thought of it all! I have a side-story Aegon and Lady Farwynd coming soon(ish) and two more Aemond one-shots on the docket, too.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fic #hotd fic #house of the dragon #hotd #female reader

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