#aegon x ofc

[arcielee]

dōna mandia

Summary: Her brothers convince her to play a game of hide-and-seek. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Reader, Aegon Targaryen x Reader Word Count: 4085 WARNINGS/THIS IS A DARK FIC: Targcest, with she/her pronouns, MDNI, 18+ Dubcon, inexperience, fingering, implied sexual themes, oral (m and f receiving), p in v, anal, double penetration, rough sex.  Author's Note: Thank you @hamatoanne​​ for being my muse and inspiring this depravity. Thank you to @sylas-the-grim​​ for beta reading and perfecting. And a huge thank you to @aemonds-fire​​ for helping me with my Tumblr settings that had me ripping my hair out. 💜 Anyway, this is what you wanted from this poll. I hope you are all happy with yourselves. 😂   

Valyrian translations: mēre, lanta, hāre is one, two, three dōna mandia is sweet sister

Tumblr kindred spirits: @aaaaaamond​ @annikin-im-panicin​ @watercolorskyy​ @schniiipsel​ @aemondx​ @fan-goddess​ @babygirlyofthevale​ @httpsdoll​ @theromanticegoist​ @assortedseaglass​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ @theoneeyedprince​ @hb8301​ @lovelykhaleesiii​ 

“Come, sweet sister,” Aegon whispered into the shell of her ear. She felt the warmth of his palms through the layers of silk worn, her robe and her nightgown, with his intimate touch to her lower back to guide her.

She paused for a moment and peered back at her twin. Aemond had covered his one eye, his sapphire glinting from the lighting of the room as his timbre rumbled the numbers off in Old Valyria. “Mēre,” he began, with a slight curl to his lips.

“With me,” Aegon urged, his other hand interlacing with her own to pull, and she could not help the giggle that slipped from her lips as she followed him.

Aemond continued behind them, a low echo against the cobblestone. “...lanta…hāre…”

It was childish, she supposed, but welcomed after the somber family meal earlier this evening. Her brothers then stole away to her chambers, the mischievous grin paired with the suggestion from Aegon that they play hide-and-seek, as they had as children.

But that had been a lifetime ago, long before the internal warfare of the House of the Dragon inevitably spilled its destruction across Westeros.

Her brothers, Daeron as well, had all fought valiantly and victory was had–but at what cost, she often wondered. Rhaenyra was dead, along with their uncle and nephews, and their dragons as well. The smaller children, the ones with the blood of Old Valyria apparent in their veins, had been sent to Old Town with the assurance to raise them with the absolute truth of what happened.

But she knew that the truth would be written by the victors.

Their grandsire served as Lord Hand still, an advocate to reinstate the peace disrupted. This burden shifted on her and her siblings, as Aegon was now king without question, and now the sole focus was to mend the rift between realms, a new age of serenity with his reign. As part of this, their grandsire announced her betrothal to a Northern house, as if she were an olive branch to be extended to the perpetual snow to never be retrieved.

Her pain was written plainly on her lovely features, but their grandsire spoke his words with a sense of finality; it seemed to be no hope to dissuade his mind.

This was how her brothers found her–“Sulking prettily,” Aegon cooed as her handmaiden finished braiding her silver tresses back, dressed already in a pale silk and ready for bed.

Once they were alone, Aegon had brought up this childhood game. What had convinced her, though, was when her twin, Aemond, who was the personified reason knitted amongst them all, seemed almost akin to the idea. His perpetual smirk played at his lips when he offered to be the seeker first.

And now she padded softly along to keep pace with Aegon, breathless, almost gleeful, as they tore through the empty corridors, hands held as they weaved through the silent castle before coming to a door she recognized all too well.

“This is Aemond’s room,” and her voice trailed off with its uncertainty.

Aegon returned his hand to her lower back, his other now grasping onto her forearm. There was a darkness that flickered over his features, but his smirk was quick to brighten, an emotion gone with a heartbeat before she could even register. A coaxing whisper to guide her across the threshold: “This is the one place he would not think us to go.”

It was a room she knew with an intimate familiarity, with an ingress that connected and weaved through the walls, leading back to her own. When they were children, Aemond often would slip into her bed at night, her honeyed tones to soothe him to sleep, and when he had lost his eye, she would go visit with him and listen while Vhagar’s roars reverberated throughout the Keep.

It was tidy, as always, maintained and meticulous, which suited her twin. His musk lingered over, something that was so uniquely his own: the hint of smoke with leather, his skin scrubbed clean with the bath oils gifted from Dorne, the amber and the ash.

It was something that held onto her clothes whenever she would return to her room in the early mornings.

Now, she followed Aegon with timid steps as he moved towards the wardrobe further back, standing tall and solid. He opened to be greeted with the smell of Aemond, mixed with the cedar chips placed to keep the moths away. He then stepped in first, turning to reach for her once he realized her hesitation rooted her to the cobblestone; his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her in, closing the door behind.

It was dark, save the crack between the paneled doors that allowed the bit of golden light from the hearth and the tapers still lit to spill in. Aegon nestled against her, a warmth emitting from him, and her backside flushed against his chest. His one hand moved to her hip while the other began to draw soothing circles against her stomach, an almost tingling sensation through her silk.

She squirmed slightly, an inadvertent hum from his touch; the close proximity and his clashing scent–a soothing mixture of lavender and tea tree oil–caught her breath in her throat. She blushed, her hand fumbling on top of his own, so small in comparison, and he pressed the imprint of his palm to her stomach, the other gripping into her hip bone.

She shivered from his hold, from the warmth that began to pool between her thighs. “Aegon,” she breathed.

He moved to place his hand over her mouth. “Quiet, sister,” and his chin pressed onto her shoulder, his hot whisper tickled with his low baritone and his hold tightened around her waist.

She paused, alert for an indication that Aemond had finally come to the room to find them, but there was only a heavy silence punctuated by the crackle from the fireplace. Aegon burned against her, a pillar of warmth that settled over like a fog, thick with the quiet, almost suffocating in the enclosed space. His hold on her hip loosened and his hand began to trail the flow of silk to the soft divot between her thighs, his fingers moving to trace the outline of her cunt against the thin material.

“Sister,” his tone was dark, but she felt the curl of his lips against her ear. “You are bare beneath this.”

Only his hold on her mouth kept her from reminding him that she had meant to go to bed, but instead she had been caught up in this insipid game–but the thought choked on the fog from his continued motion. His fingers deftly found her slit and he dragged his center digit upwards between, a featherlight touch that seemed to scorch through the length of her spine. She moaned, soft and muted, against his palm.

“Pull up your skirt,” he hissed, moving to cup her cunt fully.

She jolted from his touch, scrambling to bunch the fabric around her hips; the air was cool against her thighs and the wetness between.

Aegon groaned against her skin. “So wet for me, sweet sister,” and he pulled her closer, grinding against her backside, his defined hardness pressing into the softness of her arse.

She mewled and it was muffled still, drawing a dark chuckle of satisfaction from Aegon. “You like that?” and he repeated the movement, his fingers now spreading her silken folds and the silver hair that lined them. “If I remove my hand, will you be a good girl and stay quiet for me?”

His hold only relaxed with the frantic bob of her head and his hand moved to push aside her braid to allow his tongue to run the column of her neck to behind her ear, almost panting against her skin. She shuddered against him. “So soft,” and her skin prickled with the low rumble of his praise, “so wet,” and his one finger curled within, searching until she began to melt, arching against him with a desperation to feel the friction again, his length hard and heavy against.

She pressed backwards and Aegon drew a sharp intake of air before he tilted his chin, his teeth sinking into the junction of her neck, suckling until she left out a small whine, “–Aegon.”

“Quiet,” he hissed again before returning his focus to the curl of his fingers within her velvet walls, to the movement of his hips grinding against. His touch was practiced, precise, and he was now knuckle deep, which allowed the ridge of his palm enough pressure that further ignited the coiled passion building in her lower abdomen.

She gasped with each stroke as he continued his simultaneous ministrations, the mixture of his kisses and nibbles on the curve of her neck, the love bites that would linger but right now brought her to the precipice of something she had never felt before–

–and the doors swung open, where Aemond stood, arms wide, his hair disheveled and his expression unreadable.

Her eyes widened, burning from her embarrassment, burning from her release; she tried to close her thighs, but Aegon pulled it from her, against her own volition and with a startled cry. She trembled from her peak, the flush of color that spilled from her cheeks, to her neck and to her chest, her nipples pressing against the silk and her chest heaving with her labored breath.

Aegon wore his smug satisfaction, pressing a soft kiss to her neck and his eyes never leaving Aemond.

But his sharp features seemed unsurprised by the spectacle. “You are insatiable, brother,” and he grabbed her, pulling her from the confines of the wardrobe. “Your impatience knows no end.”

The silk spilled to cover her leaden legs, her steps staggered but he was quick to catch her. His large palms held her steady, to meet with his bicolor gaze; his sapphire gleamed and his lavender eye trailed her curves, almost admiring. He then dragged her towards the bed, pushing her backwards against it.

“Oh, but I have only prepared her for you,” Aegon continued as he stepped out, his silver hair mussed and his satisfaction bold on his features as he licked his fingers clean.

She wished her voice to not sound so childish with her question. “P-prepare me?”

Aegon tutted condescendingly. “Just as we did with Helaena, and she took us both so well,” he grinned, relishing in the new flush of color that stained her cheeks with the implication of his tone. “You cannot truly believe we would ever allow you to be off to some Northern house as a prize?”

Her heart fluttered with hope, like a captured bird against its cage, and her fingers pressing into the mattress to hold herself upright to look back at Aemond. He stepped closer to touch her, his hand large and warm, his slender fingers sliding to hold the back of her neck, to hold her attention. “I would never allow that,” he vowed, and then he pulled her to stand again.

She had always considered her twin to be handsome, as breathtaking as the sapphire stone he had placed in his scarred socket. It was his melancholy mien that called to her heart; there was a severity that lined his features, that sharpened as the years passed and chiseled away at the remains of his boyhood. After the war was won, she often wondered, she hoped, that she would be given to him, as Helaena had been given to Aegon…

Her eyelashes fluttered when she looked up at him, warming from the close proximity. “Aemond…”

“Trust me,” and Aemond pressed closer.

It was her first kiss and it swept the air from her lungs, his mouth soft and warm and wanting against her own. A soft moan spilled from her and his tongue curled against her own, his gradual pace to allow her time to taste, to allow her own want to begin rekindling within.

Her hands trembled when they reached for his collar, pulling him closer, and he hummed his satisfaction, a vibration throughout; his arm wrapped around the small of her waist, a guiding press back against the bed edge. Her layers of silk were disrobed and puddled on the cobblestone, a heat radiating from her bareness now shown to Aemond and she saw how his pupil swallowed the color of his eye.

Aemond discarded his tunic, his long and lithe form decorated with scars from the Dance of the Dragons, bold colors with some fading to silver. He pressed between her plush thighs, his slender fingers now digging into their softness for hold, pulling her towards the edge until her cunt pressed against the bulge of his trousers.

Another moan spilled from her kiss-swollen lips from the clothed pressure, and Aemond dipped forward, the soft tickle of his silver hair against her skin and his lips trailing the curve of her jaw with an open mouth kiss to the soft divot beneath her ear.

“Lay back on the bed,” was his breathless command.

She trembled to move herself but paused when her eyes darted back to see Aegon in the shadows, still standing, still watching rapt. His tunic was now untucked and showed off the hard peaks of his chest beneath, his hand dipping past his waistline with a slow palming of the length of his shaft, with wine stained blotches on his cheeks.

Aemond captured her mouth, pushing her back onto the bed, his kiss searing with his desperation, his hunger, with the clash of teeth and his tongue curling against the roof of her mouth. She panted, flustered from the attention, flustered with the echo of Aegon’s words–she took us both so well. Even then, plumes of pink bloomed on her pale skin as his kiss stoke the embers of her passion. “Aemond,” she breathed him in, her head light.

He hummed against her neck, moving lower so his mouth could appreciate her curves. He paused at her chest, his tongue flickering over the peaks of her nipples before trailing lower to the soft of her stomach with hot, wet kisses moving towards her core.

She sighed, she squirmed with each placed kiss and as he nestled between, his breath warm against the glisten from her first climax, and her arousal from his touches.

“She tastes so sweet, brother,” Aegon rasped.

Aemond hummed against her cunt, his fingers soft to touch, his lips pressing an intimate kiss to the bloom above her entrance. She arched her back with a sharp cry, sensitive still, and he pinched her thigh.

“Dōna mandia,” his husky tone sent bolts up her spine. “Be quiet.”

Her hands clamped over her mouth as he began to lap the bundle of nerves discovered this night, and he drank her essence unabashedly. His fingers curled within, his touch somewhat similar to Aegon’s but thoughtful, searching until he felt the beginning flutter of her walls. There was the sinful squelch of her wet cunt and she let out a choked sound against her palm, the threat of tears pearling in her eyes–

Then he stopped.

She let out a whine and pushed to her elbows, the flush of rose that tinged her intimately in all the right places, the rise and fall of her chest and her nipples still peaked with her denied pleasure. Aemond watched her, removing his trousers, the hint of satisfaction fleeting with how her eyes widened at the sight of him bare; he then moved to the cradle of her hips, his head dipping with the glisten on his lips and chin, an unfamiliar taste with his sweet kiss.

Aemond pressed against her, hot and heavy. “Sweet sister,” and he sounded apologetic. “This will hurt.”

Once again a hand clamped over her mouth, halting her gasp as he lined to press against her entrance. Aemond groaned into her neck with his gentle thrusts that burned, that stretched as he pushed into her and she writhed pitifully beneath him, the tears now spilling with her muffled sob.

“I know, I know,” his low tone was soothing, his breath tickling the curve of her neck as he continued the slow rut of his hips against her, his hold relaxing for a chaste kiss.

She gasped against his mouth. The burn, the ache dimming with his each thrust and she felt the blossom of a newer sensation that began to trickle through her veins, a coiling passion as he filled her; It was something deeper than neither his hands of Aegon’s reached before. She shuddered against him, her cheeks wet and her fingers curling into his slim hips, his pace rhythmic to her internal flutter pulling her towards an edge.

She let out a soft cry: “Aemond.”

His lips curled and he praised her. “Yes, just like that,” his pace continued, unrelenting. She felt her muscles clenching, spasming with the bloom of her climax spilling through, her sweet moans mixing with his sharp intake of air through his clenched teeth. Aemond stilled his hips, savoring how she shuddered beneath him, her rapid heartbeat and wet eyes that watched him intently.

A whine cut through them both. “Aemond,” and only then did they remember Aegon.

She felt empty when Aemond pulled away, her cresting pleasure fading. The bed dipped as he shifted, his large hands now moving her, coaxing her onto her hands and knees so she now faced the edge of the bed to watch as Aegon moved closer.

He had shed the last of his clothes, his swaggered step that showed his length, his girth, that hung heavy between his thighs. His touch felt clammy against her skin, cupping her jaw and tilting her head back to meet with the glitter of his lilac eyes. “Will you return me the favor?” he mused, his thumb pressing to her lower lip.

Her older brother always held a haunted beauty about him. There were splotches of wine stains, bold on his porcelain skin, and something almost sinister that brimmed beneath the dark shadows that framed his lovely eyes. Aegon watched her, his digit stroking underneath her chin as he watched for her to acknowledge his words.

Behind her, the bed dipped again as her twin moved to place his hands on her hips. Her grip balled into the linen, to try and hold her trembling still; he dragged the tip of his cock through her folds to coat himself in her release, allowing an easier glide as he sheathed back into her cunt; his groan reverberated throughout them both.

She shuddered and felt Aegon squeeze her jaw, looking up at him through the new tears that clung to her eyelashes. “Open your mouth,” was his low command, his hand wrapping around his base and pressing his swollen cockhead to her lips.

It was a tentative taste before she opened to take him bit by bit. “Watch your teeth,” and she widened her jaw, her tongue flattening against the underside of him. “Yes, good girl,” Aegon hissed, his head tilting back.

She gagged when Aemond slammed into her, his hip bones digging into the softness of her arse–this new angle choked a moan from her, and its vibration had Aegon almost giggling. His fingers combed through her silver hair that spilled from the braid, holding her head as he now bucked his hips into her mouth. She gagged again, hollowing her cheeks, saliva spilling from the corners of her mouth and dripping down the sides.

The brothers were in tandem, the brutal pace of her twin and the sensual pull of her hair by Aegon and his large hands. She trembled as she tried her best to balance on one hand, her other trying to wrap around the last bit of Aegon she could not swallow, flushed from the lack of oxygen and her muscles tensing again.

Then it stopped, the satisfying pop as Aegon removed himself from her mouth, an emptiness as Aemond pulled away. She wished to melt into the sheets, but felt hands pulled to straddle the slender waist of Aemond, who was now splayed against the pillows, the flush of color bright on his sharp features. She saw his erection pressed up against his stomach, a glossy sheen of her arousal coating him.

She sighed from his touch, lifting her hips with a soft mewl as he dragged his tip through her silken folds again, allowing her to slowly sink on top with her soft cries. He bucked beneath her, a slow pace to fill and it plumed new pleasure that sparked at her spine, fluttering throughout. Her nipples were rosy and pebbled, her small hands bracing against his chest with the imprint of of red, half-crescent moons littering on his skin.

Aemond moved his hands to cradle her lower back and pulled her forward until she was flushed against his chest. He captured her lips with a renewed fervor, biting her bottom lip, and she whimpered mercifully against his mouth. He broke away and she buried into his neck with a soft kiss, while Aemond gave a silent gesture to Aegon, who retrieved a small vial and palmed himself as he continued watching them.

“You wish to make me feel as good as I made you,” Aegon asked and the bed sank as he climbed onto it, “isn’t that right, sweet sister?”

She twisted to face him, an unintelligible moan to reply as Aemond continued his languid pace beneath her. Her eyes were glassy, soft noises spilling, and there was a movement of silver when she nodded her head.

Aegon hummed with a curl of his lips, moving behind her, pouring more from the vial into his palm. Aemond reached to find her lips again, tightening his hold as she jerked from Aegon’s touch. He made a soothing sound and she relaxed as he slowly circled her rim, a genial coat of oil, so tender it almost tickled.

It stopped and her trepidation fluttered her spine as his thick head pressed against her hole, a searing burn that speared the base as he began to push until he was fully sheathed and flushed against her ass. She trembled and Aegon let out a low groan as he leaned over her, a soft bite and kiss to her shoulder blade. “So tight,” he gasped.

Aemond had stilled his hips, swallowing her cries with his kiss, and only pulling back to lick her tears, his soothing words muted from the roar of blood that was rushing to her ears. He continued to sing small praises while Aegon moved agonizingly slow, his thrusts eventually coaxing a heat in her lower back that began to spread and press to her seams.

Aemond cupped her face to reclaim her attention, her breathy moans fanning his cheeks and her fist knotting into the linen as she shuddered against his chest. He moved his warm palms to her sides, slowly rolling his hips at an alternating pace with Aegon.

The fullness from their hungry, cyclical pace continued the crescendo building in her lower abdomen. It came with sparks of white that flashed before her eyes, the release of that coiled passion flushing her skin with their rhythm. Her tension snapped, painfully, pleasurable, sharing her bones beneath and leaving her weightless with a sobbed release.

She shuddered from the crests of pleasure that continued to crash against her, feeling Aegon’s hips stuttering with his own peak before pulling out his softening cock. And then Aemond gripped into her hips, a biting hold as he rutted upwards to chase after the high, his cock pulsing inside her velvet walls and her lips parting with a wordless cry.

She then crumpled against her twin and he moved her carefully to the side. She was breathless and could feel their pearly seed spilling from her holes and seeping into the linen. Aegon was first to move, to dress and leave the room, but Aemond took a moment, washcloths rung to wipe her clean, taking the time to blow softly on her skin and watch it ripple with gooseflesh.

When he finally finished, he crawled beneath the covers and pulled her against his chest; she sighed as she melted against him, her fingers moving to play with the silver strands of his hair. Her lips pursed a moment. “What do we do now, brother?”

His fingertips stemmed pleasantly against her ribs and she flushed from the vibration of his low hum. “I intend to speak to the Lord Hand tomorrow about making you my wife,” he said as if it was already decided.

Her tongue wet her lips. “What if he is adamant to send me to the North?”

His grin was almost wicked. “Then I will parade these corridors with these very sheets to show you are no longer a maiden,” and he pushed her as she giggled, rolling her onto her back and enjoying the natural spill of her breasts; his narrow waist knitted between her thighs and she sighed, feeling him pressed against the inside of her thigh, heavy and ready once again.

Aemond captured her mouth and his kiss heated her cheeks. He stopped a moment, his tone dark and heady, “I will not be denied. Iksā ñuhon, dōna mandia.”

You are mine, sweet sister. 

[celtigxr]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 24 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: "But the courage he had bolstered on his descent to the Black Dread crumbled at the sight before him." Word Count: 6499 CHAPTER WARNINGS: A n g s t 🥲, mention of the term dwarf, Aegon being weird with crab legs.

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: I hope y'all enjoy this chapter, and it was worth the wait.

Like every ball before this one, Aemond was in a state of agonizing torture for its duration. Though this feeling was tenfold for reasons that were clad in ivory, sitting before his family’s table at the far right, close but out of reach. The agitation that tightened his muscles and carved into his bones was unsettling as he tried to diagnose its origin. When did it start, when did it get worse, and when will it get the best of him? He tried to take a page out of his brother’s book and drown his emotions in wine, which did help his muscles relax, but beyond that, it was not a cure. 

He sat on the far right end of the table, Aegon on his left, Helaena seated between him and Daeron, then their mother. On the Queen’s left was the King, his hand, and then sat Daemon, Jace, and Luke. The ten faced the entirety of the grand hall, within perfect view of everyone and the mind-numbing entertainment that followed. With Aegon cackling as he did, spitting out food and drink next to him, Aemond was very nearly at the end of his rope of patience. His only solace was that Lucerys was completely out of eye sight, because he was just as boisterous on his end of the table.

But her laughter and smile tethered him to the chair. Valeana became more and more of her old self when she drank, he realized. Perhaps a little more brazen when she is completely out of her wits, but still, he could see remnants of the little Valeana he once knew. Easily amused by crude humour and childish jokes, enraptured by stories that have been told a thousand different ways, awed by two-bit magicians who hide their cards in their sleeves so obviously, it pained him to witness. He remembered that one of her favourite tricks he used to do was pull a coin or a ring, a seashell or an interesting pebble from behind her ear. 

She’d always demand him to tell her how he did it and he would deny her the satisfaction, because if she knew the trick he would never get to witness the awe in her face. He forced himself to bow his head when he found himself smiling at the memory. Luckily, no one saw him, least of all his own personal fool that sat right beside him. 

There was a team of dwarves reenacting the battle of the Step Stones comically, with one man dressed as a red dragon, and the other as a giant crab. Aemond hardly paid attention, his eye too focused on Valeana’s profile to even register that Aegon turned to him until he spoke. 

“Aemond,” his elder brother whispered harshly next to him. When Aemond did not respond, Aegon stressed his name again. 

“What?”

“Maris is on the other side of the hall.” 

When Aemond slowly turned to Aegon, he was met with a shit-eating grin that he desperately wanted to punch repeatedly. 

Aegon went on, unperturbed by his brother’s threatening leer, “I just thought I’d remind you, since you seem to have forgotten her already.” He cleared his throat and flushed it down with wine before reaching out for a plate on his left and bringing it between them. “Try the crab legs, brother, they’re delicious.”

Aemond ran his tongue over his teeth, remaining silent lest he say something that his brother could use against him. Aegon plopped some of the legs onto his plate, and looked up at his younger brother. 

Without breaking eye contact, he pulled up two legs that were still connected, “My favourite part is cracking them open before I slurp up their insides.” 

Aemond’s hand curled around his dinner knife, knuckles white with the insatiable desire to plunge it into Aegon’s eye. Instead, he spoke lowly, only for his brother to hear, “Iksā iā qrīdropagon naejot īlva lentor.” (You are a disgrace to our family). 

Aegon sucked up a piece of crab meat through the crack he made in the thigh, he chewed twice before swallowing, “You know I do not know what that means.” 

Aemond slowly turned away from him, returning his eye back to Valeana and allowed his hand to relax from its grip on the knife. The dwarves’ play had ended and the fool’s bard, Quintyn Quicktongue, took over.

A short time later, the entertainers left the floor empty when the musicians began to play. It was not a formal dance, with no required steps and prior lessons to fulfill. Just mindless instrumentals for couples to dance at their leisure now that people were too into their cups to manage a more structured dance. Aegon slipped away sometime before that, muttering about needing to take a piss. He hobbled through the small exit behind them, probably to find a planter or a window to relieve himself in. 

Now without his presence, Aemond was able to relax in his chair. He fiddled with the goblet in his hand, trying to keep his mind occupied with a checklist of duties, lest he allow the alcohol he had been consuming all evening take over his senses and make him impulsive. It was difficult, because the more feral part of his brain begged him for freedom, urging him that it would liberate his soul if he just acted upon instinct. And his instinct was telling him to spur Maris Baratheon and sweep Valeana Celtigar off her feet and kidnap her like some Ironborn savage does with a salt wife. 

Before he could pull himself from his chair, his mother was at his side, leaning into his ear, commanding his attention with her sharp tone – the one he had always associated with motherhood. 

“Ask Valeana to dance before your brother has a chance to make a fool of himself,” upon announcing her request, his eye flickered over to the girl in question. It was too late to even decide to listen to his mother, because Aegon had already got to the table, returning from wherever he went to slither in front of Valeana. 

Aemond shared a look with his mother; he did not have to say a word, neither did she. Her lips pulled into a frow, and she settled back into her chair, glancing over to the Lord Hand.

The sight of Valeana smiling up at his brother and at how comfortable she appeared in his presence made his stomach churn. Aemond downed what remained in his goblet and swiftly stood up, excusing himself by planting a kiss on the side of Helaena’s head. 

“Watch for salt-hungry eyes, Aemond. She will drown in them,” Hel’s warning only made him hesitate for a brief second. He was not in the headspace to decode his sister’s madness, so he just gave her a nod and left. 

His departure had gained the eye of Maris, which he would rather avoid presently. Her neck lengthened as she tried to catch his attention from her table, but Aemond pretended he had not noticed, and instead slipped into the side entrance to the hall, into the corridor that was occupied by various guests and servants serving a variety of hand-held foods. 

“Leaving already?” Ser Criston caught his attention. The kingsguard lingered against a wall, observing the patrons of the Ball diligently. 

“I needed air,” Aemond confessed, leaning his shoulder against the wall next to him. “There are too many people in there.”

Cole nodded, “Every family in the Seven Kingdoms; even some Dornish families are here.” 

A servant passed by with a platter of oysters on a bed of salt. The white cloak shook his head when offered, but Aemond needed to preoccupy his fidgety hands, so he plucked one off and then the servant left them to their conversation. The oysters were already pried open at the mouth, so a dirk wasn’t needed to shuck it open.

“Bit ironic serving those on Maiden’s Day,” Cole observed, watching as his prince slowly opened the oyster up, revealing the soft meat inside. “Oysters are aphrodisiacs, known to increase the libido of a grown man or woman, yet the pearls inside are symbols of virtue and virginity.” 

Aemond did not say anything, instead took the half with the tongue and brought it to his lips, slurping up the salty meat in one go. There was something hard and pebbled that landed in his tongue when he swirled the morsel in his mouth. Taking the empty shell, he spit out a slightly lumpy black pearl. 

“Hm,” he eyed it curiously. 

Cole chuckled softly, “You found the lucky oyster, my Prince. Mayhaps you should give it to Lady Maris as a gift.” 

At the mention of her name, Aemond rolled his tongue in his mouth and pursed his lips as if her name was a sour fruit he just tasted. Plucking the pearl from its natural plate, he rolled it around in his fingers, then tossed the shells onto a tray of another servant passing by.

“I am not certain of Lady Maris,” he confessed, his tongue loosened now in the presence of a man that he trusted. For a moment, his eye flickered towards the entrance when one of the Tyrell girls walked through with a tall man with dark hair and a wide, wolfish smile. His cloak told Aemond he was a Greyjoy, and his sharp blue eyes when they met Aemond’s cold lilac one told him he was Dalton. 

“Prince Aemond,” the ironborn nodded, and the Tyrell curtsied when they passed by. 

Aemond’s only response was a simmered glare and a flare of his nostrils. 

Cole, oblivious to the interaction aside from a glance of acknowledgement, went on to ask why that was. 

“It is a smart match, Aemond, and a compatible one. What is it that pulls you away from her?”

His fingers played around with the pearl in his palm, “She has started to bore me.” 

There was clear exasperation in Cole’s features, distinctively paternal in its nature. “You are starting to sound like your brother.”

He might as well have called him a bastard and a coward, because being compared to Aegon was just as great of an insult. The pearl rolled along between his fingers, the lump pushing painfully against his skin as he clutched it. 

“I do not wish to chain myself to a woman that I can lose regard for so easily,” he argued.

“Give it time, Aemond. Most marriages are not built on love and attraction initially. With Maris, you already have much in common, so much so that your conversations span hours I’ve noticed. You can do worse.” 

But he could do better, much better. He wanted what was his all along, what was now being stolen by either his brother or his nephew. What could have been his, had it not been for his ego; had it not been for his over thinking mind at odds with his weak heart; had it not been for him allowing those around him to influence his motivations. 

His mind drifted back to that day when he returned from a flight with Vhagar, where Valeana approached him at the main gate. She wished for peace and he had slighted her. His pride was wounded that day and he was spurred with the paranoia that she was a monster out to destroy him. Aemond rejected her, which he justified was the right thing to do, because she had hurt him when she ran into Aegon’s arms and bed, to do whatever it is they did in his bedchambers that night. It did not even cross his mind he might have driven her into his arms after what he had done to her in the library, because the sounds he heard that night ripped through his mind and down to his ribs, seizing him in anger and selfish pain.

Emboldened by a new wave of resentment at the mental reminder of his belief that Valeana was his brother’s newest lover, Aemond pulled himself off the wall and pocketed the pearl. He did not know the intricacies– nor understood them entirely –of Aegon’s arrangement he had with her. Whether it was built on the foundations of Valeana’s vengeance or Aegon’s innate desire to orchestrate chaos, it was clear that lust became a consequence of it. Mayhaps it began with Aegon, knowing his brother’s insatiable appetite for bodily pleasures, and with Valeana’s new nature of seeking out attention where she could, she was all too eager to allow Aegon to have his way. But then that begged the question: did Valeana take lovers before she came back? Was this a new trait that developed over the last decade?

Floris hadn’t mentioned in her rantings about Valeana luring men into her bed, she had only talked about Val’s need to seek out pity by mimicking a trapped spirit, pacing the corridors of her castle. Even as children, boys paid her little mind, unlike her younger sister Shyla, who was regarded as the prettiest of the three. Even Floris had suitors every once in a while, but her nature tended to send them in the opposite direction.

The cogs in Aemond’s mind turned and turned, and all Criston could do was watch him with a furrowed brow, and a concerned eye. 

“My Prince, is everything alright?”

Then it struck him like a whip; harsher than the lashes he suffered as punishment for his crime against her. 

Valeana never had lovers. She could not have, if the stories of her being reclusive were true. He’s never seen her around men at all, other than her own brothers and…

He shut his eye, feeling a headache spike at this temple. 

Aegon was the first man to show her affection, and like a neglected puppy that didn’t know any better, she leaned into his touch willingly. And Aemond foolishly pushed her into his arms.

“I am fine,” he lied. “I just need some air.”

With that he left the knight to stand there in befuddlement. Aemond sped walked through hall after hall until he found a corner that was blessedly free of guests and of light. The sconce on the wall had burnt out, leaving the corner in blissful shadow, save for the moon that filtered through the small arched window. He leaned against the wall, snugged in the corner and immediately started to press his fingers into his temples. Aemond’s heart was pounding in his chest, steadily reminding him with every beat that his mind could not protect it any longer, because he was too much of a bloody fool. 

He had managed to ease the tension in his skull after a while, and his heart rate lowered with the comfort of the darkness that hugged and shielded his figure. Though he could do nothing to cure the dull ache in his chest, because all he could see were her sad eyes that she only had for him. And her smile that now belonged to Aegon. 

The sound of women’s shoes tapping against the flagstone in his direction made him freeze. He had no desire to see anyone, new or otherwise, but perhaps if he stayed as still as possible they would not notice him.

They didn’t, but he did. Her sudden appearance was electrifying in its fortuitous timing. 

Valeana sped by him, head bowed as she braced a hand on her left thigh through her skirts. She appeared to be limping, though just barely, it was enough to spur Aemond into following her, veiling his yearning for her with a concern over her wellbeing. But as she rounded the corridor and found the entrance to the cellars below, he did not call out to her. Instead he hesitated until he heard her safely reach the bottom to Balerion’s resting place. 

Aemond found himself in a state of uncertainty and fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of her ire. Fear of failing. Fear of heartbreak. Fear of her. He shut his eye and imagined Vhagar, a near two-century old beast; formidable, ancient, terrifying, battle-hardened, living longer than the beast below ever had. And he, Aemond Targaryen, claimed her, the oldest and largest dragon in the world, who has known more war and bloodshed than any dragon before her, post Doom of Valyria.

He could claim Valeana Celtigar too. 

Hurdling down the spiral stairs, Aemond curled his fingers into a fist, bounding his will in determination and unwavering resolve. Swallowing his fear and reservation, much like he had done as a child approaching Vhagar, he forced himself to breach the line of no return. 

But the courage he had bolstered on his descent to the Black Dread crumbled at the sight before him. 

There Valeana sat upon the bench, her ivory and rose gown pulled up to the crest of her hip and thigh, where a leather corset was being tugged loose. Her pale knee peaked out through a gap between the harnesses that secured her thigh to the dark wooden appendage that was her leg. She had freed her thigh from the laced harness and then reached down to tug the wooden leg off with a groan of relief. 

Aemond’s mouth popped open at the sight of her leg, bound in linen from the top of her calf and around the stump where muscle and bone cut off. Half her calf gone, her ankle, gone, her foot, gone. For the first time in years, he felt his vacant eye ache from socket to scar. The scarred tissue that was once his eyelids fluttered around the sapphire that now filled the empty space, feeling the ghost of the dagger that traumatized it for life. 

His entire world came crashing down on him in the instant; everything that he thought he knew, and everything he said and did in the moon’s time that Valeana had returned. He had the knowledge that her leg was healed and she was able to walk, and while half was true, the evidence of his most heinous crime glared at him like his sapphire eye every morning in the looking glass. 

Aemond’s memory begun to torture him as it spun and wove tapastries of his misdeeds. The library, where he had pushed her, the shoe he had found when he tried to find her. Dragging her drunkard self in haste through the castle by her wrists. How he made her run after his bloody horse, whilst she pleaded for reconciliation— gods, he felt sick. 

The urge to flee from her was potent, but the leer of the Black Dread would not have his cowardice that day. Frozen in time, Aegon the Conqueror's dragon seemed to snarl at him for even considering it. 

The whimper she let out from her lips as she massaged her thigh was what did him in. It just plunged him into the waters of his remorse and self-hatred. The shocking need to help her as he once did as children took control of his limbs and his lungs; it was instinct, despite his overwhelming dread and shame. 

Her name on his lips and his step forward brought his presence known to her. Her spine straightened from the intrusion, and when her head whipped around to see him standing there, he knew she wasn’t prepared for anyone to find her in that state, least of all him. 

Lightning surely struck down her spine. The level of shock and dread that filled her to see him standing there, witnessing her in this state was a whole nother level of humiliating. Every hair on her body raised on end as her mind frantically went into survival mode. Valeana forced her trembling arms and hands to move and grab her prosthetic to put it back on, but she fumbled, and the wooden appendage clattered on the floor, causing her to gasp a soft: ‘no!’ 

Aemond was there in an instant, on his knee at her side and grasping her prosthetic with tender hands. Had she not been in such a fretful mind, she would have noticed how his fingers trembled just as much as hers. 

“Here, let me–” 

“No–” She wretched her leg from his hands with a sniffle. Without looking at him, she quickly slotted her stump into place and adjusted her knee around the leather harnesses. Lacing the corset to secure it around her thigh was another challenge though, because with her shaking digits she was having a difficult time weaving the strings through the holes. 

His balmy hand stopped hers and she couldn’t help but flinch and freeze under the contact. By now she was looking down at her leg through a blurred veil of salty tears, barely witnessing his fingers delicately lace the corset, one hole at a time. Valeana forced herself to sit still, concentrating on the hum of music above them and the short laboured breaths she was allowing herself. When Aemond got to the end of the corset, he tugged at the strings, causing her to flinch. 

“Is that too tight?” His question was as soft as his touch, and it made her chest ache. 

“No… No, it’s perfect.” 

At her approval, he began to tie the laces, twice to secure its place. Once he was done, his fingers did not move from her thigh. They remained where they were, above the hemline where leather met flesh. His thumb moved along the stitching and over her soft skin. His touch felt like licks of fire and every time it happened, her teeth sunk further into her lip to stop herself from making a noise. Eventually Aemond’s hands journeyed south, stopping at the peak of her white knee through the dark material, and that is where his head dipped until his nose hovered over the joint, almost as if he was going to kiss it. 

“Does it hurt?” The question was so silent that she thought she had imagined it. 

Swallowing, she shook her head and answered tentatively, “I’m used to it.” 

The admittance sent a shuddered breath through him, making his shoulders buckle at the weight of his transgressions. She could feel his hands gently tighten around the curve of her knee, even through the leather harnesses that framed it. Then his forehead fell onto her thigh, which was a strong enough gesture for her to shut her eyes and free the tears that clung to her lashes.

After a while she could hear and feel him speak; the vibrations of his timbered voice rattled her joints and burned her skin. 

“Valeana, I had no idea–” 

Her sadness and longing battled her anger and her resentment. She wanted this, didn’t she? She wanted him on his knees, to kiss the wound he inflicted on her, and beg her for her forgiveness. She wanted him to want her, to feel his fingers on her exposed skin. But why now? Why did he cave now, after all this time? Spurring her at every interaction, then coming close and then pulling away with such animosity she was convinced that she was the one who pulled out his eye.

Was it because she was now coveted by two other men? Aegon did say that Aemond was possessive when his things were being used by others. This is what the plan was afterall, but now it was coming into fruition it just tasted bittersweet. If she was not with Aegon, if Jace was not tasked with the mission to woo her into a betrothal, would Aemond be there with her, or would he be dancing with Maris until the hour of the wolf? 

Ultimately her anger won, despite her sadness dampening its rigid edges. Even in the softness of her tone, the bite was still there when she spoke. 

“It does not matter, Aemond,” she pushed away his shoulders, shoving him away from her leg so she could return her skirts and preserve her dignity. “Leg, or no leg, the consequence of your actions has cost us a friendship we’ve developed since infancy, if there ever was one.”

She might as well have taken his own sword and shoved it through his chest. Aemond’s head was still bowed, incapable of looking at her and facing the truth of her words. He was a man defeated, something that Valeana had tried to manifest for half her life in the privacy of her own mind. Though she could not help feeling that she was just as defeated as well, because her loss had never been rectified.

“I will make it up to you,” again, he spoke so softly it was painful to hear it. 

“I am done trying to forgive you–”

“I know,” his voice rose a desperate octave, but then returned to its original state. “I know I do not deserve it. But, I will rectify all that I’ve done.” 

Valeana shut her eyes tightly. She was so tired of getting hurt by this man, but somehow she was incapable of refusing to move from his storm of arrows that penetrated her body over and over again. And now that she was the one with the bow, she found it was difficult to let go of the string. 

“Do not bother, Aemond,” she forced herself to say. Her voice strained at the resistance of her heart. “Mayhaps it is better if we part ways equally. You with Maris, and I with–” 

“No! Do not say it,” the sudden rise of volume jostled her. Now she had no choice but to look at him. His lilac eye glistened with unshed tears, a sight of which she did not think was possible on Aemond Targaryen. His nose was pink, and his lips were plush and swollen as they wobbled. There was a faint pull she felt under her skin, giving her the sudden need to capture those lips with her own. But she refrained. 

“I do not want her,” Aemond continued, pushing those words through his teeth with a low growl. “I want… I want you. I-I need you.” His other knee met the floor, the weight of his grief causing him to sink into her lap. Aemond’s forehead and nose buried itself in the valley between her skirt-covered legs and his hands desperately grasped onto her phantom limb, tugging it to chest.

“I miss you.” 

Valeana’s will absolutely crumbled. She let out a world-shattering sob; the air that left her lungs was the breath she had been holding in for ten years. Her body folded over him, with her own desperate hands flinging onto his shoulders and fingers tangling in his hair. 

“I miss you too.”

Aemond sharply inhaled as if his bodily instinct was to try to repress any sound that would betray how vulnerable he was. His shoulders tensed under her before he slowly lifted his head from her lap. They were so close that their noses bumped into each other. Through the blur of tears she concentrated on his good eye, while her right hand shifted down to his cheek, where her thumb grazed the ridge of his scar.He shut his eye when he felt her digit dip underneath his patch and slowly pushed it over his forehead, leaving him completely bare before her. 

Valeana swallowed as she gazed upon the endless sea of his sapphire eye, framed by the gnarled pinked flesh that used to be his eyelids. It twitched underneath the light touch of her fingertips, and she wondered if it still pained him like her leg. She wondered if there were times he thought he could feel his eye, or his lashes graze his cheeks when he blinked. She wondered if it was the most painful thing in the world when it happened. Her forehead slowly landed on his brow, her lips hovering over his gem eye, nose buried in the corner of it. 

They were just two broken individuals, trying to fill their empty spaces with each other. 

“I thought you hated me,” his whisper reached her ear, tickling the hair strewn against her face. 

“I thought I did too,” she replied, voice soft and coarse. “I wanted to. But even when you made it so easy for me to–And I do mean easy.” 

The corner of Aemond’s lip twitched ruefully, and his grip on her leg tightened closer to his chest. 

“I couldn’t,” she finished, brushing her fingers through his hair. He leaned into her touch, letting their noses bump and align with each other. She swallowed thickly when she was staring back at his beautiful lilac eye, framed by his dark blonde eyelashes so long she could feel them ghost her own. “Why did you push me?”

A question that he dreaded to answer, but she deserved one nonetheless. She felt his hand move from her leg to cup the side of her face, fingers curling around the shell of her ear and thumb roaming over the mound of her cheek, collecting the tears under his calloused pad. 

“I was terrified of you. Of what you were doing to me,” he shifted between her legs, adjusting himself so he was now holding both sides of her face. Aemond pulled away from her so he could look at her properly, earnestly, “I have been childish and cruel to you, my friend. I am so sorry, Valeana… For everything I’ve taken from you. For everything I’ve done since then. And I know… I know I pushed your heart into… his hands.” 

Valeana closed her eyes and sniffed deeply at the mention of Aegon. A new feeling that she was not accustomed to, that she was not willing to let go just yet. It tugged at her heart in the knowledge of her own conflicted mind. Had it been weeks ago, even when her resentment was fresh and untethered, she would have taken Aemond right then and there. Defiled her white dress and committed her body, heart and soul to him in sickness and in health. But even in his groveling, his heartfelt apology that her soul desperately craved, the apprehension gripped her throat. She was afraid to get hurt again, afraid that she will find another mistake in Aemond, afraid that she may never forgive him. But now she found something uncomplicated. 

Aegon felt safe, Aegon felt secure, but Aegon also felt… unknown. 

“But I will spend the rest of my life in dedication in the pursuit of being worthy of your forgiveness. Worthy of your touch. Worthy of your lips. Worthy of the air you breathe. I need you to know that I am yours, should you still want me. If you ever did.” 

“Aemond I–” she desperately wanted to say it. There was a visceral need to tell him she always did, but that doubt clawed at her throat, preventing her heart from speaking on her behalf. “My life has become so complicated. My father wants me to try to court Jacaerys at his behest, and then there’s—”

“Shh,” he gently hushed her with urgency, desperately wanting to keep his name from her lips. “You need not decide now. Take your time. I’ll wait for you.” Aemond gently nudged her face down so he could place a kiss upon her forehead, and that’s where his lips hovered. “But I only ask for one thing.”

Valeana blinked rapidly, trying to clear the remnants of her tears, “What is it?”

“Dance with me,” he pulled away to look upon her again. “It has been my greatest desire all eve.”

Her brow slightly furrowed as she continued to blink, an expression so adorable he could not help but smile at it. 

“I do not think I am in the right state of mind to go back upstairs, Aemond.”

The prince gently shook his head, “Not up there. Right here, where our only witness is Balerion’s ghost.” 

At the mention of the dragon, her eyes shift over to the massive skull that had been staring upon them the entire time. Valeana almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it; imagining the largest dragon to ever exist being forced to watch such a pathetic display of human emotion. She did not know anything about the dragon’s temperament, but she doubted Aegon the First’s dragon was as sentimental as Dreamfyre or even Syrax. 

Valeana returned her eyes onto Aemond, a small smile breaking her pout as she gave a single nod, “I think I can handle that.” 

They ascended with Aemond’s firm but gentle grip on her arms. He handled her as if she was just learning how to walk again, as if her legs would collapse underneath her if he let go. Her leg had a dull ache, but it was barely there compared to the state it was minutes ago. When they stood at full height, they took a moment to assess each other as if for the first time in years. 

Valeana reached out and fixed his eye patch, securing it over his eye, and cleaned up the stray hairs and righted his skewed circlet. Aemond brushed his fingers over her ear, tucking back wayward stands before moving to her neck where he adjusted her simple white gold and ruby necklace. 

Once they were satisfied, Aemond's hand found the small of her back and the other took her’s before pulling her body into him. Valeana’s other hand found Aemond’s shoulder with ease and now with her chest pressed against his, she had to crane her neck to look up at him. There was still the hum of music above, subtle enough that they were able to hear their own breathing, but loud enough that they could find a rhythm to their movements.

No words were spoken, just peridot and amethyst staring into each other. There was no extravagance to their waltz; their steps were slow and shallow, but they moved around in a circle before Balerion in grace and poise. 

“You’ve gotten better,” Valeana broke the silence, the comment lifting the heaviness of the mood that they had sowed earlier. 

“Hm,” Aemond allowed himself to smirk, “I had a good teacher.” 

Her lips twitched as her smile broadened, filling his chest with warmth and hope. “You were a terrible student.” 

“Mayhaps it was because I was distracted.”

“Distracted by what? We were alone.”

He hummed in amusement, his head bowed slightly so his nose grazed over the crest of her head. She spotted his tongue flick out and run over his coiled lip, causing a ripple of heat go through her body. 

“You developed breasts then, and they were so soundly pressed against me–”

“Oh my gods, Aemond,” she buried her face into his shoulder when her face burned. “You were a little pervert all along.” 

He chuckled whilst nuzzling into her hair. A rare sound, one that she had not heard for half her life. It was sweeter than strawberries and richer than whipped cream. 

“You left bruises, you know,” Val emboldened herself to say, then pulled her face from his shoulder to meet his furrowed brow. “From the other night… You littered me with bruises.” 

At the realization of what she meant, his head tilted with a little sparkle in his eye. His lips curved, reminding her of a mischievous little fox. Suddenly Aemond’s hand slid from her back to her front, his long nimble fingers finding the neckline of her bodice. 

“May I see?”

“Aemond!” She swatted his hand away, ignoring the spike of excitement that it brought her. His response was more chuckles, a gift to her ears. Then his hand moved to the side of her face where he pulled her head closer to him so he could plant a kiss upon her forehead, thus causing a frenzy of butterflies in her belly.

This was so very strange if she thought too much about it. Who was this man, and what did he do with Aemond One-Eye? He was almost too familiar to the Aemond she once knew. 

“He’s the same boy you loved, Valeana. Just older, more scarred, and hidden away.”

Valeana smiled to herself. She supposed she found him then. Lifting her head back up, she moved her hand from his shoulder to cup his cheek. The motion made him hum in contentment, leaning into the warmth of her palm before turning his face so he could place a kiss upon it. 

Aemond’s eye flickered then, moving to the side of her face. He blinked a few times before pausing their dancing so he could raise his hand towards her cheek. 

“One moment,” his lips pursed, “You have something just there–” 

He tentatively reached towards her ear, and then with a flick of his wrist he pulled his hand in front of her, cradling a chromatic black pearl with a green sheen and a little lump at the top between his fingers. 

Valeana’s eyes bugged out of her head at the sight of it, her hands flying to her ear as if she would find more hidden behind the cartilage. Aemond’s smile broadened at her reaction, which had never changed after all these years. 

“How did you– Did you have that this entire time?” 

“It was behind your ear–”

“Oh stop,” she playfully chastised, with a limp smack of her hand. 

He quickly took it and gently placed the pearl in the center of her palm, “For you.”

Valeana eyed the precious marble in her palm. She knew its worth, since black pearls were rare, particularly one with this colouring. Though she doubted he cared much for its worth, what made it truly special was how it was given to her, like a promise that they will return to the children they once were.

Aemond’s hands curled around her own, wrapping up the pearl in their fingers. She looked up at him, marveling at his face now that it was so close. He was always so handsome, but now he was ethereal. Angular features cut from marble, crafted by the Valyrian gods. His lips were always her favourite part of his features, next to his unworldly lilac eyes that felt far too soft for a man like him. 

They inched closer, bridging whatever gap that remained between their bodies. But before their noses could even bump into each other, an intrusive voice cut through their peace like a Valyrian steel sword slicing through someone’s skull.

“Oh, well, isn’t this a touching sight.” 

Aemond and Valeana spun around towards the threshold of the stairwell, both instinctively unlatching from each other at being caught in a compromising position.

Leaning against the archway, his hands clasped in front of him, the older prince peered at them with a mocking sense of beguilement. 

“Did I interrupt something innocent, or was dear ol’ Balerion going to bear witness to a deflowering, on Maiden’s Day no less?” Daemon’s eyebrows raised to his hairline, the corner of his mouth tugging into a roguish smirk. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE SNEAK PEAK:

“Who is he?” Valeana asked, narrowing her eyes at him. He seemed familiar, but from this height, she could barely make out his face through all the dirt and sweat. She took a sip of her drink in contemplation. “Dalton Greyjoy.” And then she spat out her drink. 

Notes: Hokay *wipes sweat* we've gone over the enemies arc. Now path to redemption...right? RIGHT? I hope you guys liked this chapter, it was difficult to write, because I wasn't sure if it was satisfying enough. But don't worry, for those that want him to suffer a lil more -- he will. We're almost halfway through the story. Or a little less. I honestly don't know how many chapters this will become. So I'm going to slow down updates to once a week, because now I'm writing more than two stories at the same time. For those who missed it, I'm in the middle of making a lengthy fem!Aegon one shot for funsies...cept it's not very fun, it's actually quite sad :') Hopefully I'll get that finished by wednesday or before.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[bronzefuryfic]

Rhae Targaryen

When the only child of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce is brought to King's Landing to meet with the rest of her family, she finds herself caught in a crisis of succession. The Greens battle for her support... and her affections.

Fic Highlights

Bronze Fury is a heavily green-centric fic from the perspective of my OC, Rhae, as she struggles with identity, love, and loss over the course of the canon events in House of the Dragon!

Canon-compliant, but greatly expanded!

This fic aims to enhance what I love most about the show! Rhae is used to add to the themes already present- providing additional motivation for the Greens, and facilitating more opportunities for them to talk and develop. HotD is the outline, and Bronze Fury stuffs it full with...

'Missing' scenes! Have you ever wondered what happened between the time skips? Who were these characters ~before~ tragedy strikes? And when it does... what do their transformations look like up close?

New storylines! Rhae has her own characterization, and her own goals, unique to her experience as Daemon's forgotten daughter by Rhea Royce. See her grapple with her legacy as Daemon's daughter and Lady of Runestone, as well as navigate her role amongst her new found family, the Greens.

Rhae has unique romantic storylines with both Aegon and Aemond!

If you are a fan of jealous!Aegon or jealous!Aemond, you will find it here in spades. This fic explores the jealousy between the brothers on all levels- not just as it pertains to their romantic rivalry! See them bicker, fight, make-up, then do it all over again. And again. And again.

Childhood friends to lovers! (And occasional enemies). This fic begins with the younger version of the green kids and follows them into adulthood. See how it all began. See how it all falls apart.

Pining! Lots and lots of pining. And co-dependency. And betrayal.

Rhae proves herself to be worthy of their infatuation. Their respective connections are heavily grounded in shared experiences (parental neglect, grievous injuries) and genuine feeling. You won't be left wondering why they're both attracted to her, or her to them- It's all very earned!

Rhae and Helaena are best friends!

We need more female friendships! And the one between Rhae and Helaena is tooth-achingly sweet, with an equal amount of time dedicated to their bond as with either brother. They have tea-time, they play with bugs, they pray at the Sept. They have sleepovers and talk about their freaky dreams...

Rhae gives Helaena the space to freely voice her own opinions- learn how she feels about her family, her future, and more!

Alicent and Criston as complicated parental figures!

Watch Alicent lure a motherless girl to King's Landing to secure her allegiance to their cause- by any means necessary. Private communications, private dinners... does Alicent truly care for the teenager she's brought into her home? Or is she merely a means to an end- fodder for the war, meant only to protect her children?

When your father is Daemon Targaryen, pretty much anyone looks better in comparison- and Criston Cole is no exception! Once fearful of the knight, Rhae quickly comes to appreciate his strength... and his tutelage. He's a tough instructor, but Rhae will put up with anything if it means learning to fight from the best of the best.

Dreams of patricide

Sometimes it feels that Rhae can trace all her problems back to a singular cause- that being none other than her father, Daemon. The Rogue Prince killed her mother and abandoned his daughter for fifteen years. Rhae thinks she ought to kill him for that... but not before understanding one thing: Why?

How is Rhae - a young, disabled, dragonless girl - ever going to face her father? Work. Hard, long years of it. Will her efforts to learn combat and claim a dragon be enough? Can she protect her new family from his wrath? Will she be able to avenge those who have already fallen victim to it?

Interested in reading? Check out the BRONZE FURY DIRECTORY!

Still not sure if it's for you? Feel free to send any questions you have! My anons are always on- let me know what you're looking for (characterization, plot, specific character dynamics etc), and I'll let you know if you'll find it in my fic!

[technicallywyverns]

Chapters: 5/? Fandom: House of the Dragon (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Aegon II Targaryen/Original Female Character(s), Additional Tags: Soft Aegon II Targaryen, Aegon II Targaryen is Not a Rapist, Love how that's a tag, Aegon II Targaryen Redemption, Aegon II Targaryen Needs a Hug, Sub Aegon II Targaryen, Manwhore to Malewife, Hurt/Comfort, I Play With The Timeline, Mainly Because I Never Read The Book So I Don't Know When Shit Happens, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Enemies to Lovers, Sort Of, more like frenemies to lovers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Angst, Bad Parent Alicent Hightower, Eventual Happy Ending Series: Part 1 of A Song of Ice, Fire, Flowers, and Stars Summary:

The day Idalia Tyrell was born, her mother knew she was destined for greatness. Little did Lady Annora Tyrell know, Idalia would be thrust into the world of dragons and towers. House Tyrell is known for their flowers, a highborn family of wealth and beauty. But every rose has its thorn, and Idalia is as sharp as her namesake.

Shall she bloom in her match to Aegon II? Or wilt under the flames...

[howyouloveyourdragon]

ao3 fic rec!

black suns and golden spears written by @beaconofthehightower

hello folks, this is a fanfic published on archive of our own which i very highly recommend so go and check it out!

fandom/s: House of The Dragon, A Song of Ice and Fire summary: Two Martell Princesses of Dorne, Ysilla and Merisa, are sent to King's Landing to maintain the relationship with House Targaryen and find themselves attracting two of the pale-haired princes pairing/s: ofc (original female character) x aemond targaryen, ofc (original female character) x aegon targaryen length: 3/? chapters, 8,952 words

chapter one:

Orange turns to black and the leaping tongues of fire in the night can only be a sign of the end and the beginning, the fragility of life and death. 

oooOoo i love this description

The King forgets Otto Hightower does not. 

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

by the howling, whirling sandstorm that is her twin.

okay side-step but i really love twins in fiction cause the dynamics are always really diverse and interesting

Unbowed in the way she stands before him, spine stiff and head high, dark eyes burning. 

martell through and through i love it

If Merisa is the spear, steadfast and true, then Ysilla is the sun, bright and unafraid to burn.

i love how while Merisa is dutiful she is still strong and doesn't fall into the stereotype that quiet dutiful women are weaker than more extroverted types

“You’d know this if your head constantly wasn’t in the clouds with your horses and your books.”

hey hey hey leave my bestie alone i'm already attached

and already as much of a terror Ysilla was at that age.

HAH

"The princess Helaena

MY LOVE

It is not the King who welcomes them, but the Queen in a gown of Hightower green. 

MY WIFE

Merisa gapes at the sight of her.

as she should

"Who're you?" he demands. "Aemond!" Alicent admonishes. 

pfffttt

Viserys I, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men and Protector of the Realm is almost a nightmare in the flesh. Bile rises in the back of her throat. 

DRAG HIMMMM

 She doesn’t notice the violet eyes that are burning into the side of her head.

"Your brother is odd, Helaena." Ysilla says after she’d caught Aemond staring at her yet again. 

i love Ysilla so much, she never fails to drag these royals like damn

Aegon’s eyes slide over her in a cursory glance before falling back to his brother. Ysilla’s eyes jump between the two, book forgotten.

“You're like an angry little cat, princess. Aren't you?" Aegon says.

this bitch

The Queen’s eyes are blank as she sweeps past Helaena and Ysilla. Aemond’s eye focuses on her, as if he knows she stares at him. There is a look in it that practically goads her, begs her to say something, anything. I dare you. She says nothing.

WOO SMART BBY

chapter two:

The king who paid little to less attention to his second wife and maimed son in favor of his eldest and the insult to her and her bastards. 

poor babalaroo but also lets not use that word babs

A debt unpaid; Rhaenyra winning all over again. The favored child. The firstborn.

it hurts to watch but it's true, i'm glad you're giving aemond a voice here

His sister emerges first, her lilac eyes clear as they flick hesitantly from face to face before brightening almost instantly as she ignored the hisses of her septa and darts towards them. He gawked when she pulls up short for a second, bouncing back and forth on the balls of her feet as she hesitates before wrapping her arms around Ysilla.

AWWWW

Alicent said, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger in exasperation.

wifey let me run you a hot bath, get your champagne, yeah?

Ysilla thinks he does it simply to gain her attention; whether bad, good or something else entirely. A mechanism of sorts.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 trying not to squirm from the caterpillar she held in her hands.

CATERPILLERS ARE SO CUTE, FIGHT ME

by in the blink of an eye of Aemond

i had a little giggle i can't l-eye

of Aemond purposefully trying to avoid her. In the gardens. In the halls. In the library. Everywhere he can think of. 

sigh

The tentative friendship, or whatever it was that had built between them after that day in the library shattered and withered, as if it had never existed in the first place.

"The younger one," Alicent murmured. "She's flowered." Otto smiled slightly. "An opportunity, this might be. To further bind Dorne to us through a marriage. Prince Qoren can do naught if one of his sisters is to marry your son.." Alicent leveled a flat look at him. "And what of the elder one? Princess Merisa?" she asked sharply, pushing against the table as she stands. "Hmm?"

 "You are of age now. Old enough to find a husband."

Sunlight glimmered against the darkness of her hair as Ysilla sat with her back against the bone white tree, Aemond's silver hair sliding like water between her fingers as her nails scraped lightly against his scalp.

DEVELOPMENTT

Annoyed now, Ysilla tugged a little too hard on his hair. Aemond yelped, craning his head backwards to glare at her. "I'll feed you to Vhagar if you do that again." he grumbled. 

bro really now? oml it's going to his head

but the king 

ooo the little details, like not calling him father but by his title

as she felt him tense stiffly before pressing her mouth tentatively to his, then more firmly. 

“I don’t think your sister likes me that much,”

pfffttt that's one way to put it

A look of distaste settled as dark as a storm cloud on his face. "In a sept, Aegon? Really?" He demanded, his fingers twitching at his sides. “Have you no shame?”

he??didnt??do??anything??yet?? (have since been told that he was drinking but babe this is aegon are we rlly that surprised?)

Merisa watched them, almost hazy, as if she was looking through glass. Something churned in her gut at the look he shared with Ysilla. Was this how it felt to lose a sister? 

chapter three:

Otto Hightower had no love for the Dornish girls; that much is obvious in the purse of his mouth and wary eyes every time he saw them.

welp

"Treat them with caution, Your Grace. A snake may strike when we least expect."

literally children but go off ig

She walked closer and tentatively set her hand on his back, nearly pulling it away when she felt him stiffen and his shoulders tremble as he started to shake under her touch. “I know,” she whispers as she moved in front of him, smoothing her hands over his hair as his head fell against her neck, hands grasping her waist. "Aemond…" He let out a low choked sound in the back of his throat, his fingers sliding over the fabric of her sleeves, the calluses catching on the fine material. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his breath warm. Ysilla pulled away sharply to stare at him in  bewilderment and shock. "Why are you apologizing?"

your honour i love them

 "They are nothing but lickspittles and weaklings

oop

"Stop being so sullen, Aemond.” Ysilla kept her voice flat. "You're nothing but a frightened sullen boy who lost his eye to claim a stupid drag-"

His fingertips dug painfully into her sides when he yanked her closer to him, catching her mouth in an intoxicating kiss that almost makes her forget how to breathe; feeling it deep in her bones and all the way down to the tips of her feet. "You're infuriating." She snapped, pulling back and tangling her fingers into his nearly shoulder length hair. "And you're maddening," he mumbled, kissing her again and again and again, chasing the wild feeling that was her pressed against him, the wood of the shelf hard and painful at his back.

"You look lovely, daughter," King Viserys said to Helaena absentmindedly. "If only Aemma could see you now." 

THIS BITCH DID NOTTT

His nostrils flare. His eye narrows. A game almost; poke a dragon. Taunt it over and over until it snaps. Aemond's face was still, one corner of his mouth slowly curving upward, wine forgotten as he moved around the elongated tables to stop in front of her. "Princess. Might I have this dance?" His eye focused solely on her face; extending his hand out palm up. At four and ten now, Aemond was a far cry from the scrawny boy he’d been; growing leaner and taller under the watchful eye of Criston Cole in the tiltyard.

simp and he doesn't even know it

“You kicked me. Why?”

i don't know why this made me laugh as hard as it did

"You're practically my mother’s shadow these days!" he protested. "What else was I going to do to see you?" he said, falling quiet, the tips of his ears pinkening a little. 

wait that's cute

Sunfyre is absolutely beautiful. 

the prettiest

he prince is standing at her shoulder, the barest hint of a grin stretching his thin lips upward. 

i knew he'd love that jesus

"I want you, need you like the sun needs the moon,"

THAT'S SUCH A CUTE LINE JAKSKODOOSM

“It has no place in your future, dearest.”

UMMM THIS WAS WONDEFUL???? IM OBSESSED

[xxpeppermintxx109]

Okay but a shaegon AU edit to lana del rey's cinnamon girl because shaera is a sweet sugar girl and aemond tries to push her away by weaponising him substance abuse. I would make it myself but I am incompetent lmfaoooo

I love you and your work ❤️❤️

AHH ANON I LOVE THIS IDEA IM GONNA MAKE THIS EDIT NEXT!! I ALREADY HAVE THE AUDIO SAVED AND I KNOW EXACTLY WHICH CLIPS ILL USE

(Ps, do you mean aegon when you said aemond? I’m gonna assume you did since you said shaegon au!)

ANYWAY this consumed me completely, so I made the edit LMAOO

here it is <3

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch

Chapter One: My Dream

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Let's celebrate the first episode of season 2 with a new story! I'm publishing this before the show airs, so let's say a tentative prayer in case the first episode is Blood & Cheese. Thank you for reading! (⁠*⁠＾⁠3⁠＾⁠)⁠/⁠～⁠♡

Chapter Warnings: sexism (it's a patriarchal feudalistic society), brief descriptions of childbirth and death related to it, Alicent being delulu.

When Viserys Targaryen's wife, Aemma of House Arryn, had failed pregnancy after failed pregnancy, a girl was a welcomed result. It proved not only to Aemma herself and her King Husband that she could produce a child but to the realm that there was hope for a son, a much-preferred result.

“My dreams, my dreams! What has become of their sweetness? What indeed has become of my youth?” - Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin

If a daughter were to be born seconds before a brother, it did not matter. He was the heir. If she was born decades before a boy, it did not matter. He was the heir. Or so the realm believed until the reign of Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Son of Baelon and Alyssa Targaryen, Grandson to the Old King Jaehaerys.

Queen Consort Aemma Arryn died in pursuit of something she could not control, screaming, wailing, begging her husband not to cut her open, but he did not listen, for the birth of a son was more important than the life of a woman.

The infant Baelon Targaryen died a day later, leaving King Viserys a widower with only a daughter with the same fair skin and hair as the woman he murdered. The woman who laid slain on her birthing bed, bright blue irises now glassy, blood pooling from her womb, was given a Targaryen funeral along with the Heir for a Day, as her good brother called him, her last surviving child whispering, “dragon fire” through tears, with the encouragement of the same man who lusted after her and the throne.

The result of a mother’s and son’s death gave way to grief and anger. Viserys, blinded by the insults levied against his dead child, broke centuries of tradition and named Westeros’ first female heir Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Daemon Targaryen was furious at the abuse of being cast aside for a girl of ten and four and took to Dragonstone, the rightful seat of the Iron Throne's successor, with his whore, Lady Misery, an enslaved Lysene sold into the sex trade that became the Prince's favorite mistress.

Daemon did not hate his niece. He loved his family far more than anyone believed, so he surrendered when the Realm's Delight flew on her dragon to confront her uncle.

Less than a year later, not nearly long enough to mourn the death of two people, Viserys Targaryen married Alicent of House Hightower, daughter of the Hand and dearest friend to his daughter. The King saw the union as an act of fortunate duty and desire instead of love. On that much, the young Alicent Hightower could agree. Perhaps, he thought, it was a way to ensure his daughter would always have her closest Lady around, but Viserys was a fool . He could not see past his blinding grief and selfish lust that he tore the two girls apart.

Rhaenyra Targaryen's mother was a girl her age, a girl she longed to have to accompany her on Syrax, explore the East, and eat cake, but that was never meant to be. The Gods provided as quickly as they took, and her lifelong confidant viewed her with such hate and distaste that Rhaenyra soon began to consider her the same.

“Stepdaughter,” Alicent called her at the Princess's wedding feast to Ser Laenor of House Velaryon. Her voice laced with enough venom, and her dress so green you would mistake her for a snake. This gave Rhaenyra a sickening feeling in her gut, which soon hardened into one of cool indifference.

And that was how they lived.

Silent and icy indifference as Queen Alicent walked through the Targaryen halls of the Red Keep in Hightower Green, birthing the King his first surviving sons and second daughter.

However, there was a moment of repreave in the Queen's and the Princess's glacial flippancy when her forgotten ally fell pregnant for the first time.

Alicent could not help herself from caring for her old friend during her first pregnancy. She quickly fell back into the role of her Lady, supplying Rhaenyra with food, oils, clothing, and occasionally companionship during the quarrelsome nine moons.

The Queen had almost found it within her heart to forgive Rhaenyra for her lies and false swearing beneath the Heart Tree all those years ago, and she did until the labors when she saw the brown tuft of hair atop a young babe's head.

At the time, Alicent did not have a moment to contemplate what that meant before her friend screamed, holding on so tightly to her hand that she thought it might break as the rest of the infant emerged. The babe's face was so purple and cord wrapped around their neck that Alicent nearly cried, fearing life had repeated itself. The nursemaids quickly cut the blue and pink veiny line that connected the child to its mother, turning the babe upside down and spanking it on the back until its cries rang out throughout Maegor’s Holdfast.

A girl.

There, screaming and curling their once lifeless fist, were you , the firstborn child of Rhaenyra Targaryen, only by a mere moment, finally breathing and wailing as they swaddled you in an embroidered black and red cloth, a boy soon following.

“What shall you name them, your highness?” the eldest midwife asked, nearly as out of air as Rhaenyra.

“We…” the princess breathed heavily, positioning herself in the birthing chair. “We had only thought of a boy with the help of Lord Corlys. Jacaerys,” she panted, her cheeks tinged pink, either from exertion or embarrassment from being so thoughtless. Alicent did not know.

The nurse holding Rhaenyra’s son passed him to her, all eyes lingering on that same flattened-down dark hair. “Shall we wait for the Prince, your highness?” another question, holding the unnamed girl.

“I think,” Rhaenyra groans, shifting her weight to account for the new one, “we shall be waiting for a while should my husband suddenly return from his travels.” She glanced at Alicent, watching her once closest friend pick at the skin of her nails. She grinned, a brilliant idea coming to mind as she ordered the maid to give her daughter to the Queen. 

Alicent's doe eyes widened as she accepted. She peered down at the tiny bundle before her, still crying, purple face now a deep red and full of life. The Queen did not know what came over her as she leaned, bringing the child’s blotchy forehead to her lips, inhaling the unique scent only a newborn has. She noticed the muscles around where the babe's brows should be twitching, opening her eyes to reveal a mirror of Alicent’s own looking at her.

The Queen forgot for a moment that she was not her own and that she should be alarmed that the child's eyes bore no resemblance to their parents. Yet the Queen continued to smile down at the small fidgeting bundle in her grasp, her arms wiggling themselves out of their confines to clench and unclench. The cries now became softer but still there. Sounds that used to cause Alicent great distress now soothe her uneasy soul like a salve to a wound. 

“What shall we call her, my Queen?” Rhaenyra questioned, a crooked smile on her face as Alicent broke from her revere. Her plush lips parted in surprise, looking as if a deer caught grazing alone in a field.

The Queen appeared bewildered, unprepared for such a monumental task; all faces turned to her. “I… I am unsure, Princess. I did not come prepared for such an honor.”

Rhaenyra kept the same lopsided grin on her lips, showing the tips of her white teeth. “Tis all mine. It's an honor to have the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms name my first born daughter.”

“An honor I accept gladly,” Alicent rushed, worried that her refusal would shatter their peace.

She paused, pursing her lips in thought. Despite having three and another on the way, she had never named a child. Helaena was the closest she had ever gotten, a familiar name within the Reach but made to fit the traditional Targaryen spelling. Alicent would have something to herself, one tiny sliver of something that belonged to her, and she was unsure what to do with it. She was confident that Rhaenyra would be content with any name she chose, but she wanted it to be unique, to mean something more than just a word.

Alicent thought of her mother then—her darling mother, whom she barely had a chance to spend life with before a fever took her. A mother that her father said she looked like an extension of, and suddenly, only one name felt right.

The Queen was constantly conflicted about every choice she made, every move. From the food she ate to the clothes she wore, Alicent always worried herself over it, wondering if she had made the correct decision, but in this, she was sure. No man, woman, or God could sway her from this choice. It was right. The Queen could feel it in the marrow of her bones that it was so.

“Aelora.”

Aelora, my light.

The King came bursting moments later, a servant dressed in a crimson gown, white apron, and cap standing anxiously beside him. He immediately went straight into the room, brushing past his wife in favor of his daughter. Alicent felt a sour taste in her mouth at the notion, pulling the quiet lump tighter to her chest.

“A boy and a girl!” Viserys excitedly hollered, Rhaenyra passing Jacaerys to him. Anxiousness settled over the birthing chamber, the midwives and maids observing with worrisome eyes at the head of brown hair. “ Ah! And I see they have inherited my favorite cousin's hair.”

He held the newborn with a reverence Alicent had never seen with her own, and she stepped back into the shadows of the onlookers. She peered down, catching the babe's eyes shut and face slack, still with the fresh scent of birth. She brought you to her forehead again as she took in this brief moment of joy, nose nuzzling the infant’s as she grunted at the intrusion.

“Aelora, the Gods’ Light. My shining light,” she whispered so softly against the babe's satin-smooth skin that it drifted into the air like dust, lost in the wind. 

“Oh, and her eyes, too!” Viserys beamed, hoisting Jacaerys into the air as the wetnurses squealed in terror. “She will make a fine queen one day, and should the Gods allow it, you, a king.” Rhaenyra laughed at her father's antics, already planning the children’s marriage. She was too high on the feeling of birthing not one but two healthy babes, a boy and a girl, no less to care. Alicent's amber eyes flicked to her husband and then to your plump face, a frown pulling her lips.

Aegon had come quickly and without fuss. Though Alicent was merely a girl of ten and six when it happened, the moments leading up to it frightened her thoroughly. She worried her nails down to the quick, the pink fleshy beds exposed and bleeding whenever she would use too harsh of a grip.

She knew of what happened to Aemma Arryn, that the babe was stuck and couldn't turn to leave the womb, at least to the Maester’s belief. He gave the King a choice, not the woman who was writhing in pain as her body contracted, to either let the process play out with the chance that the child and his wife could perish or have him slice her open from hip to hip, dig through her guts and blood to pry the child out. Aemma Arryn had no voice in the matter from what she heard from the midwives, as her husband allowed a man to pull Prince Baelon straight from her womb.

Alicent did not want to face the same fate and prayed to the Mother day after day, night after night, until her knees were yellow and blue, and even then, she continued her efforts. She was alone in all this, with no one to confide in. Her father had told her to do her duty when she expressed concern. He assured her the King would allow no such thing if she did everything correctly. He offered no comfort, and Alicent longed for her dearest Princess. Her prayers were answered when that fateful day came, and the labors lasted no more than an hour.

She birthed a healthy boy with blonde hair and purple eyes, but even then, Viserys did not act the way he was now with Rhaenyra's children. A means to end all the uncertainty of an heir, her father said in words of solace. She hadn't understood what he meant then. Rhaenyra was the heir, crowned Princess of Dragonstone, and Lords swore allegiance to her across the realm. To Alicent, there was no uncertainty until there was.

Until Otto Hightower planted the rot that festered and spread in her mind that the girl she grew up alongside, the girl she spent so many days and nights with, the girl that had said she would forget her duty and fly off across the world eating nothing but cake with her friend by her side, would murder Alicent's children so they could not depose her reign.

She did not believe Rhaenyra was capable of cruelty, but then again, she had once considered her incapable of lying to her and was proven wrong.

She began to fuss as if the infant in her embrace could sense the Queen's unrest. Her delicate little face scrunched up as Alicent bounced her softly, cooing soothingly. She smiled despite her unpleasantness within, unfazed by the sudden outburst, unlike when Helaena had her fits as a child. Her daughter would have to meet her niece and nephew, along with Aegon. Aemond was too young. She wouldn't be able to keep a close eye on him.

Though he was half the size of Aegon when he was born, he had grown twice as fierce. At barely three years old, his nursemaids had to ceaselessly follow the moonlight-haired boy less than a step away lest he jump down a flight of stairs just to see if he could. Once, when Alicent dismissed the servants from Aemond's chambers as he readied for bed, she turned her back on him for a singular blink, and he opened his balcony doors and climbed over the railing to get a better view of the night sky. Alicent remembered how he kicked and screamed as she yanked him from the ledge, saying words and phrases she never knew, even at the age she was now.

“My Queen,” the wetnurse called like she had repeated herself as Alicent looked at the girl. “The young Princess needs her first feeding.” The woman held out her arms for her to hand over the fussing bundle, a calm but concerned expression on her face.

Alicent refused, curling her limbs as the babe squirmed, her cries becoming ear-piercing screams. She knew the child needed to eat but could not force her body to release the girl. It was as if her very bones denied the movement that was not keeping the hungry infant close to her. The fleeting thought that Alicent could feed the girl herself crossed her mind, but she shook it away, realizing the ludacrisy of it. It was improper for a woman of nobility to nurse their child. That's what the maids were for, the Queen told herself.

The wetnurse peered at her curiously, walking a pace closer, but Alicent stepped back as if she attempted to harm her. “The King has not held her yet,” she protested, looking towards her King-Husband in an attempt to prolong her time.

“All is well, Alicent. What kind of King refuses to let their babe grandchild eat?” he jested, tilting his head to the side playfully and exposing a gaping smile. It made Alicent want to vomit.

When she doesn't move to listen, the Queen stared at her husband like her silence could serve as a rejection of his words. Viserys sighed as Rhaenyra watched with piqued interest, wordlessly handing Jacaerys to another maid.

“Alicent, give her the child.”

She hesitated again, her brown eyes flickering to Rhaenyra when she did not offer for Alicent to stay while the maids worked. Once again, she mused bitterly, watching the infant intently as she relented. I give my dream away to you. A dream that was never indeed mine.

The Queen bowed to the Princess, congratulating her on the success as she took her leave, hand splaying over the swollen stomach of her emerald green gown. It felt too tight, the once smooth fabric now itching at her skin, the fine hairs on her arms catching between the threads.

How stupid she was to believe in Rhaenyra’s kindness. She felt like a girl again, the same girl who stood beneath the Weirwood, listening to her friend swear on her mother’s memory that she had not lain with a man, only to find out there was moontea delivered to her chambers.

A sudden kick was sent to the Queen's abdomen, halting her brisk pace as she doubled over within the pale redstone hall. Ser Criston Cole arrived moments later, helping her rise to her feet. She soothed the afflicted area with her palm, no doubt the cause being her own making. Despite the growing life inside of her, the Queen has now done it four times. Alicent believed the moment she laid her wide amber eyes on yours was the closest she had ever felt to being whole with someone in her life. It’s as if the child's very being was now a part of her, and every moment she was away, it felt as if she was missing a piece of her soul.

Rhaenyra flaunts and does as she pleases, lies, and tricks all she pleases. It made Alicent furious with a rage she had not felt for nearly a decade. Aelora will not become like her mother. The Green Queen will not allow it, even if she has to twist and shape the clay of Aelora's mind into something of her own. Aelora is her dream. She is the Gods' shining light, and Alicent will be damned if she allows Rhaenyra to blacken her glow.

Septon Eustace's Recount of Princess Aelora I Targaryen's Early Life

The young Velaryon princess, later taking her mother’s namesake, grew into a spritely and mischievous child, playing jests on her Septa and Prince Aemond with the aid of her brothers and the eldest of the Queen’s children, Prince Aegon. She did not develop into a traditional Targaryen beauty with blonde hair and violet eyes; instead, she had a golden chestnut crown with eyes to match. Many said she resembled Queen Alicent, though if anyone made the error of voicing it, they faced Princess Rhaenyra’s wrath.

Though her features were plain by Targaryen standards, the realm rejoiced in her beauty. Lords and ladies commissioned portraits of her countenance throughout the kingdom, proudly displaying a halcyon halo of red rubies adorning the top of her divine facade. The common folk coined the name “The Gods' Light” for the sweet girl. A glimpse of her was as close as one would get to the Maiden, and they cherished it whenever Princess Rhaenyra's faction made rare journeys to the Grand Sept.

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I'm excited to write for my favorite war criminal, Visenya Incarnate, Aemond Targaryen. I'm just super happy to write Aemond smut! I'm also taking a different approach to this story because it will solely be based on the show (to the best of my ability), not the book, and will be released with the same progression. It will have accounts of the reader's life through the eyes of the Maester's. Of course, there will be some cannon divergence and whatnot, considering we're introducing a new character into the fray. This fic will also be a lot darker than what I've written in the past, including content such as childhood sexual assault and the after-effects of it, self-harm, depression, suicide, and unhealthy sibling dynamics/relationships.

This story is told from the second person's perspective. The reader only has a name for the sake of a title and the description of Strong features.

Y'all have no idea how fulfilling writing has been for me. It's given me purpose when I've felt like I had none. It's helped my mental health by giving me an outlet for self-expression and a good source of distraction from all the worries I have in life. I wish I could get paid for this!

I hope y'all will enjoy the story as much as I will writing it, and of course, thank you so much for taking the time to read this. You genuinely have no idea how much your support means to me, but I will continue to express it in the best way I know how. ♡⁠(⁠˃͈⁠ ⁠દ⁠ ⁠˂͈⁠ ⁠༶⁠ ⁠)

Ps. Alicent's mom's name is unknown in the show and the book, so I'm creating a name that combines my original idea with traditional Targaryen spelling.

Pronunciation: Uh-lore-uh, Ae-lore-uh

Origin: Latin

Meaning: dream, dreamer, shining light.

Biblical Meaning: God is light, God's light.

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp, @britt-mf

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part Three | Series Masterlist

Summary: tensions between Aemond and the pianist reach boiling point | Word Count: 4.6k~ | Warnings: smut, semi-public sex, forced proximity, mummy issues

There was a sense of unease about being awake at this time. An early riser, Aemond was, but even this was pushing it for him as he sat on the creaky bus, having to listen to the way plastic and metal jolted his bones with every little divot in the road, only amplifying the disquiet that was equally happening inside his head.

Glancing at his watch, the gold hands mocked him once more. 5:49 in the morning.

That morning, Alys had made her stance painfully clear: their encounters had to end. She seemed to realise that their relationship had become merely a means to an end, a way for him to escape his pressures. The implication that she felt used weighed heavily on Aemond, even though she framed her decision in practical terms.

"You need to focus on your music, not me," she had said, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. It was a logical decision, one that should make perfect sense to a disciplined musician like him. Yet, as he turned her words over in his mind, they struck a dissonant chord.

The thought of facing Otto's incessant messages about organising a meticulous solo practice session, only to nitpick at his every perceived flaw, was unbearable. So, Aemond sought refuge in the numbing scroll of social media, anything to ward off the encroaching silence of the apartment.

As his thumb flicked mechanically across the screen, a thought struck him, a reckless impulse that had been lurking in the back of his mind. He paused, his heart rate ticking upward with the audacity of what he was about to do. Swiping out of the mundane updates and into the search bar, he typed her name, the pianist who had so effortlessly invaded his thoughts and challenged his perspectives.

Her profile wasn’t hard to find, her public persona was as vibrant and engaging as her performances. There she was, in photos and tagged videos, her presence as dynamic online as it was in person. Each post, each snippet of her life and art, pulled him in deeper, her world unfolding before him through the glow of his phone screen.

The more he watched, the more he realised how much she had begun to permeate his thoughts, challenging not just his musical ideals but the very way he viewed his art. It wasn’t just professional curiosity, it was something more, something deeper. A connection he hadn’t anticipated, one he wasn’t sure he wanted, but also one he couldn’t seem to deny.

He thought perhaps a nice, hot shower would clear his thoughts with heavy ribbons of steam, near-scalding his pale skin as droplets of water slid off his body. His hair clung to his neck, falling in strips around his face as he stared at his reflection on the drain cover. Sometimes he could not bear to even look at himself.

But even with his eyelids pressed tightly shut, he did not know peace.

He was sixteen again, standing on the stage of a packed auditorium. The applause had faded, and he was left alone with Otto, whose presence loomed larger than the praise had ever felt. Otto's face was stern, his eyes dissecting not just the performance, but Aemond himself. "That was adequate, Aemond, but only just," Otto had said, his voice cold and precise. "Your bowing was sloppy in the second movement. You must control every motion, every emotion." Aemond's hands had trembled with a mix of exertion and suppressed anger. He had poured his heart into that performance, felt every note resonate within him, but Otto saw only flaws. "Control, always control," Aemond muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on the neck of his cello. Otto had caught the muttered defiance. "What was that?" he snapped, stepping closer. "If you have something to say, speak clearly, boy." "Nothing," Aemond replied, his voice low, but inside, a storm was brewing. Otto’s relentless criticism after every performance, his inability to see anything but the mistakes, Aemond felt like a vessel about to burst. That night, back at the music academy, in the solitude of the practice room, Aemond stared at his cello. The beautiful instrument, which had always been his voice, now felt like a chain. In a moment of blinding rage, a desire to break free from Otto’s relentless grip, he did the unthinkable. With a shout that echoed through the empty room, Aemond lifted his cello and smashed it against the floor. Wood splintered, strings snapped, a harsh, discordant noise that was the antithesis of everything he had been taught to produce. The destruction was quick, but the silence that followed was heavy, filled with the weight of what he had done. But didn’t regret it one bit.

Aemond opened his eyes, the memory leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He had eventually replaced the cello, and Otto had never mentioned the incident, assuming it had been an accident. But something inside Aemond had changed that day. The act of destruction, though regrettable, had been his first real rebellion, his first step toward finding his own voice amidst the oppressive expectations placed upon him.

Now, years later, as he considered reaching out to the pianist, he realised he was standing at another crossroads. Would he continue to conform to the stringent demands of his classical training, or would he dare to explore the emotional depth that she so effortlessly embodied in her music?

Stood there, beneath the stream of water that had now ran cold, Aemond felt the old, familiar stirrings of rebellion. This time, however, it wasn't about destruction but about discovery. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to smash through the invisible barriers he had erected around his music and his heart.

The loud chattering and messy runs of various instruments made it difficult to concentrate. She found herself blinking hard and tiredly, willing the exhaustion away. Lyonel Strong had yet to arrive to conduct today's practice, and so everyone had taken it as an excuse to not practise at all.

"Can you believe this?" Jason called out from across the room, his voice tinged with annoyance. He was leaning against the wall, his violin hanging loosely in his hand. "Lyonel's late again. We could have started at least half an hour ago."

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I know, Jason. But complaining isn't going to make him appear any faster."

Maris, with her fiery red hair and a perpetual scowl, was plucking at her strings, each note more discordant than the last. "It's not just Lyonel," she snapped. "Half of you can't even play your parts right. Couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery.”

The others chimed in, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of complaints and criticisms. Jason and Maris continued to bicker, their frustration with each other and the situation palpable. She tried to mediate, her soft voice lost in the din, while others muttered under their breath or joined in the argument.

The pianist tuned out the noise, focusing instead on marking her music sheets. She meticulously made notes, adding small annotations to help guide her through the piece. The process was calming, a small island of order in the midst of the chaos around her. She could hear snippets of the ongoing argument, but she chose to ignore them, her mind drifting.

Their band was a far cry from Aemond's. His ensemble operated with a precision and unity that seemed almost unattainable for her group. Every member of his band knew their role, their place, and they worked together seamlessly. In contrast, her band felt like a collection of individuals, each with their own agenda, their own frustrations.

When Lyonel eventually decided to join them, having had his fill of several espressos, their practice could finally begin. The tension lingered, a constant reminder of the disunity that plagued them. As she played, her thoughts drifted to the upcoming competition, the inevitable clash with Aemond's band. She knew they needed to be better, to be more cohesive, if they were going to stand a chance.

"Can I have a word?" Lyonel asked authoritatively as she was packing her things away with practised efficiency. The room had cleared, others wanting to escape the confining claws of his teachings.

She nodded, trying to mask the fatigue she felt. "Of course."

Lyonel glanced around the now-empty room before speaking. "I wanted to talk to you about your solo performance."

She had known for a while that she would have a solo, but the way he said it now made her stomach twist with unease. "Yes, sir?"

Lyonel studied her for a moment longer, then sighed, his stern demeanour slipping. "Look, I know our chemistry as a band isn't perfect," he admitted, his voice softer. "But that’s exactly why we need you to shine. Your solo can elevate the entire performance. It can make up for the lack of cohesion."

She bit her lip, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation. "I understand the importance of my solo, but wouldn’t it be better if we worked on our chemistry as a band? If we played better together, maybe the pressure wouldn’t have to fall entirely on one person."

Lyonel’s expression hardened again, though not unkindly. "I know it’s not fair. But with the time we have left, we need to play to our strengths. And right now, you are our strength."

She wished he would address the root issue instead of putting all the pressure on her, but she knew better than to argue further. "I'll do my best," she said finally.

Lyonel placed a hand on her shoulder, a rare gesture of support. "I know you will. Just remember, it’s not just about you out there. It’s about all of us. We’re counting on you."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She stood there for a moment, letting his words sink in. The pressure was immense, but so was the opportunity.

“Music is in your blood, my dear.”

Memories of her family surfaced unbidden. Her father, a renowned classical musician, had always been a looming figure in her life. His talent and success were legendary, casting a long shadow over her own musical ambitions. Yet, despite his fame, he had left her mother for another woman within the same industry when she was still a child. The betrayal had torn their family apart.

Her mother, once supportive of her daughter's musical pursuits, had become bitter and resentful. The very sight of a piano seemed to deepen the rift between them. "You'll end up just like him," her mother would say, the words dripping with disdain. "Consumed by music and blind to everything else.”

Their relationship had deteriorated to the point where they barely spoke. Communication was limited to snotty texts, her mother’s disapproval seeping through every word. Her mother couldn't understand why she wanted to follow the same path that had destroyed their family.

On the other hand, her father would occasionally reach out, but his messages were infrequent and perfunctory. His busy schedule left little room for meaningful connection. When he did find time to call, his conversations were often laced with criticism.

She often found herself caught between two worlds, one that resented her passion and another that demanded perfection. She longed for approval, for a sense of belonging that seemed always just out of reach.

Her fingers hurt but she didn't care. She stood on stage, feeling like a million dollars, soaking in applause that rang in her ears, the first place medal cool against her chest. But as her eyes scanned the crowd, searching desperately for a familiar face, for her mother, she felt her stomach sink. Her heart pounded harder than it had during her performance, but for all the wrong reasons. The rush of victory, the adrenaline that should have been pumping through her veins, was rapidly replaced by a hollow feeling. She stepped off the stage, clinging to the hope that maybe her mother had just been late or stuck in traffic. Maybe she’d be waiting outside, apologising for missing the performance, but there nonetheless. She checked her phone, scrolling through her contacts until her mother’s name flashed on the screen. Her hands shook as she dialled. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail. The third call, the fifth, the eighth, it all blurred together as she wiped at her eyes. By the tenth attempt, her hands were trembling, and the high of winning was a distant memory. She dialled again, fighting back tears that threatened to spill over. When the voicemail beeped once more, she paused, then finally spoke, her voice breaking. "I won, Mum…” She stared at her phone for a long moment before slipping it back into her bag. The title, the first-place medal,  they felt like nothing now.

Packing up her sheet music, she made her way towards the practice rooms, and as if on cue, a text buzzed in her pocket. With a sigh, she opened the message from her mother, bracing herself for the usual criticism.

Your father mentioned you have a competition coming up. 

She rolled her eyes. As if her mother had expected her to bite when that is the bait.

No ‘how are you’ or ‘how is music school’. No. It was always about how she had to not follow the same path as her father and not let music consume her like it had him.

Whenever her thoughts drifted to him, she found herself sinking into confusion. However distant he was, she still craved his approval. Longing for him to say he was proud of her. Just once.

She slipped through the doors with the hotheaded mindset that she would do better. Determined. But she halted when she heard the familiar whine of a delicate instrument she had come to know so well. If her shoes hadn’t squealed against the varnished, wooden floor, she wouldn’t have disturbed him from his practice. But like an animal primed for distractions, Aemond’s head whipped up from his cello, his expression hardening once he saw her.

“I have this room booked.”

She narrowed her eyes, her jaw tightening. "Funny, because I do too."

Aemond's lips pressed into a thin line, his annoyance palpable. "You must have made a mistake."

She shook her head, stepping further into the room. "No mistake. Maybe you're the one who needs to check the schedule.”

She slipped her bag off her shoulder, searching it with her back turned to him. Her hands shook with frustration, the build-up of the day lingering with fire in her blood. She froze when she stared at her blue tinted screen, seeing that somehow…

Double booked.

“You're not going to leave, are you,” Aemond muttered annoyed.

She turned to face him, an eyebrow raised. “Why should I? I have as much right to be here as you do.”

Aemond smirked, leaning casually against his cello. “Is that how you justify it? Riding on the coattails of your daddy’s fame?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” he continued, his voice dripping with condescension, “the big famous musician embroiled in scandal. Must be tough living in that shadow.”

Her jaw clenched. “You don’t know anything about my family.”

“Oh, but I do,” he said, setting aside his instrument to taking a step closer. “Everyone does. It’s quite the story, isn’t it? Daddy leaves Mummy for someone else in the industry. Must be quite the inspiration for your music. I knew I'd seen your surname around somewhere. Turns out it was the tabloids.”

Her hands tightened, her nostrils flaring with irritation.

“Aw, sore spot?” he taunted, enjoying the way her eyes flashed with anger.

She took a deep breath, trying to keep her composure. “You think you’re so much better than everyone else, don’t you?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe I am.”

“That arrogance is going to be your downfall one day,” she shot back.

“And your baggage is going to be yours,” he replied smoothly.

Without warning, she stepped closer, their faces inches apart. “You want to talk about family baggage? Let’s talk about yours.”

Aemond’s eyes darkened. The smile, victoriously wiped from his face. “Careful.”

“Why? Can’t handle it?” she challenged. “Maybe you throw accusations of daddy issues because you have them yourself—”

“Watch it.”

“Or what? You’ll keep me from practising? You’ll sabotage me?” she retorted, stepping closer. “You're a fucking coward—”

The door to the practice room opened abruptly, and the sound of footsteps interrupted their heated exchange. Without thinking, Aemond grabbed her arm and pulled her into the storage room, shutting the door quietly behind them. They stood in the cramped space, their breaths mingling in the darkness.

The footsteps in the practice room slowed, followed by the unmistakable murmur of voices. Aemond stiffened, his body going rigid against hers, and for a split second, all he could smell was her perfume and feel the rapid fluttering of her heart against his chest. The weight of the voices hit him hard, and he recognised them immediately.

Otto.

And Lyonel.

His heart pounded harder now, not only from the closeness of her body, but of the two men outside the door.

Otto's voice carried through the thin walls. “I trust you’ve got a firm hand on your group.”

Lyonel made a noise of agreement, but there was a subtle edge to his tone. “They're a bit disjointed, but not as much as I hear yours are.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched. Neither of them dared to breathe too loudly, straining to hear the conversation outside, but the pressure between them, physical and emotional, was unbearable.

“That is none of your business,” Otto's voice was guarded. Icy.

Aemond’s breath hitched, and she felt the sharp intake of air against her ear, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. His hand slid to brace himself against the wall beside her, his body pressing more firmly against hers not out of seeking comfort, but simply because he had no choice.

“Hmm, your grandson I hear is a bit of a wild card.”

“He’s difficult, but I’ve trained him for this. He just needs focus.”

The footsteps shifted, and for a moment it seemed like they were heading toward the door of the storage room. Her mouth opened but Aemond’s hand shot up, covering her mouth as he leaned in even closer. His eyes widened in silent warning. 

Her pulse quickened.

"Your grandson is a good player," Lyonel said, a hint of frustration in his tone. "But from what I've seen, he’s too rigid. No room for improvisation. He might fall apart when things get unpredictable."

Aemond’s teeth clenched, his hand now gripping the edge of the shelf beside her. She could feel the tension vibrating off him, and she fought the urge to push him back and say something. But they couldn’t risk being heard.

“That’s why you’re counting on her, aren’t you?” Otto’s voice was quieter now, almost conspiratorial. “Your pianist, what’s her name again? She’s your only shot at taking the solo.”

Lyonel chuckled softly. “She’s going to win it for us. I have no doubt about that.”

The footsteps began to fade, the two continuing to speak about where the final performance would be held, and she heard the distant click of the door closing. Aemond finally released her, but the tension between them was far from gone. The room seemed smaller, the air heavier with the weight of everything unsaid.

She pushed against his chest suddenly, a sharp shove that didn’t budge him an inch. “What the fuck was that for–”

I am no fucking coward.

“Just stop fucking talking," he growled, cutting her off with a kiss that was as furious as it was desperate.

She felt the hardness of the wall behind her as Aemond shoved her against it, grounding her as he deepened the kiss, exploring with an urgency that made her breath hitch. Coupled with that was the hardness that pressed against her stomach. It was a fight in that of itself, the clashing of their lips and teeth only intensifying what was already a fiery dynamic.

There was something exhilarating about it. And as her fingers weaved into his hair, pulling him closer, no matter how small the gesture, it solidified the simple fact that he needed this. She was intensity personified. And he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, in his personal and in his musical life, combined in one dangerous cocktail that was her. It wasn’t only lust, it was an addiction to the thrill of the chase, the danger that came with being so close to her. His rival, his obsession.

He trailed kisses down her neck, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat beneath his lips as she arched up against him in silent encouragement. But he was the one who pulled her legs around him, rucking her black skirt up to her hips and ripping ladders into her tights as he shoved them down her legs, his movements frantic and needy, as if he were a man starved of water. She was soft and yielding beneath him, yet there was a strength in her grip that intrigued him still.

Clothes. Fucking clothes.

He perhaps thought that if he tried to mould himself to her. If he could just be inside her for a moment, would he be able to understand her? To absorb her.

The urgency of their actions felt reckless, yet a part of him revelled in it. It was the kind of intimacy he craved, the kind that made him forget everything else. 

She gasped against his mouth as if completely not expecting the blunt head of his cock against her, his fingers having wrenched the gusset of her underwear aside to press against her bare skin. And she felt heat rise to her cheeks when she glanced down between them, watching the way his length glistened as he teased himself against her slit. The spontaneity of the moment meant that while she was not completely wet, it was embarrassing that she was at all.

She dare not look him in the face. He was doing this to prove he knew what he did to her. To let her sit in this feeling of resentment for responding to it.

And yet she would not admit how it stole her breath away when he firmly pressed into her. There was something exciting about the feeling of being partly unprepared. Her ego somewhat inflated that he simply couldn't wait a moment more. But the sting of it as he slid to the hilt reminding her that she would most certainly be sore the next morning.

He wanted her to feel it.

But equally, she wanted him to want it. And the breathy whimper he gave when he pulled back to push his hips back against her, made her think that he absolutely did.

And he didn't wait. His movements became frantic, each thrust igniting a fire deep within. Her breath hitched, and he felt a flicker of satisfaction at how easily he could provoke such a response from her. There were no words. If there were, they would have carried the same fire that had simmered for days, weeks.

Had it only taken weeks for him to crave her.

Her nails dug into his back, grounding him. And so his grip tightened around her thighs as he drove into her, as if holding on to her could tether him to something solid, something real. He could feel the tension in her muscles, the sharp gasps escaping her lips, the way she arched into him. And he knew, he knew this wasn’t just him.

They were both lost in it, both fighting against and succumbing to whatever this was. He wanted to hate her, to despise her for how easily she got under his skin, but in this moment, all he could feel was her, the way she wrapped around him, the way she pulled him deeper.

She wasn’t supposed to mean anything to him, just another obstacle, another rival to conquer. But her taste was on his tongue, her scent filled his lungs, and her body felt like the answer to a question he’d been too afraid to ask.

He raised his gaze from where they were joined, plunging into her with abandon, less about pleasure and now more about the release. 

Aemond's grip shifted, his hand trailing up her neck, his fingers curling gently around her throat. Not in a way that threatened, but in a way that demanded attention.

“Look at me.”

She hesitated for a beat, then her eyes flickered up, locking with his. A flush spreading over her cheeks, a soft pink bloom that travelled down her neck. His gaze was relentless, searching her expression.

Look at me.

He could see it now, the way her composure was slipping, the way she was coming undone beneath him. That small, vulnerable break in her guarded facade was everything, and it only drove him deeper into the need to witness her fall apart, to be the one who made her unravel.

Aemond felt the shift in her body first, the subtle tremor that ran through her as she neared the edge. Her head tipped back against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut as she finally surrendered to the intensity between them. He felt her body tense and then shudder as she came apart beneath him, the quiet, breathless moan escaping her lips like music. Soft, involuntary, raw.

It wasn't the feeling of her trembling around him, more the sight. He couldn't hold back any longer. His grip tightened around her hips as he followed her over the edge, his body trembling with the force of his release. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, his breaths ragged, the tension that had been coiled inside him snapping with a fierce, undeniable rush.

After, they stood still, bodies pressed together, the lingering heat between them slowly dissipating. For a brief moment, as he felt her skin warm under his hands, there was a flicker of vulnerability. But as quickly as it came, it was drowned out by something darker. Regret. A sharp, suffocating regret that sank deep into his chest.

He had given her power. Ammunition. She could use this, twist it, turn it against him. The walls he had carefully built around himself felt as if they had cracked in her presence, and that thought made him recoil internally.

She let out a quiet breath as he pulled away, feeling the loss of him instantly, followed rapidly by the warmth dribbling down her thigh. His hands worked swiftly to do up his belt, his movements mechanical and detached. He couldn’t look at her. Couldn't let her see the conflict etched across his face.

If he had looked. He'd be more irritated by what he saw.

She stood there, half-naked and breathless, the flush of their shared moment still on her skin. He didn’t stop to think about how she might feel, the confusion, the embarrassment, the sense of being used. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t let it matter.

She was never going to see that side of him again.

Without so much as a glance back, Aemond turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving her alone in the suffocating quiet, half-naked and stunned.

Aemond snatched up his cello as he left.

Leaving her behind, vulnerable and half-dressed, he had merely traded one form of destruction for another. But he’d rather face the self-imposed torture of his strings than the unpredictable vulnerability of human connection.

Swapping one prison for another, the cello felt safer. At least this was a pain he knew how to manage.

General Taglist: @1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @all-for-aemond @bellstwd @blackswxnn

@blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @cl-0-vr @eddieslut69

@emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics

@primonizzutto @qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @sheshellsseashells

[rhaegonthinker]

“do you see him when you look at me, sister? do you see our father?” aegon licks his chapped lips, looking into her bright violet eyes, wanting to see into her mind, know every waking that crosses her mind—of him. “tell me, rhaenyra, is that what you see? all you see?” aegon says a bit more desperately, gritting his teeth in pain, his flesh still burning, skin scorched. he wants to kill aemond for ruining him, taking what will to live he had left. he wants to take revenge on him like he wanted to on his sister for murdering his son, until he found out the truth. that she had no part in it. a son for a son is what she wanted, but when she found him—her half-brother—half burned, half broken like their father, she took pity on him, sparing his life, putting a price on aemond’s instead—the other brother who they both want revenge on now. something else in common they share besides their dragon blood.

rhaenyra looks at him with more softness in her eyes than she ever has and aegon wishes she would say something.

“tell me, nyra,” he rasps, tears falling down his face, stinging his burns. tell me you see me, your brother, your blood, your equal. tell me you see someone besides a replica of our father, half dead, half decayed. he clenches his hands into fists, his whole body going rigid and aegon wants milk of the poppy, needs it to dull the pain, the suffering of her silence.

because aegon wants her. his heart. his soul. his spirit. even his body, his belly rippling with a river of feverish desire. desire he hasn’t felt in many moons. not since it was torn away from him, like sunfyre.

but rhaenyra has awakened the dormant dragon within him. and it roars to life, demanding attention, her touch, her affection, her love. he’s about to beg her, say please, when her clear voice breaks through his all consuming thoughts.

”yes,” she answers honestly, truly, and aegon’s heart skips a beat, because at least it’s the truth, but she isn’t finished, giving him a smile. “but i see the good parts of him in you,” she runs her fingers over the side of his scarred cheek, caressing it lightly, wiping away his tears, careful of her sharp nails. aegon gulps, imagining her running them down his naked chest, where the flesh isn’t ruined, where she could inflict pleasured pain born of passion. “you have a good heart, little brother. i see it now.” rhaenyra places her right hand against his hammering heart, gentle as a mother’s kiss upon her babe’s brow. “some parts that are our father, your mother…even me.” rhaenyra leans in close, breathing deep and placing her left hand on the other side of his chest, leveraging her weight against him now. and it makes his breath hitch, wishing her warmth, her body would burden his always, for he’d always carry her with him—always will from now on.

“but, sweet brother,” the affectionate words roll off of rhaenyra’s tongue like an aphrodisiac and aegon’s already drunk off them, his lips barely brushing hers and he whines low in the back of his throat, wanting to taste the saccharine sweetness. “i see all of you, only you, my aegon—wholly.”

wholly. the word rings inside aegon like glorious bells awakening, tolling victoriously. because his sister, his queen, sees him for who he is, has always been, not a ghost haunting them both. not just parts and pieces of a whole.

aegon kisses her hungrily, tasting no bitterness or poison, but pure honey; initiating and igniting the war their mouths wage on one another’s, their tongues battling for dominance. a dance of dragons that both of them deem to win, until rhaenyra’s the first to bite his bottom lip, draw his blood, tasting his coppery crimson for herself.

“sister,” aegon hisses, his hands grabbing onto her for dear life, groaning when she sucks his lip desperately, for it’s not painful, but blissful to bleed for his sister. for every piece of himself attaches to her, every part, aches for her eternally.

[arcielee]

I had the pleasure of reading this over and I am in love with the OC. 💜 Reblog so baby girl can get a happy ending for one.

Thank you a million times to @arcielee who consistently puts up with my ramblings and makes my stories readable. I am forever in your debt💛

Chapter One

Summary:

Danera laid next to Aegon, taking in every moment. "This can't continue" she said quietly. "Why" Aegon turned to look at her, his face worried. "Everything is about to change, you and I are destined for disaster" she said looking back at him.

Danera is the daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon, however, she had been brought up to think she is the only true born child of Leanor.

Forced to come back to Kings Landing by her grandsire and the queen, Aegon realises she is the only one who can make him the person he wants to be, but being on opposing sides means it may never work out.

Chapter Two

When Danera woke up the next morning, she tried not to give much thought to the night before. She knew it was just Aegon's drunken state that influenced his words and he’d likely just lost his way to a servant girl's rooms.

Although she did everything in her power to push Aegon out of her mind, the pain and desire laced in his words infected her. Part of her wondering if they would ever be true. 

A knock on the door pulled her out of her thoughts. A servant girl came in, she looked a similar age to Danera, with long black hair braided down her back. 

"Sorry for the intrusion, my lady. I am Elena, I will be your lady whilst here in the castle. Would you like me to help you dress?" 

Elena had a kind face, she looked young, but her demeanour was older, as if she knew too much for her age. 

"Do you have plans for the day, my lady?" Elena pulled the strings of Danera’s dress tightly. 

"I would like to take a walk around the gardens," Danera replied. 

"Sounds wonderful, it is a beautiful day outside," Elena smiled at her, her eyes gentle and kind. "All done, my lady. You will be expected at breakfast with the Queen.”

Meanwhile, Aegon woke up the next morning with a blistering headache. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence for him, but he never got used to it. 

The usual medicine waiting for him was next to his bedside, left by the Maesters the night before. He reached over, not remembering much of the previous night's adventures. As he sat up, he felt a sickening feeling, he remembered. 

After everyone had left dinner, he drowned himself in his cups to try and stop his thoughts about Danera, her eyes, her long hair, her lips. However, on his way back to his chambers, he decided he needed just one look at her and with that he stumbled down the corridor, as their rooms were not far apart. He wanted to speak to her, make friends, but of course, he'd fucked that up as well. 

He laid in his bed, angry at himself for ruining another thing in his life. He wanted to be better. The sight of her made him want to be better. He was tired of the drinking and the whoring, he wanted to be loved.

Danera walked into the dining hall, luckily there was no sign of Aegon, in fact, there was no sign of anyone. 

"Sorry there are so few this morning, mother asked me to apologise, our father is unwell and needs tending to," Aemond explained, moving towards the table and sitting down nonchalantly. It was a common occurrence these days for the King to be so sick. 

"Aren't you hungry?" He spoke, looking up at her when she didn't reply. 

She sat down, taking some bread for her plate, clearly feeling the strain of past events. Danera hadn’t spoken to Aemond in years, their friendship broken in one night. The confusion and pain coming back to her all at once. 

Aemond looked at her, his face lined with guilt, "I, I never apologised.” 

"For what," she looked confused, needing him to say the words, to admit to the pain he’d caused her. 

"You tried to help me that night and I pushed you away. We were friends and I shouldn't have treated you like that," he looked up, an apologetic look now covering his features.

"It's in the past, we have all grown up," she smiled, hoping it looked like she meant it.

The pair looked down for a moment, their eyes meeting again a second later; the pain and loss of the last few years, fading around them.

As children, she never got along with her brothers. She was jealous of the love they received from their mother. She was also a forgotten second born, just like Aemond, and that was how their friendship was forged.

Aemond and Danera left breakfast together, laughing about their childhood and filling each other in on what they had missed. 

"Aegon hasn't changed," Danera admitted with an expression of frustration.

 "I'm afraid not," Aemond said with a sigh, "I'm not sure he ever will". 

They walked further into the gardens, silence brewing awkwardly.

"Apologies my lady, as much as it's nice to speak to you again, I have to go train." 

"It's alright, I wanted a walk in the gardens today," Danera gave him a genuine smile.

Aemond somewhat returned the gesture, with the slight curl of his lips, and they parted ways. Danera walked further into the large gardens, one of her favourite things within the Red Keep. She walked for a while, wrapped up in her own thoughts of dragons and suitors, before a servant caught up with her. 

"The queen has asked for you, my lady," she said out of breath. 

"Of course, I will make my way there now," Danera nodded her lips pursed with a forced smile

She wasn't sure how she could face the queen alone after the previous night. 

Walking back inside, she vaguely remembered her way around the large castle alone. It didn't take her long to find herself outside the doors to the queen's chambers. 

"The queen requested my presence," she explained to the guards outside, who promptly stood aside and let her in without a word.

"Ah my dear, you found your way," Alicent spoke softly to her, smiling and patting the seat next to her. "How has your first morning here been? I am so sorry to have missed breakfast, but I assume you must know of the king's…health"

"Do not worry, I would rather my grandsire be well," Danera forced herself to look into Alicent’s eyes. 

"Now, I know your mother and I do not see eye to eye, but I want you to feel you can come to me whenever you need. I want to find you a suitor who will make you happy," Danera was taken aback by Alicents words, the honey-like kindness laced through them. 

Although Danera did not know what to expect from the meeting, she was not sure whether to trust that these were words of truth from the queen. 

"Myself and your mother were once the closest of friends, and I miss her greatly” the queen seemed almost as if she were talking to herself, hesitantly, she continued, “how is she doing back on Dragonstone?" 

"She is well, her pregnancy with my brother was rough towards the end, but it was worth it for young Joffrey," Danera smiled, trying to match Alicent’s demeanour. 

The conversation felt like a game, as if Danera’s words would grant her trust, or just as easily take it away. In that moment, she decided if she were to survive here, one person she would need on her side would be the queen. 

They spoke for an hour or so about Dragonstone and her mother, Danera being careful not to give too much away. Alicent explained there was to be a tourney in the coming weeks to celebrate the princess, and for any man interested to show his favour.

As Danera made her way back to her chambers, her head filled with a buzz of confusion. Not focusing, she walked around the corner to her corridor, walking straight into Aegon. Flustered, she tried to push past him, her eyes focused on the stones beneath her feet, until he grabbed her arm. 

Immediately, Danera turned, her eyes flashed red with anger, not usually one to keep her temper under control. Although Aegon wanted to speak, only silence grew between the pair. Aegon could only stare at her, his emotions burning throughout his body. 

"What?" she demanded harshly. 

"I wanted to apologise," Aegon rushed, almost too quietly for her to hear, "I was drunk…it was unbecoming of me.”

Before Danera could comprehend the words he had spoken, Aegon had gone, his cloak flowing down the corridor as he left.

Taglist:

@heavenly1927 @watercoloursky @sylas-the-grim @arcielee @foxee-d-or

[celtigxr]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 22 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: It's Maiden's Day. The Royal Conclave has officially begun with guests from all four corners of the Realm gathering into the Grand Hall for the first Ball of the season, where all the Maidens will be presented. Word Count: 5651 CHAPTER WARNINGS: Misogyny. Religious themes.

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Maiden’s Day had begun shortly after the arrival of the King and Queen. The last three days were a flurry of last minute preparations. All the unwed ladies of the Realm were being prepared to don their white gowns, displaying their virtue on their sleeve, so they may all crowd inside the Great Sept atop of Visenya’s Hill and pay tribute to the Maiden. 

In the Celtigar apartments, bodies milled in and out of the room with tailors and seamstresses alike. Valeana already had a dress made for herself, which she had done moons ago for Maiden’s Day. Though, at the time, she believed it would have been celebrated at Claw Isle, like it was every year for the past decade. Her sisters were a different story; their dresses were commissioned prior to the funeral, and they were now rushed to adjust days before the event. In comparison, they were plainer than Valeana’s, who had the time to stitch out every detail, but they were still lovely and extravagant, as all Celtigar women were known for.

Floris’ was a shockingly pearl white gown with a modest boatneck neckline, and tight wrist length sleeves. The neck, arms, and hemline adorned with the same damask embroidery stitched into it, with small quartz crystals polished into teardrops dangling along her neckline. Her hair was pulled away from her face, parted down the middle, flowing down her back with only a single braid woven down the middle. Any stray hair would have been held back by her crescent white hood that had a white veil hiding her brown tresses. 

Shyla’s was an alabaster white, with a scoop neckline to accentuate her beautiful neck, and capped sleeves. She had more of an empire waistline, allowing the skirt to flow freely with its light tulle curtains. There was less detail in hers, but there were pearls woven into the skirt sporadically, like white stars on a canvas of clouds. Lastly, she wore lace gloves, a matching pearl choker with a ruby at the center, and unlike Floris, all her hair was piled up, topped with an albino peacock feather. 

With her extra free time, Valeana was able to put her full attention on the dress she had promised Queen Alicent she would make. She had already presented the queen days prior to her departure with sketches of her designs, and Alicent had only responded with requests for minor changes. She did not wish to be scandalous, but she did want to make a statement. The design she chose would be tedious, but Val enjoyed the challenge. Rosy, her ever loyal handmaiden, was always there to assist with her mistress’ work. She had helped many times in the past, which has aided Valeana greatly when it came to multiple gowns for multiple occasions… Which she would likely need these next couple of moons. 

She had a lot of work ahead of her, particularly her own gown for the Creature’s Ball. She had no ideas for herself, and that made it all the more difficult to start. Her hands moved along the soft fabrics that her mother had brought over from Claw Isle and bought in King’s Landing market places. All colours of the rainbow were presented before her, in various shades and saturations. From brilliant cobalt blues, to muted lavenders, to rose blush reds, to even unflattering palettes such as mustard yellow, mourning black, burlap sack brown, and salmon pink.

Maiden’s Day started painstakingly early as everyone got ready, aside from the men who did not need to don their formal attire until later, just before the ball. Valeana strapped in her more formal prosthetic, the one she affectionately called “Ser An-toe-knee Woodsby”, who had a wedged heel to accommodate the height of her wedged shoe. She always preferred this prosthetic over “Lady Footlyn”, it was more elegant, and walking in it felt more natural, but the caveat was that it wasn’t as worn in as she would have liked, and it would always have to be worn with a wedge shoe on her other foot. The increased height made it more difficult for her to stand for hours now that her right foot was made to bear the brunt of her weight on the balls of her feet. Still, she loved the way it made her hips sway side to side. 

Her large ivory gown was pulled over her head, and pooled at her feet with its scalloped hemline. Out of the three dresses, Valeana’s was the only one with colour. Maroon embroidered roses were designed in the grand width of the gown, standing tall on their stems like an award winning rose garden. The same pattern was centered on her bodice, the bud of the rose centered between the width of her breast, and the bottom of the stem ending at the ‘V’ shape at her waistline. Her biceps had the same design as well, although more subtle, taking the snug shape of her arm until it got to her elbow where it flared out in delicate lace. Then, as always in Celtigar fashion, pearls decorated the dress all over, accentuating lines to give it more texture. 

Valeana’s hair took the most amount of time. As long and thick as it was, it took two handmaids to tend to it. They pulled and pinned until it became a single large braid, the knots loosened elegantly, and decorated with sprigs of baby’s breath. Mother wanted it to be put up, but Valeana argued that the weight of her hair would cramp her neck. 

Wheelhouse after wheelhouse left the Red Keep that morning. When they reached Visenya’s Hill, it was crowded with carriages, horses, and women in white. Hundreds of maidens gathered into the Great Sept, leaving behind their mothers, their aunts, their fathers, and other guardians behind. 

Only maidens were allowed to fill the halls of the Great Sept that day. 

In silence, Valeana and her sisters entered the massive structure. It had been a decade since she last saw it and it never ceased to amaze her. The domed ceilings were so high that you could hear a whisper of a prayer from the other side of the Sept. Her eyes roamed around, looking at unfamiliar faces of women and girls alike. From girls as young as three, to spinster women as old as 60. If you were never married, and never laid with a man, you were here to worship and honour at the feet of the Maiden. 

She did not see Ellyn and Wylla in the crowd of white, and she ended up losing her sisters in the shuffle of the crowd. Not wanting to waste time on finding her people, she decided to take place in the first empty space she could. She immediately spotted one on a pew next to a young woman in a frost white gown, hair a beautiful red orange that was laid in waves down her back and plaited into a crown adorning her head. She was on the robust side, with rounded cheeks, a wide waistline, and soft arms. She reminded Valeana a lot of her former younger self, but admittedly this young girl was far more prettier, more vibrant. 

“Do you mind…?” Valeana asks the girl in a whisper. No one dared to raise their voices while the Septas filtered through the crowd with vulture-like awareness. Every once in a while, they would ring a bell when someone was being too loud. 

The girl looked up with surprised sapphire blue eyes, then she relaxed with a kind smile, “No, not at all.” 

Valeana settled in beside her, and took a look around to see if she could spot her sisters, or her two only friends, Wylla and Ellyn. 

“Looking for someone?” The girl next to her asks. 

“Lost my sisters in the crowd,” she admitted. “Trying to spot my friends, but… with everyone wearing white, they all blend in together.”

The girl softly chuckled, then quickly covered her mouth, “Same thing happened to me, but with my cousins. I have no sisters, just too many brothers.” 

Valeana smiled in response, “Who are your cousins?”

“They are Lord Tyrell’s daughters,” she answered simply, then extended her hand. “My name is Lady Catelyn by the way. Catelyn Redwyne. But you can call me Cat, everyone does.” 

Valeana took it and they both shook gently, “Lady Valeana Celtigar.” 

The mention of her name caused the young girl’s brows to raise and her mouth to gape a bit, “You’re Valeana Celtigar?”

The octave of her voice was loud enough for a Septa to sharply bring a bell in their direction. The two girls looked over before hunching down and continuing their whispers. 

“Erm, yes. How do you know me?”

“Your name is spoken all over the pavilions,” Cat whispered in haste as she took a glance around to make sure no one was listening. “They say King Viserys’ two eldest sons are fighting over your hand.”

A deep blush stained her cheeks, “That isn’t… That’s not what is happening at all. Are people really talking about me? I haven’t even left the Keep since I arrived.”

Cat nodded eagerly, “It is all the ladies are talking about. That and your… uhm, many drunken exploits with men.”

“What!?”

The bell rang next to her ear, jostling her in her seat. When she turned around, a Septa was glaring at her with a twisted puckered face. Slowly Valeana turned back around. 

“It was one time,” she immediately corrected. “And I was in the company of women.”

“Well, whatever the truth of it is,” Cat started, a little smile at the corner of her lip, “You are creating quite a stir in the Realm. It has caused a divide between the ladies.”

“What do you mean?”

“Half the women wish to end you, and the other half wish to be you. Either way, all here are green with envy.”

“And which half are you, Lady Cat?”

She smiled sweetly, folding her arms on her lap demurely, “I am a fan of great romances, and therefore, a fan of you. It reminds me much of this novel I read whilst living in Highgarden. It is about a woman from the North forced to marry a Dornish prince, but fell in love with his brother. But she ended up falling for her betrothed too, after some time. It was quite riveting.” 

Valeana’s face was fully pink at this point, from outrage over this news, to flattery over Cat’s praise. At this odd book that sounded far too familiar for her liking. She cleared her throat, “And–and what happened… in the end?”

Catelyn sucked in her lips sheepishly, “Oh, I dare not say. Not here, not on Maiden’s Day.”

Valeana shot a look at the giant statue of the Maiden, whose feet they all circled. Then she looked back at the Redwyne girl, “Whisper it into my ear.”

Tentatively, Cat leaned over and cupped her hand over Valeana’s ear, “They both became her lovers. Often at the same time.” 

If it was possible, Valeana’s face went pinker. Her eyes glanced back at the Maiden, green eyes filled with religious guilt. 

Maiden, forgive me for my thoughts. She thought, swallowing thickly. 

The Great Hall was near its capacity with the collection of noble families that crowded it. Hundreds if not a full thousand people mulled around, mostly men as half the population of their guests were making their way towards the Red Keep from the Great Sept. Aemond lurked in the fringes of the hall, eye moving along to each faceless body, trying to identify who belonged to which family. He spotted Lord Borros immediately; he was an easy character to pick out from the crowd, and it was not because of his size. He was loud and tended to take up as much space as possible. Along with him, he found Jason Lannister, their Lord Treasurer’s twin brother. Lord Tyrell and his Dornish wife, the Redwyne brothers, the Starks, the Freys, and even the Greyjoys were in attendance.

Aemond knew that most would not stay longer than the length of the Tourney; it was not just wives that these bachelors looked for, but titles and knighthoods, of which the King promised. But there were many bachelors indeed, easily identifiable by their attire. 

The maidens wore white, and so did the un-affixed men, save for the widowers. The young men and boys that had not married once wore various shades of white doublets and jerkins. Their breeches are generally a darker colour, and a formal cloak of their house colours framed their bodies. 

Aemond abhorred the colour white on him, but at the very least the dark forest green of his cloak gave him the depth of darkness that he preferred. The lapels and stitching of his satin jerkin carried the same green, and in the same shade of white, dragons were embroidered onto his shoulders and the bottom near his hips. His cloak hung on a gold chain clutched in the jaws of two dragons at his shoulders. His eyepatch was the only black piece of clothing on him; it was his most formal one, with swirly switching in the leather. The strap this time was tucked under his hair and under the shell of his ear on one side, giving room for the golden circlet above his brow, showing his status as a prince of the realm. Lastly, part of his hair was intricately woven into a series of plaits that collected into a fishtail braid that went down the center of his head, the length of the rest of his hair fanned over his back like a sheet of silk. The process of which was irksome, as Aemond absolutely loathed anyone but himself and his mother to touch his hair. 

His eye fell onto Aegon, who wore similar garb, but held more gold than green on his doublet. His hair was only half pulled back into a small twisted plait on the back of his head, and the circlet that rested on his brow had emeralds encrusted around the gold rim. He kept himself busy with socializing, as that was what Aegon was known for. He surrounded himself with the team of Redwyne brothers, laughing loudly over goblets of wine, likely made from their wineries. 

Aemond moved his attention away from him, landing onto his uncle who was on the other side of the hall, keeping to the fringes just like him. Daemon wore black, whether by a personal preference or to convey the fact that he was still in mourning. It was likely the former of the two, knowing his uncle’s reputation. Daemon’s cloak was black as well, though the inside was blood red, making the Rogue Prince look like the Black Dread in human form. 

And of course, Daemon was looking directly at him.

Aemond kept his eye on him, refusing to move it an inch. 

It was always so strange to him that he and his uncle had not formally met at Leana's funeral, and even after the incident, no regard was spared. Daemon lurked in the shadows while his mother screamed for justice over Aemond’s eye, and not once did the Lord of Flea Bottom say a word about him claiming his late wife’s dragon. It wasn’t until only a couple days ago that they had even locked eyes with each other, after Valeana and Jacaerys greeted each other. 

It was bizarre. Like looking into a mirror that showed him his future. 

The staring contest broke when Daemon was joined by his step sons, oblivious to Aemond’s spectre on the other side of the Great Hall. Both men wore identical garb, save for their colouring. As heir to the heir, Jace wore a red cloak, draped over one shoulder, being held on by a silver dragon’s claw. His brother wore a muted aquamarine one, and his doublet had the image of the seahorse woven into patterns at his breast. With Lord Corlys still abed with no indication of survival, Luke’s choice of colours was a clear statement that he was the heir to Driftmark… But anyone with eyes knew the title belonged to Lord Vaemond Velayron. 

The doors to the main entrance opened with the blaring of trumpets announcing the arrival of the maidens. A hush went through the crowd as all men, and married and widowed women flanked the sides in order to make room for the ladies that would be presented. The first, of course, was Princess Helaena, who was dressed resplendently in a true white gown with a train that followed behind her. Her hair unbound, with a crown of white flowers upon her head. Her dress had little crystals woven into the hems and linings, and the shape of butterflies could be seen in the fine embroidery. Her sleeves were long and billowy, flowing into her skirts and covering her arms and hands completely. 

It was painfully obvious how nervous and fretful she was. She slowly descended down the wide staircase, eyes flickering around the crowd as her eyes shone with a glossiness of unease. Helaena was not good with crowds, and here she was on display for the entire Kingdom. Aemond made a step towards her, intent on collecting her from her personal hell, but his mother beat him to it. She swiftly cut through the crowd that parted and bowed for her. Upon reaching Helaena, she took her hand and silently pulled her through the crowd towards the head table where the royal family would be seated. 

After that was settled, the gently bred ladies were introduced to the room three to four at a time. There were the Four Storms, the Baratheon sisters, then Jason Lannister’s girls, and so forth. After a lady Redwyne and her Tyrell cousins were introduced, the names of Floris, Valeana and Shyla were announced, and Aemond snapped to attention. 

“Lady Floris Grafton, Lady Valeana Celtigar, and Lady Shyla Celtigar,” the announcer’s voice echoed in the hall. Aemond’s eye swept around for a moment, noticing some of the women whispering to each other as they craned their necks to watch the three girls descend down the stairs.

Aemond tried to appear impartial, but his body moved without his consent. He stepped in between bodies, forcing them to part with his shoulder. When people craned to see who had been cutting through them, they jumped aside. Had Aemond been paying attention to his surroundings, he would have noticed he was not the only one that filtered through the bodies to get closer. Apart from him, there were three others.

Valeana had her hands clutched in her gown, chin down on her clavicle as she watched her steps down the stairs. Her hair practically glowed in the midday sun that shone through the skylight and stained glass windows, giving her a halo of dust particles dancing around in the air about her head. Aemond has never seen her in white before, at least not from head to toe. She was radiant, like a star on earth. 

A divine creature descended from the Seventh Heaven. 

The Maiden in flesh and bone.

His eye trained on her every movement, his vision a tunnel and she was the light at the end of it. She was the only thing that existed in that room, in that world. Once she reached the ground, her eyes lifted and like a magnetic force they immediately found him. 

There was a ringing in his ear as he became deaf to everything and everyone around him. They were suspended in time the moment their eyes locked onto each other. Aemond’s lips parted as the breath was quite literally stolen from his lungs, and his life flashed before his eyes. All moments in time that he shared with her, as far back as babes. 

Squeals of laughter and delight as they played in the rain and mud, and then ran through the corridor tracking dirt on the flagstone, being chased by two irate Septas. Sitting back to back in a copper tub as the same two women scrubbed them down to their bones. 

Wrestling over the last lemon tart on their shared platter underneath the Heart Tree, getting tangled in the roots as they tugged at each other’s hair and pinched each other’s arms. They always ended up splitting it in the end when Valeana tapped out, huffing in disappointment and ignition. 

Their “discreet and secretive” sleep overs they would have under a large desk in the royal library. Sharing a large pillow and blanket as he practiced his Valyrian to her until she fell asleep on his shoulder. Maester Artos would always find them, barking loud enough to wake them in a startle, causing their heads to bump into each other.

Her face lighting up whenever he presented her with menial gifts, such as shiny rocks, seashells, flowers, or rusted jewelry found on the beaches of Blackwater Rush. She would always make something out of them; pendants, earrings, or unconventionally sewn in an embroidery loop, woven in her art for eternity. 

She running to him in tears after the Greyjoy boy kept on pinching and slapping her behind whenever she had her back turned. He had taken his handkerchief and dried her tears and smoothed down her hair, vowing that he will never let him touch her again. 

And then lastly when his father told him he would be marrying her, his best friend. And his one and only weakness. His pride and fear consumed him then, but now…

Now, as he watched her turn away, her hand poised out to grasp the hand of her elder brother, he was consumed by a new type of fear. The fear of losing her completely, of which his pride now would not allow. 

Valeana Celtigar belonged to him. 

As time took motion once more, the chorus of music and chatter filled his eardrums. Aemond was returned to reality, left to stare at her back as Clement brought his Valeana over to the side, where the rest of her family waited. Aemond forced himself to turn away before he could do anything rash in front of quite literally all of the Realm. 

The first dance of the ball was to begin shortly after the mingling of guests, and it would be followed by the feast, and a parade of fools and entertainers. Aemond intended to reach Valeana before the dance could begin, before Aegon or Jacaerys could reach her. He cut through the crowd in long strides, hyper aware of the eyes of his father, mother, sister, and rogue uncle upon him as he narrowed the space between himself and the Celtigars. However, before he could even get within yards of them, his path was intercepted by Lord Borros and the eager brown eyes of Maris Baratheon. 

“Prince Aemond,” The Stormlord greeted, his smile calculated and false. It didn’t reach his dark eyes, which assessed him with keen suspicion. “I thought you might have lost my beautiful daughter in the crowd, and so I personally escorted her to you.”

Maris looked up at her father in gratitude before back at Aemond, “I told my father it was my wish to take my first dance with you, Prince Aemond. If it pleases you.”

The reality of his decisions of the past few weeks weighed heavily on his shoulders in that instant. Since that moment in the corridor with Valeana the other day, he had forgotten he had shown personal interest in Maris Baratheon. By now Borros  surely was already fixated on the idea of betrothal, else he would not be here carting his daughter to him like a sacrificial lamb. More likely than not, the Stormlord surely had talked to the King about it already, which presented more problems. Had this been a week ago, Aemond would have only hesitated for a moment before bending to duty, should it have been the will of his father and mother. Both of which he knew were against it for some vague reason, given the lecture that was given to both him and Aegon the night of their return.

His eyes flickered above their heads where he could just about make out Valeana, standing partially behind the body of a girl with red hair and a round, plush face. Aegon and Jace crowded them, effectively snuffing out his chance at claiming Val’s first dance.

Aemond’s jaw was tense when he looked back down at Maris, but he forced himself to smile, just enough to make him look convincing. 

“It would please me greatly, Lady Maris,” he extended his hand to her, which she took with a bright smile and casted a look to her father over her shoulder. 

Lord Borros hummed satisfyingly, “Wise choice, my Prince. Next to my little Floris, she is the best dancer at Storm’s End. Beauty, brains, and grace!”

“Father! Please!” Maris chided, taking her place at Aemond’s side. Too close for comfort. Too close for him to look detached.

Separating himself from Maris now was going to be a challenge. The last thing he needed was contention with Borros Baratheon, when in the future his mother and grandsire may need his loyalty.

Aegon was well into his cups before the maidens arrived for the ball, and that was simply due to his nature. A man who quickly found friends among strangers, Aegon was by all accounts a social butterfly, and an avid social drinker. When the maidens started to enter the Great Hall, he leaned against a large pillar casually next to Redwyne brothers, as the four of them each judged every girl that walked in. 

“Ah, Cassandra Baratheon,” Aegon turned to the three men, “Beautiful, but a bore. She complains about every bloody thing.”

“That is unfortunate,” Cleyton, the eldest, tutted. “I like tall women.”

Aegon scrunched up his nose at that, “Do you really? Not for me. I like them short… easier to align their nose with my cock.”

The men laughed and turned back to the parade of women. Jason Lannister’s daughters came in after, hair like spun wheat and looking like clones of each other. 

“I’d take them all, one at a time, or all together, really,” Ser Cedric, the second son, giggled into his cup while his younger brother slapped him in his arm. 

“Such a pig, Cedric. A greedy pig,” Colin chided, earning him an incredulous look from Cedric. 

“You’re one to talk, baby brother. You were ogling the widows like a hunger panged hound.”

Cleyton leaned into Aegon’s shoulder, “He likes older women.”

Aegon’s shoulders shook with a soft laugh, “I do not blame him. Older women often make the most eager sluts.”

“Lady Wylla Stark, Lady Barba Bolton, and Lysara Karstark.” 

“Oh, now she is a work of art,” Cedric stepped forward, his hand gesturing to the raven haired woman descending the stairs. “I always thought Northern women were large, hairy and had beards. Thank the Seven I’m wrong.” 

“I’d be careful with that one,” Aegon said thoughtfully. “She will emasculate you with her eyes alone.” 

Cedric smirked widely, “Sounds like my kind of woman, then. I enjoy a good hunt every once in a while, you know?”

Cleyton snorted, shaking his head, “You forget she’s a Stark; a direwolf. She’s the hunter… And you are a pretty boy with a long stick and shiny hair that you spend too much time on.” 

The boys laughed, even Aegon, as Cedric shook his vibrant mane away from his face haughtily, “Thank you for calling me pretty, brother. You know how it gets me hard.” 

“Good gods,” Colin sighed embarrassingly into his palm. 

Then the doors opened to three women, two tall and willowy with dark brown to black hair in coiled curls and thin braids, and the third a shorter girl in an empire waistline dress and bright orange hair tumbling about her shoulders. Clearly a chubby one, even with the cut of her dress that tried to shield her unwanted curves. 

“Oh, that is simply not fair,” Aegon tutted, “You don’t pair up the thoroughbreds with the mule.” 

“Oi, careful now,” Cleyton rebuked while Cedric made a sharp hissing sound through his teeth before covering his grin with his fist. 

“That’s our sister, my Prince,” Colin quickly added. 

Aegon grimaced, sucking at his teeth as he casted a look over to his new mates, “Sorry. What I mean to say is: Your sister is very lovely.”

The girls were introduced as Lady Sharis and Malora Tyrell, and Lady Catelyn Redwyne, first cousins likely from their mother’s side of the family. 

“Lovely, sure,” Cedric snorted in his cup, earning him a quick whack from his elder brother upside the head. 

It was not long after that the Celtigar sisters were introduced to the crowd. The mere appearance of Valeana was enough to sober Aegon, but only to then get drunk at her visage after. 

“Oh, ho, ho,” Cedric dog whistles and nudges Aegon’s arm, “That’s her then? The Celtigar girl that’s gotten the Princes of the Realm all in a tizzy. Now I can see what the fuss is all about. It’s the only bloody thing Cat, Shar and Mal can ever bleedin’ talk about.”

Aegon grinned, eyes still glued onto Valeana as she descended down the stairs slowly, her sisters trailing ahead of her at a faster pace. 

“The whispers have reached the pavilions then?” Aegon’s eyebrow raised, not paying them a minute of his attention. His teeth grazed his bottom lip as his eyes drank in every inch of her. Her neck, her hair, her bosoms and her cinched waistline. He felt a stir in his loins and the overwhelming desire to taint her white dress by deflowering her took over his senses. 

Her maidenhead will be his. 

He stopped listening to the Redwyne brothers; their prattle was background noise to him as he swallowed the remains of his goblet and quickly shoved it into one of the boys’ empty palms. 

“Excuse me,” he pushed himself from the column, eyes trained on Valeana as she parted from her family to go converse with none other than Catelyn Redwyne, of all people.

As he made his way through the milling bodies, in the corner of his eye he could see another filtering through towards the same destination. His eyes caught his nephew’s, and with a dual glance back at Valeana, the race was on. The two princes cut through the crowd, causing curious looks and shocked whispers at the sight.

“Seven Hells,” Valeana startled when she turned around just in time to see the brown and silver haired princes all but collide with each other. Overwhelmed by the sudden attention, she put Catelyn in front of her to shield her. The redheaded girl did not seem to complain. 

“Good Maiden’s Day, Lady Valeana,” Aegon greeted first, a knowing smile upon his face. “You look resplendent today.”

“Thank you, my Prince,” Val curtsied stiffly. 

“I dare say she always looks resplendent,” Jace smiled, his hands folded neatly in front of him, “But, you do look exceptionally more today, Lady Valeana. White suits you.” 

Aegon sent him a withering look. 

Catelyn turned to Valeana, all wide eyed and gleaming with barely concealed excitement. Aegon didn’t see, but she mouthed: “Three princes?!”

Valeana’s eyes widened slightly at her before returning her attention to the men in front of her, “Prince Aegon, Prince Jacaerys, this is my new friend, Lady Catelyn Redwyne.”

“But, please call me Cat. Everyone does.” 

“Ah, yes, I was just acquainting myself with your brothers,” Aegon bobbed on his feet and smiled politely at her. “Lively lads, them. It is true what they say about the Redwynes; they can drink anyone under the table and still walk in a straight line. A talent I someday wish to have.”

Cat giggled, then gave a soft snort, which caused her to blush heavily and cover her mouth, “Oh! Oh, dear, that was embarrassing.”

Aegon hummed amusingly, smile still donned, “Aren’t you a darling. If I can make a lady laugh to the point of snorting, then I have succeeded in life.”

The four of their heads perked up at the sound of lutes and drums, signalling that the first dance was about to begin. Aegon turned back around, eyes finding Valeana’s His mouth opened, ready to ask her for a dance, but Jace was quicker and his request left no room for refusal. 

“I promised Lady Ursula that you would be the first I asked to dance, Lady Valeana,” Jace stepped forward with an extended hand, his smile charming, “I hope you do not do me a disservice by forcing me to break that promise.” 

Valeana swallowed, looking at Aegon briefly with pained eyes, and then back at Jace. The corners of her lips tugged upward, twitching as she tried to keep a polite face. 

“Well, I would never wish to disappoint my mother,” she placed her hand in his, and he gently pulled her into his orbit. 

Aegon glowered silently, nostrils flared as his finger curled into fists. Jace gave him a smug look of triumph, the end of his lips turning into an insufferable smirk before returning his baseborn brown eyes onto Valeana. She gave Aegon one last look before she disappeared onto the dance floor. 

“Strong bastard,” Aegon hissed, forgetting he was not alone. 

Catelyn laugh-snorted again, then promptly covered her mouth, eyes wide with realization. “Oh no, I should not have laughed at that.”

Aegon’s mood significantly shifted; his smile broadened as he turned to her. “Oh, but I am glad you did,” he tilted his head and offered her his hand. “May I have your first dance, Lady Cat?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE SNEAK PEAK He hummed, his eyes glancing down to the floor where her feet were hidden behind the hem of her dress, and then back up.  “I didn’t see you dancing.” She couldn’t help her eyes from narrowing, “You were watching me?” There was a faint smile there, one that she could not decide if she liked or not. Though what he said after did make her toes tingle and her face feel hot.  “Always.” 

Notes: Oh, where do I begin. You finally get to meet my other babies. If it wasn't obvious already, the heroine for Aegon's Spin Off story has been introduce, along with her brothers and cousins. They party hard at the Arbor, what can I say. I havent decided yet if I'll wait until the end of TPD to post his story yet, but I will warn you guys, that there will be a mia moment of no updates for probably two weeks as I try to work on both of them simultaneously. I've only written the prologue, and I need to make sure I get the timeline right. But that will probably not happen until sometime in November.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[emilykaldwen]

THE MAIDEN AND THE DROWNING BOY is a House of the Dragon canon divergent fix-it trilogy with a HEA. Meshing both show and book canon, the story asks the question: How do you stop the cycles of abuse and generational trauma? In this universe, Aegon marries the youngest daughter of Lyonel Strong, the Lady Abrogail, who has grown up alongside him and his siblings. The story begins with the run up to their marriage in 125 AC, and follows Aegon and Abrogail as they figure out who they are and who they are together in the Riverlands, along with Aemond and Helaena in King's Landing, and to the dawn of the Dance of Dragons. Except the ending of the song is different this time.

pairings: aegon ii targaryen x oc, eventual jacaerys x helaena, other canon ships mentioned, other pairings to be announced warnings: suicidal ideation, sexual shame and purity pushing, canon typical violence, canon typical attitudes, unpacking of previously stated sexual shame/purity for both male and female characters

This is not an anti/pro team black or green fic. I continue to do my best to approach all sides with nuance. There will be no bashing, nor will I accept any in the comments.

[this fic series will have three separate parts and maintains an 'at least once a month' posting schedule (due to life reasons)]

No Tag List. Follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications or subscribe on AO3.

Tumblr: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty | Chapter Twenty-One | Chapter Twenty-Two | Chapter Twenty-Three | Twenty-Four | Twenty-Five

AO3: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty | Chapter Twenty-One | Chapter Twenty-Two | Chapter Twenty-Three | Twenty-Four | Twenty-Five

AO3

Wattpad (for those who prefer to read there. Updates are not matched to AO3)

Fic Tag

Ship Tag

Abrogail Tag

Spoiler Free Family Tree

Timeline of Events (please note the adjusted ages from the source material)

Abrogail Epithet Gif Set

Arc One Promo Set

Aegon and Abby - A Soft Evening Commission by @winterofherdiscontent

Aegon and Abby - A Lazy Morning by @debustee

Abrogail Commission by @astarionbae

Fanart/Content by others - If you made something for this fic, please @ me and tag #useremka

Abrogail Fanart by @selfproclaimedunicorn

Abrogail Fanart by @murmel-malt

Sunlight Gif Set by @dragonsbone

Vampire!Abby x Aegon fanart by @murmel-malt

Aegon and Abby Dancing by @murmel-malt

Abby Moodboard by @rainwingmarvel7

Abby Dress designs by @chic-beyond-the-wall-oc-acct

Abby Portrait commissioned by a follower and art by @shripscapi

Aegon and Abby as Eros and Psyche by @murmel-malt

Transformative Works Policy below the cut

Transformative Works Policy: I do not give my permission to have this work put into generative AI or cross-posted somewhere else under your name. If you are looking to translate my work, please contact me first. Translations are ONLY allowed on AO3 following their translation policy, or Ficbook. Podfic is also allowed as long as I am contacted first to discuss.

As of right now, @vampire-exgirlfriend, @selfproclaimedunicorn, @darkwolf76, and @queen--kenobi only have permission to utilize Abrogail Strong in their works. If you want to write something inspired by or utilize my OCs in any way, please reach out to me first.

[ficsbyuzi]

I fOunD yOu Part 3

MEET ALYNA MARTELL

Alyna, a twenty six year-old educator, hails from the prestigious, prosperous Martell family of Sunspear, Dorne. She is the eldest child, and has been raised with the inevitable truth that one day she'd inherit the vast Martell business empire - a predesigned fate she consciously rejects while growing up.

Despite her family's countless attempts to persuade her otherwise, she decides to relinquish her birthright and steps away in the favor of younger brother - Alaric Martell. To her, pursuing her passions and living life on her own terms holds far greater value and reward, than having everything served on a silver platter or being fed with a silver spoon. 

After completing her education, with a major in History from the University of King's Landing, she ventured into teaching the subject to high school students. Beyond her teaching duties, Alyna dedicated herself to training youngsters in self-defense. Her mornings on 

weekends commenced with martial arts classes, and in the evenings, she took on a part-time role as an Uber driver.

Her fate took a profound twist when she encountered and subsequently began dating Jason Lannister, the son of Tymond Lannister, owner and chairperson of the Golden Lion Industries in Casterly Rock. Jason occasionally visited the office branch in King's Landing, where his married sister resided. Their paths first crossed during Alyna's self-defense classes when he came to pick up his ten-year-old niece. Unable to stop thinking about her, he mustered the courage to ask her out a few weeks later.

Two years, several dates, and numerous trips later, Jason surprised her by proposing marriage. She accepts it, making a conscious decision, something she has never had trouble with. 

However, sometimes when she sat with her solitude or drove around the city at night, she would find herself contemplating. A tiny fragment of her soul often wished that she hadn’t agreed to the marriage. 

Alyna once read in one of her favorite self-help books that the soul attracts what it secretly harbors - likes and fears alike. 

She often doubted if she had chosen precisely what she had been running away from.

She loved Jason, he loved her.

 Isn't love enough? Does it not conquer all?

PART 3

Read part 2

Characters : Aegon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen and Alyna Martell (Dornish OFC) in modern Westeros (modern AU)

Warnings : No Aemond or Aegon in this one 🙂

A loud, sonorous clunk of metal pulled Alyna out of her trance. An intense pulse throbbed in her body. She checked the time on her phone; ten past five in the evening, almost dusk. The clean-up crew had arrived to dismantle the canopies and remove the decorations. The expansive grounds surrounding the Highgarden estate were to be restored to their verdant tranquility after the event. 

An event that never took place. 

She rolled over and met herself in the mirror adjacent to her bed. Disheveled, unkempt, all over the place, sans the glow of a bride, sans the glow her trips to the expensive salon had promised. The sheen of her freshly dyed burgundy hair now dimmed. 

Groaning, she rolled back to her previous position, only to board the train of her thoughts.

She had spent the last twenty four hours scrolling apps on her phone or dozing off every few hours. Her body stayed in a dismal inertia, the gears of her mind ground to a halt.

Her stomach made an unavoidable rumbling, threatening to start eating itself and impelling her to pick up a box of assorted, handmade chocolates kept on the side table. She devoured the first piece -  dark and mint. And before she knew it, she was on her third piece, flavored with sea salt. All were coated with edible gold foil.

Gold. 

The colour the whole Lannister clan had a penchant for. The golden hour wedding,  gold decor,  marigold flowers,  gold drapes. 

She flung the box away as if she touched a bare, live wire, wanting to regurgitate what she just had eaten. Her gaze followed the tiny chocolate balls rolling across the floor, one of them reaching the bottom of the mannequin stand. The sight of an exquisite, bespoke wedding dress caught her attention. Again. 

Alyna despised the long-standing family custom of the groom's family giving the wedding dress to the bride. The dress was not only modest and traditional but also way too laced and embellished for her bold yet minimalistic preference.

But Jason loved it, especially its full tulle sleeves and a stifling neckline. She would have opted for that solid, strapless number in satin with a high side slit and pockets.

"You are going to be a Lannister bride, not Dornish" 

She remembered red flags flapping in her mind at his flippant remark. 

But she agreed to his choice anyway - the things one does for love.

A mere dress didn't matter much to her then. Hell, she could carry a potato sack effortlessly.

But the same dress now stood before her in all her unworn glory, as a rankling sore in her eyes because she was denied the very reason she agreed to wear it in the first place.

 The dress unnerved her as it hung unworn and unused on that stupid mannequin stand when its bodice should have hugged her svelte torso, a day before. 

Her long, burgundy hair was supposed to cascade in soft waves and be pinned at the back with a band of pearls to hold her veil. 

Her "no make-up" make-up would have been all glorifying, kissed by the magical golden hour. Her bridesmaids in their dresses of the sunset yellow hue she chose for them, would have blended in the soft glow of the dusk. And she would have looked like a floating angel.

She let out a wan, shuddering chuckle, mocking her reveries as a few tears fell out of her brown, almond eyes.

When did she let all the conventional, materialistic things occupy her mind?

When did her free, untameable soul get tied up by frills, lace and fancy ribbons?

When did she start losing herself?

All the self-help books she perused and the podcasts she listened to, seeking guidance on how to be herself, seemed nonsensical when he blinded her with his golden charm.

 In an attempt to fit into his world, she had almost lost sight of her worth and neglected the importance of remaining true to herself.

Maybe Jason Lannister didn't call the wedding off merely because he got cold feet. Maybe he called it off because he recognised and acted on the dissonance within himself, within the relationship while Alyna couldn't.  

Maybe he realized that he was tricking himself into loving someone, who was not herself. 

The vicious irony was that the fallacy in her thought process convinced her to mold herself into someone, she thought, he desired. 

They were a wrong fit from the very beginning, trying to build a house of cards destined to crumble under the weight of pretense.

Repeated knocks at her bridal suite's door broke the chain of her thoughts. It was her father's third attempt since morning to coax her out of the room. 

"Please come and talk to us, honey. We are with you,” he insisted, carrying her favorite mozzarella and tomato sandwiches and orange juice in a tray.

It was the last day of their stay at the estate. The suite room that was meant to mark the beginning of her life as a married woman now served as a constant reminder that her wedding had been called off.

But she needed to pull herself out of the self-sabotaging thoughts. 

She had to come out of that miserable room, which was deluding her mind into believing that her life was over.

She would find the fragments that she had torn apart from herself and lost along the way in the last two years.

Her family was supposed to be back in Dorne by the late-night flight. And she was supposed to be on a flight for her honeymoon..

She lunged towards her handbag in a desperate determination, as though it contained an elixir that held the key to her very existence.

 "I will be out in a minute, Dad." She assured her father. 

-

As the family gathered to dine before departing, she keenly sensed their collective effort to appear nonchalant, each of them willing their faces into cheerful expressions.

"Sweetheart, you know, I had a boyfriend once and oh, how handsome he was!" Her grandmother's eyes twinkled as she went down her memory lane, oblivious to everyone in the family either rolling their eyes playfully or chuckling silently. 

"He was a soldier. While he was stationed far away from our village during the war, my father betrothed me to your grandpa. I cried a lot, begging my father not to marry me off to him. But after marriage, your grandpa and I became great friends, and love happened eventually."

She affectionately caressed her granddaughter's hair, pecked her cheek and placed her head gently on her bosom.

"Today, everything may seem dark, as if the worst has happened. But tomorrow, the sun will rise again, and everything will be okay. Don’t worry about anything, child. Whatever is yours will find its way to you. Just live your life to the fullest from now on."

Her grandmother's words of wisdom soothed the frazzled state of her mind. In her embrace, it dawned upon her that she had indeed been saved from a disastrous marriage. And she had been saved from the 'self', she wrongly assumed, was hers.

-

On her way out of the estate, Alyna briefly contemplated tossing the engagement ring into the garden fountains, but out of reverence for a family heirloom diamond it was studded with, she decided to simply relinquish it to a trusted common friend for its safe return to the Lannisters. 

The dress, however, could not escape the wrath that was simmering in her guts for two days. 

She severed its sleeves, altered the neckline and slashed its hem to fashion a long slit resembling the dress she had wanted to buy. Then she packed it to be dispatched to Casterly Rock.

A strong feeling of self-renewal and liberation washed over her. She had begun to feel her authentic self again.

Upon reaching the airport, she retrieved the ticket from her bag, nestled within the pages of her passport. It was stamped with the visa that would grant her entry to the Summer Islands and Essos. 

 "I am going on my honeymoon trip," Alyna announced, "Alone"

[murmel-malt]

had @emilykaldwen's vampire!abby stuck in my brain the entire day. please accept this humble doodle as tribute.

[littlemissmoodswings]

hotd modern fic idea based off hbo's succession (i say as if a modern au wouldn't automatically have succession vibes)

four kids (rhaenyra, aegon, aemond, and daemon [yes he's getting looped in with the "kids" for purposes of the example]) who are trying to beat each other (sometimes proverbially, sometimes physically) for the spot as successor to the targaryen business and fortune and along the way learn tough lessons. like, you can't depend on anyone but yourself, sometimes to do good you have to do bad, and family can be so overrated. who learns what? who's to say?

aka – two adults fight two people who think they are adults for the sake of money, power, and viserys' love.

this au would be worth it for no other reason than for me to change "L to the OG" to "V to the IP" i've been laughing at that thought alone for a solid minute. aegon doing the song maybe?

fans of both succession and hotd RISE UP!!

edit: adding on the fact that i fear aegon and kendall roy may just an a teeny tiny bit in common

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Six: Salt and Blood

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Alright, everyone. This is the last time you'll see baby Aemond and the reader, so let's cherish it. In the next chapter, we will start where the show did with the characters aged up in Ep. 8. I'm very excited to write for adult MC. I'm not going to lie; I'm a bit worried about writing Aemond's inner dialogue, as I've never written for a male character who isn't obsessed with the reader, but I'm sure I'll do fine. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter Warnings: Alicent being delulu, parentified sibling trauma, and watch me make you feel even worse about Driftmark.

As you journeyed from the gloomy corridors of the Red Keep to the sulfuric atmosphere of Dragonstone and now to the sandy shores and scattered shells of Driftmark, an air of sadness seemed to cling to you wherever you went. You stood at the edge of a cliff, gazing down at the tranquil sea, overlooking the stone coffin that cradled your late Aunt Laena. Two deaths, each carrying its weight of sorrow, yet only one mourned.

You wondered what it would be like to die choked in flames like Ser Harwin and Lyonel Strong did. Would it be the same as suffering dragon fire like your Aunt? Most likely not. Hers was a swift burning of flesh from bones, while theirs was hours of agony and suffocation. 

Despite what your family claimed, the idea of dying to your own dragon’s flames wasn’t an appealing end to you. It didn’t seem noble like how stories explained it to be. It was horrifying to have your skin torched from your body, to feel the power of a thousand suns on your flesh. It would be excruciatingly painful, and you wished it upon no one, not even those you despised most. You would much rather meet the Stranger in your sleep. 

You barely settled into your new home on Dragonstone before your mother received the two ravens. One bringing news of Ser Harwin and the other of Laena, containing death in the ink. You consoled your mother and father as best you could, hugging and kissing and telling them that you loved them and were sorry. It was an impossible task to do, but you couldn’t help yourself. You hated seeing them so distraught and wanted to make them feel better. 

At night, you cried into your pillows in your now isolated bedroom until Jace and Luke entered, watery eyes matching yours. As the eldest, it was your job to hold your family together when your parents couldn’t, and it left you no time to properly grieve the loss of an Aunt and a father figure.

You felt terrible for your cousins Baela and Rhaena. To go to bed one night and wake up the next without a mother was a depth of grief you couldn’t imagine. You didn’t think you could live a life without your mother; you would die with her, and the ability of your cousins to continue without her was admirable as you observed their sullen faces streaked with tears. 

Your Great Uncle Vaemond spoke his sermon in High Valyrian, which was too fast and practiced for you to understand. You could decipher some words here and there, but ultimately, you were lost listening to a man you rarely met. You felt your mother straighten her stance from behind, her arms coming to circle the three of you in a protective embrace.

Vaemond’s eyes were on yours, Luke’s, and Jace’s, but everyone else was focused on him—on the coffin with Lady Laena’s face carved into it.

As your eyes wandered to the other people surrounding the funeral procession, fear struck you as you caught your eldest uncle’s eye. It wasn’t very comforting to see Aegon so soon. You had set it in your mind that you wouldn’t have to see him for many years, and yet, here you were, dressed in an obsidian and red-sleeved gown, pearls adorning the collar and your veiled headpiece. Quickly, you turned away, instinctually taking Jace’s hand in yours.

An air of stiffness surrounded your family that you weren’t blind to. It was always there, but now, more than before, you felt it. You thought it was childish to be so locked into familial drama when someone lay dead inside a casket. Though you didn’t remember much of the times you met your Aunt Laena, she still deserved the respect of putting these grievances aside. You knew you were part of it, but more important things were happening than what you suffered. 

The cries of your father sent waves of sadness into your heart, and with the sudden urge to get him to stop, you left the safety of your brother and clung to your father’s waist. He lifted you into his sea-worn arms and clung to your frail body as if it was the only thing that kept him from sinking into his grief. You rested your temple onto his shoulder, tears of empathy falling from your eyes as he pressed your head closer. 

Afraid of what would become of your father if you let go, you allowed him to crush you in his embrace for as long as he needed it as a scornful laugh broke through the tense atmosphere. You peeked from your position to see Great Uncle Daemon chuckling to himself with a shake of his head at what Vaemond said. You felt annoyance bubble inside you, solidifying your distaste for the man as the Velaryon guards clad in silver armor and blue seahorse sigils lifted the ropes and lowered your Aunt into the roaring sea. 

You didn’t leave your father’s side for the remainder of the day, not even when he slowly lowered himself into the sea with his sister as the cold, salty breeze swept through the evening. You wanted to speak with Aemond, if just for a small moment, but your family came first. They always came before anyone else, a fact that your mother instilled into the very fabric of your being.

Sitting atop one of the rock ledges near your father, you dipped your feet into the saltwater, dragging your toes to watch the water ripple and allow time to pass. It didn’t feel right to leave him alone. The image of him falling into the ocean as your Aunt played repeatedly in your mind’s eye. You were afraid in his grief, he would follow her. Only when your father’s squire, Ser Qarl, took your father from his place with his sister did you leave, joining the rest of the goers for the wake late in the evening.

Searching through the crowd of people for your mother and your brothers, you couldn’t find them. Alone with none of your family for protection, you felt fear pull at your chest. Your hands began to scratch at your arms and scalp, attempting to quell the insatiable itch. The fabric prevented you from doing so, and tears of fright soon began to collect at your lashes. 

From across the balcony, you saw a flash of green, a color that had never offered you comfort until now. Yet as quickly as you saw it, it vanished, leaving only a head of white promptly running down the stairs. You felt your heart drop into your feet as you watched Aemond run across the sandy dunes like he was running from you. 

The call of a dragon you never heard before screeched through the gray skies. It was mournful as if it were calling for a lost pet or child. In this case, it was a rider. As you looked up, you could see the vast shadow of Vhagar’s silhouette soaring through the clouds, flying in the same direction your uncle went. You felt your eyes grow wide with worry at the realization, wanting to chase after Aemond and warn him.

“Let’s get you to bed,” a tender, feminine voice came from behind you as you jolted in surprise. The tall figure of Queen Alicent stood before you, curly auburn hair pinned back into a magnificent updo and clad in her usual green and gold as she put a hand on your back. “Your mother already sent your brothers.” 

“Where is she?” you hastily asked. Aemond was no longer on your mind.

“I’m uncertain. Your father is off drowning his sorrow in his cups with his squire,” she answered in the same velvet voice you remembered her having, bitterness you didn’t understand laced in the undertone.

You felt offended by how the Queen spoke about your father. He was grieving. He was allowed to spend time with whomever he wished, doing what he wanted.

Alicent lifted her arm, wrapping it around your petite frame, and led you inside Hightide. It was not as cold or formidable as Dragonstone; its dark magic melted into the walls, yet it didn’t hold the warmth of the Red Keep. Still, you felt unwelcomed here, either by the place or its people. The pale stone walls were filled with bits and pieces of shells from clams, mollusks, and other long-dead shell creatures mixed into the mortar to make it stand the test of salty air. 

The Hall of the Nine, where you passed as Queen Alicent, led you to the guest chambers, where you held the Driftwood throne where your grandfather Corlys reigned. You recalled when you visited this place many years ago and how he went on about the many treasures from his sieges and conquests that decorated the room in all its glory. He and his wife, Rhaenys, sat in a heated discussion in front of the hearth.

Once you reached the door to your shared bed chambers with your brothers, Alicent turned to you. It was the first time you had seen her since what Aegon had done to you, and you felt tension. It seemed as if she wanted to speak, to say everything that had been bottled up since the revelation of her son’s transgressions, but she was unable to do so as tears choked her. Instead, the only words that came out were those she couldn’t say to her children. 

“I hope you can find the time to visit the Keep. Helaena asked when you would be returning, and it broke my heart to tell her you wouldn’t be,” she confided, stroking the thin black fabric covering your dark hair. “Aemond has turned inwards since you left, and Aegon has become crueler to him. It makes me wonder if he’s always been this way and that my love for him has blinded me from his transgressions.” 

You said nothing. The mention of Aegon’s name still felt like a blow to the stomach. “I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive my son for what he did to you and that we may yet be the family we were always meant to be.” Your tongue felt like lead as your breathing began to race, your chest rising and falling at a rapid pace as Alicent kneeled before you, a sad smile on her supple lips as she tenderly swiped your tear-stained cheeks with her smooth thumbs. 

“I love you, my shining light, my dream.” 

Leaning in, she took your small frame by your shoulders, kissing your forehead as one would do to their babe. You felt sick, nausea churning in your stomach as you quickly opened the bedroom door, hastily shutting it behind you in fright. 

It was all too much—Lady Laena’s death, Ser Harwin’s, seeing your father in shambles, and Queen Alicent’s steadfast belief that you should become a part of her family no matter what happened to you. The Queen desired to wed you and Aegon despite the horrors he committed. The realization that she genuinely didn’t see what your eldest uncle did to you as something that would permanently bar you from joining the union pierced your heart. You would much rather marry Aemond or Helaena, but having no ties to her seemed better.

Your brothers peered at you curiously from their beds as you clutched your chest, looking as if you ran the entire way here. They didn’t ask any questions, and you didn’t move to speak, loosening the ties of your gown and shrugging it off until you were only in your smock. You didn’t feel like changing into your nightdress in front of your brothers, deciding to climb into bed and shove your face into the pillows, refusing to cry in front of Jace and Luke as you fell into a dreamless sleep.

When Aemond learned of Lady Laena’s death, he knew it was a sign from the Gods that his time had come. The Seven had deemed this the moment to prove himself to everyone who doubted him and thought him useless without a dragon. 

Vhagar. 

The largest, oldest, and strongest dragon in the world was riderless. 

Aemond believed that once he gained the only thing he lacked, life would finally be what it should have been. He would make his father proud, shove all the taunts and jests from Aegon and his nephews back into their faces, and finally become a man you deemed worthy—your Mors Martell. 

As Aemond fled from the wake when the candles had long melted, he thought only of the ichor coursing through his veins. Dusk was upon the island, and the night’s wind blew harshly, strands of his silver-blonde hair covering his face as he climbed over the dunes. Vhagar was further from the castle than he initially thought.

“Fuck.” Aemond released a sigh of exasperation and scrambled across the uneven ground. 

When he came upon the dragon, he was in awe. Vhagar was as frightening as she was enormous—a giant, green-scaled, moving mountain that shook the ground and blew sand with every movement and breath from her powerful lungs. 

Taking advantage of Vhagar’s resting state, Aemond crept along the sparse grass, feeling each gust of air she created with her wide nostrils, blowing the sand into his face and ears. Anxiety was present in his gut, feeling a slight tremble in his limbs as he closed the distance, wrapping his hand around one of the many ropes draped across Vhagar’s scales. Suddenly, he felt the ground underneath him quake, and the head of the dragon lifted with a low rumble.

Vhagar observed Aemond with tired yet calculating amber orbs, double eyelids blinking. She grumbled as she bore her teeth to him. They were the size of a fully grown adult, sending a shiver down his spine. As if it were an act of divine intervention, Vhagar laid her enormous head back down, seeming disinterested in the young boy before her. 

If Lady Laena’s death wasn’t proof enough Aemond was fated by the Gods to claim a dragon, the most powerful beast in the world, laying its head in acquiescence certainly was. Blinded by his small victory, nerves still in his mind, he reached for the rope ladder again, only for Vhagar to raise her head and growl, low and deep. A snarl formed on her great maw as Aemond stumbled back in shock and saw the light of orange flames gather at the back of her throat. 

“Dohaerās!” (Serve!) he shouted instinctively, recalling the many lessons he observed in the Dragonpit as he felt the heat of fire on his countenance. “Dohaerās, Vagus! Lykirī!” (Serve, Vhagar! Be calm!)

With Aemond’s commands, the she-dragon relaxed, recalling her flames and closing her mouth. She purred to him like a cat, a sign that she approved his merit while standing in the face of death. Vhagar would allow the Prince an attempt to claim her, but he must prove himself before the eyes of the Gods, before the eyes of a dragon. 

Aemond took the ropes and climbed atop the mighty Vhagar’s back, positioning himself in the saddle and grabbing the reigns. 

“Sōvēs!” (Fly!) Aemond ordered, and Vhagar rumbled, raising her legs and shaking the sand from her scales. “Sōvēs!”

She obeyed, taking a few giant steps and flapping her great wings, pushing off from the ground and leaving a sandstorm in her wake. Though Aemond told Vhagar to fly, he still had yet to control her as she took to the night sky in a near-vertical position, catching him unaware. The force knocked him from the leather saddle, leaving him dangling in the air with just the reigns for purchase. Aemond screamed with fear, feeling as if his stomach lurched out of his body as he struggled against the whipping wind to regain control. 

She tested him as he grabbed the pommel, sat upright, and pulled the ropes to balance her. He felt like he was on a bucking horse, loosening, tightening, twisting, and turning to the left and right to steer her safely. Vhagar ignored Aemond’s movements and continued to fly like he wasn’t there, diving into the dunes of Driftmark before he reared her upwards, dragging her claws across the sand. He squealed in terror, blocking the debris that scratched his face as she soared over the sea.

Aemond knew he needed to prove himself to her, to show the war-hardened dragon that he deserved to ride her. Her chirps and groans from the day earlier called to him like nothing before, singing to the Prince in her dragon song of forlornness and isolation. Perhaps that was why he felt compelled to claim her. They both shared that feeling of loneliness deep within their souls, that same oddness in their families. The dragoness was too large to be held within any structure, leaving her in forced solitude, her only companions being her rider. Aemond was the only one, despite his Valyrian features, not to have a dragon. 

That would no longer be his story.

Aemond fortified his mind and will, putting his soul into his movements as he lifted Vhagar higher in the sky. He could feel the blood of Old Valyria coursing through his veins as the mighty dragon obeyed, leveling out her vast wings and soaring over Spicetown and back to Driftmark. He screamed with fear and joy as she flew with him in the skies, a bright smile he was sure you could see in Lannisport. 

Aemond had proven himself. He had shown himself and all who doubted and bullied him for not having a dragon that he was capable, that he was worthy. 

Everything was as it should be.

Perhaps you would allow him to kiss you again and spend the night in his embrace. Aemond had no doubt you would be proud of him as he listened to your assurances that he was brave, a dragon knight who you could trust with your secrets and protect you from enemies, and that he deserved your heart. 

Aemond landed Vhagar with a grace he hadn’t possessed before, climbing down the rope ladder on her side with windburnt cheeks. As soon as his feet touched the sand, he ran straight to the underground caverns of High Tide to wake you and explain everything.

“Jace!” 

You faintly heard a voice calling, sounding distant in your dream state. Ignoring it with a groan, you rolled over, trying to return to sleep.

“Jace, wake up! Someone stole Vhagar!”

This woke you from your sleep. You sat up to see Baela and Rhaena hovering over your brother’s bed. 

“We need to stop them!”

Jace and Luke quickly threw the covers off and stuck their feet into their slippers as you observed them curiously. Rubbing the sleep from your face, you yawned, begrudgingly following them. 

“You cannot steal a dragon,” you countered after a long silence in the pale stone halls, your voice laced with sleep. It felt like you had hardly gotten a wink. 

“She is my mother’s dragon! I was supposed to claim her,” Rhaena countered, tears collecting in her dark eyes. 

Yawning again as you followed a few paces behind your siblings and cousins, you rolled your eyes, wanting to bite with the remark, “Why didn’t you?” But you didn’t say it. The reason was apparent why she didn’t, and Rhaena didn’t need any more reason to be distraught.

They led you to the caverns of High Tide, stumbling in your sleepless state. They led to the beaches lit only by dim torchlight, your movements groggy and slightly annoyed. On the other end of the tunnel, Aemond appeared before you with a proud grin and windswept hair. You couldn’t help but mirror his expression, a contagious self-satisfaction that spread to you. 

He needn’t say it aloud. You could tell by how he carried himself, shoulders back, chin high, and a slight lift to his cheeks, that your uncle claimed a dragon—the mightiest one in the world, Vhagar. 

“It’s him!” Rhaena exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Aemond.

It didn’t deter him, countering with his head high, violet eyes flicking from you to your cousin. “It’s me.”

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!” she yelled, hurt as if this reasoning would change Vhagar’s fate. As you moved to Aemond, Jace grabbed your hand, stopping you with an anxious yet demanding look on his face. 

“Your mother is dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now,” your uncle replied, and you felt your brows raise in shock. You knew better than most of the cruelty he could commit, but after spending time with Aemond and seeing the softer, gentler, and kinder side of him, it took you off guard. 

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena argued, charging toward him in a challenge. Your skin began to itch, and your breath quickened. 

The hatred felt at the funeral carried over into your brothers and cousins. Tension in the air crackled like a fire in a hearth, watching the yellow and orange flames slowly dwindle into embers until someone threw tinder to spark it.

“Then you should’ve claimed her! Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride,” Aemond sneered. “It would suit you.”

Your lips parted in empathetic offense as you looked from your uncle to Rhaena, tears of guilt and shame pricking at your eyes. You apologized about the pig, and you thought Aemond forgave you, but it seems he couldn’t let go of the hurt no matter how close you were. The feeling of joy for your uncle’s feat was as brief as your friendship.

With a surge of rage, Rhaena charged forward, attempting to push Aemond, but he swiftly countered, and she fell to the ground. You jumped back in shock as you covered your mouth, Luke standing beside you. Baela screamed, protecting her sister as she punched him across his face and Aemond yelped in pain. Without thinking, you went toward your uncle, fearful for his well-being in your heart, but he swiftly stood before you could reach him, returning the same swing to Baela. You gasped in horror and moved to the side, narrowly missing your cousin’s body from colliding with yours. 

“Come at me again, and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond snarled at the twins, and without warning, Jace ran to him with a shout, shoving your uncle in offended anger and smacking him across the cheek.

You screamed for them to stop as you watched Luke try to join the fray, but you held him back, scared that he would get caught in the crossfire. He was the youngest and the littlest, most likely to get hurt. You needed to protect what family you could. Aemond brought this upon himself with his words of arrogance, but that didn’t stop you from wanting to defend him, too.

The scene before you was violent, a flurry of white, black, and red running atop Aemond as Luke slipped from your grasp, all pummeling, kicking, and screaming at him as you cried for them to stop. He was helpless as he suffered blow after blow, and you felt your heart splinter. This wasn’t a fair fight. Without worrying for yourself, you jumped on top of Jace, pulling him back from your uncle and giving him a chance to defend himself. You felt like a betrayer, turning against your twin to save your uncle. Your brother grunted as you both fell to the ground, his body on top of you as you struggled to keep him from fighting. 

You and your siblings had fought before, but nothing like this. It was so vicious, filled with violence and want for pain, as Jace whipped his head back into yours, causing it to slam against one of the many jagged rocks across the ground, having you see stars. He went back into the brawl with no worry for your safety as you heard the unsheathing of a knife, your eyes blurry as you struggled to see the scene before you. 

“You will die screaming in flames just as your father did!” Aemond yelled, suddenly holding Luke by his neck with a rock in his hand.

“My father is alive!” Luke gasped in protest, flinging his arms and blood running down his face.

You needed to get up to protect Luke from physical harm and the threat of discovering your lineage. You didn’t believe Aemond would kill Luke. He was capable of violence, but he wasn’t a murderer. As you tried to move, your skull felt filled with sand, pulling you back down to the ground as you felt the warm trickle of liquid run down your neck. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your sight and mind. 

Aemond spoke again to Jace, seeming to forget your existence and holding a sense of superiority. “He doesn’t know, does he, Lord Strong?” 

You forgot how cruel Aemond could be. Your stolen moments of reading and kisses in the night had closed your eyes to it.

“Aemond, don’t,” you mumbled, skull pounding as the excruciating sounds of your brothers and uncle’s shouts pierced your ears like needles. 

You blinked your eyes into focus, seeing Jace wildly swinging a knife at Aemond as you managed to kneel. Your brothers didn’t realize how dangerous what they were doing was, that a knife wasn’t something to use against someone who was armed with only a stone in hand. While Aemond was bigger and had more combat experience, a dagger would kill him. Being upset because someone claimed a dragon wasn’t worth murdering over. 

Reaching your arm out with a soft grunt, you grabbed Jace’s ankle as Aemond pushed him over, holding the same rock above his head as he did for Luke. You thought Aemond knew better than this. You gave him the perfect opportunity to run and get help now that Baela and Rhaena huddled into a scared, crying mess, but he was too far gone into his anger to see reason, blinded by it. 

“Aemond! No!” you shouted hoarsely, trying to stand but failing as your head pounded like a drumbeat.

He turned to you then, lowering the rock to his side as he stared at you with the sudden realization of what he had done. Your uncle was filled with a surge of superiority inside him. He couldn’t think straight, and when he happened upon the five of you, people he was always told that he was above, something inside him that lay dormant finally broke free. He knew he was always capable of violence, but felt remorse when he saw your bruised nose, tear-streaked cheeks, and blood dripping down your throat. 

Did he do that to you? 

Suddenly, Aemond was blinded, sand thrown into his eyes as he stumbled back and heard the yell of Luke, unimaginable pain soon following. You watched in horror as your brother savagely sliced into your uncle’s left eye, blood pouring and splattering across the ground. 

Aemond couldn’t remember if you were amid his attackers. He surveyed the bruised and battered bodies before him and realized what he had done as his stomach fell to his feet.

He hurt people, just like Aegon. You would never entrust your secrets to him. His hands committed violence, but his heart desired to tell a different story—one of a strong and noble prince who went through many trials and tribulations to prove himself worthy of the princess's heart.

All you could hear were screams. Screams from you, screams from Aemond as you crawled towards him, sobbing. 

“Aemond!” you cried as he doubled over, falling into your body as he screeched in pain. 

“It hurts!” he wailed into your chest, his free hand clawing into your back. “It hurts! Help me!” 

You trembled, arms struggling to keep yourself upright against his weight as the flurry of guards rumbled inside your skull like thunder. Unable to make out their words as they moved, it seemed like you were watching the world from outside your body, from the lenses of another, as Ser Harrold pried Aemond from your embrace.

It hurt. Everything hurt—your heart, stomach, muscles, and head. You weren’t sure who led you, Baela, Rhaena, Luke, and Jace to the Hall of the Nine as a flurry of people gathered, pushing and shoving as you clutched your skull. The room was so bright, so loud, as you heard your uncle’s screams. You felt sturdy arms grab you by your shoulders, roughly moving you as if you were nothing more than a doll, as it felt like your eyes were about to burst. Steel blue fabric blocked your eyes as you saw the hazy image of a seahorse stitched into the fabric.

“Father?” You reached out, small digits feeling along the fine silk until the texture of scruff scratched at your skin. Blinking, you saw the aged face of your grandfather, Lord Corlys, as he gathered you and your brothers behind him. 

Where was he, and where was your mother? 

You felt sick as people scattered around you like seagulls when they discovered a bloated whale carcass, all trying to see the injured Prince, who cried until the Maester poured Milk of the Poppy down his throat. It felt like when you accidentally drank the water from Blackwater Bay, like a cold, nauseous sensation that sent beads of sweat rolling down your spine. 

“I don’t feel good,” you whispered to Jace as you leaned into his side, clutching your head and gut. He paid you no mind, peering behind your grandfather to see your other one appear, bearing total weight upon his dragon-head cane. 

“How could you let such a thing happen?” Viserys questioned Ser Harrold, examining Aemond as you heard the sickening squelch of flesh and rattle of metal tools. “I will have answers!”

Despite it undoubtedly being a harrowing sight, you wanted to be by your uncle, to hold his hand through it, to feel his pain with him, but you couldn’t. You needed to be with your brothers. What they saw and experienced would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Luke had taken Aemond’s eye. 

“The princess and princes were supposed to be abed, my king,” the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard explained, shame woven in his words. 

Viserys wouldn’t allow his knights to show such carelessness, surveying each of them with critical eyes. “Who had the watch?”

“The young prince was attacked by his cousins, your grace,” Ser Cristion nonchalantly replied. His words angered you for reasons unknown, and you felt a lump rise in your throat. 

Viserys turned to the room, looking between the two Kingsguards on opposite sides of the family as he hobbled on his cane. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” he boomed in a way you hadn’t seen before. You were afraid he would direct his anger at you, Jace, and Luke, wrapping your arms around them like you were in any state to protect your brothers. 

“I’m very sorry, your grace,” Ser Westerling said, head hung low in unimaginable disgrace. You felt bad for him. There was no way he could have stopped this. He was doing his duty and serving his King. It was Ser Criston who should be blamed.

“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes before, your grace-”

“That is no answer!” your grandfather yelled at Ser Criston, causing a clap of pain to thunder inside your skull. 

You wanted to go to bed, sleep for eternity, and be awake to everything as it was yesterday. Your brothers and cousins unbloodied and Aemond dragonless and with an eye. 

“Where’s mother?” you noiselessly questioned Jace, leaning into his ear and almost losing your footing. You needed to stay strong for them. 

“It will heal, will it not? Maester?” Queen Alicent asked, velveteen voice quivering with pain for her poor son. Maester Kelvyn finished stitching Aemond’s skin, throwing the needle and thread into a bowl with your uncle’s fleshy, viscous eye. 

“The flesh will heal. The eye is lost, your grace,” his nasal voice replied matter-of-factly.

You were going to be ill. 

Quickly, you ran through the multitude of people, pushing past Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, who tried to stop you before you vomited all the contents of your stomach onto a person’s unsuspecting shoes. The crowd gasped in revolt, those not close to you jumping back and clutching their chests in shock. You found yourself before the fireplace, basking in its comforting warmth as you leaned onto the hearth and looked at the unlucky soul you retched on. 

Perhaps the Gods had a twisted sense of justice as you saw the disgusted face of Aegon before you. You didn’t hide your amused smirk.

“Tend to the Princess!” the King shouted to the Maester, seeming to forget about his injured son and throwing his cane in your direction. 

A flurry of green came before pale gray, tenderly cradling your visage in her palms as if you were her child, inspecting it. You grabbed the Queen’s wrists and attempted to push her away as if her touch burned, but she resisted, struggling against your childish strength until she grabbed your shoulders. Her touch reminded you of Aegon as you burst into tears, muscles going limp and at Queen Alicent’s mercy. She turned your head in her grasp, examining you with the utmost care that made another wave of nausea through you. 

The crowd observed in anxious silence as Aemond turned to watch his mother treat you with the affection he wished to receive. Familiar hatred bloomed inside his heart, swallowing his dry mouth as he thought resentfully. He would still have his eye if he hadn’t been so concerned with you. 

“I want my mother.” you whimpered, lips quivering in fear as the Queen lovingly wiped the blood from your neck. 

The Queen released you from her grip as if you had struck her, chest heaving and wide brown eyes watering as she turned to her eldest son. Your mother was here; you didn’t realize it.

“Where were you?” she interrogated Aegon, smacking him upside down before he could answer. 

“Ow! What was that for?” he questioned, incredulously rubbing at the afflicted area grimly. You held no sympathy for him as you hugged your sides. 

“That was nothing compared to the abuse your siblings suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” she whispered heatedly so only he could hear, shaking his gangly body in rage. You looked at the Queen with confusion, thinking she had gone mad with grief when she said “siblings.”

As the grand Hall doors creaked open, a shaft of golden light spilled into the room, casting long shadows on the marble floor. With an air of elegance, your mother swept into the room, her silk gown trailing behind her. Following closely was Uncle Daemon, his formidable presence filling the space. Amidst the whispers and murmurs, your name and that of your brothers floated through the air, drawing your attention. Without a second thought, you moved toward her, the sensation of fingertips brushing your bicep as if a ghostly hand had tried to hold you back, sending shivers down your spine.

“Show me, show me!” your mother ordered you and Luke, softly running her digits across your body as you sobbed with relief. “Who did this?”

“They attacked me!” Aemond yelled before you could get a word out, leaning from behind his chair. 

You saw his wound on full display. An ugly crisscrossed row of stitches lined up his eye socket and onto his forehead, the flesh puckered and pink as it fought the infection. Your mother moved your face before you could stare any longer as a chorus of accusations from your brothers and cousins sang. You couldn’t get the image of his gash out of your head. 

“He was going to kill Jace! I didn’t do anything!” Luke loudly shouted as you scrunched your eyes with a painful wince.

“Enough!” you heard your grandfather yell, and you looked at him with helpless, watery eyes, but no one listened. 

“It should be my son telling the tale!” the Queen protested, fist pounding against her chest with conviction over the voices.

You continued to look at your grandfather in anguish, the King of The Seven Kingdoms, whom everyone ignored except you. “Silence!” he yelled, voice rattling inside his hollow chest as flem flew from his decaying mouth. 

The Hall went silent, quieter than the Stranger himself, as everyone looked at one another, stunned at the turn of events. People came here to mourn the loss of a daughter, an aunt, a niece, a wife, and a sister. Viserys looked at you and then at his son, his ivory staff sounding with every movement as you swallowed, the taste of bile strong. 

“He called us bastards.” you silently whispered to your mother, wiping the tears and snot from your face.

“Aemond, I will have the truth of what happened.” The King approached your uncle as he slumped into the armchair, stepping swiftly and with a newfound curiosity. “Now.”

“What else is there to hear?” Alicent questioned, clutching at her neck as tears threatened to spill. “Your son has been maimed, and her son is responsible.”

“Twas a regrettable accident,” your mother countered, moving her body to shadow the three of you from the onlookers.

“Accident?” the Queen repeated, astonished. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush! He meant to kill my son!” 

You realized the truth didn’t matter now. All that did was what people perceived it to be. 

“Twas my children who were attacked and forced to defend themselves!” your mother argued as she placed a comforting hand onto Luke’s shoulders. “Vile insults were levied against them!” 

Your grandfather turned from his son to the four of you as you inhaled a shuddering breath. “What insults?” he questioned, a dangerous lilt to his tone that you had never heard before as the Hall went silent. It raised the hairs on your arms. 

“The legitimacy of my children’s birth was put loudly to question,” your mother replied, her chin high yet holding a nervous waver to her voice. 

As she turned towards you, your mother’s eyes conveyed a silent but insistent demand to verbalize what you previously whispered. She wished everyone to hear these words from you—the compassionate and considerate eldest daughter known as The Gods’ Light among the common folk. With tears streaming down your cheeks and your chest heaving with emotion, you gazed at Aemond with a sense of guilt. You knew the words you were about to utter would carry an extraordinary weight. Both sides sought someone to bear responsibility for the turmoil, but you recognized the unspoken truth. 

At that moment, honesty seemed inconsequential. Aemond had suffered the loss of his eye due to Luke’s actions, and you keenly felt your failure to shield your brothers from harm. You would never fault at your duty again. 

“He called us bastards,” you confessed, lacking the anger and conviction of your siblings as you sniffled, refusing to look at Aemond. 

You watched as the Queen’s auburn tresses bounced with the slight affirming nod of her head, a look of disbelief and recognition crossing her face. At that moment, it became clear that she had informed Aemond about the deception, hardening your heart with betrayal. You had believed that she was different and loved you like family, and it stung to realize that she didn’t hesitate to spread lies that would hurt you.

“My children are to inherit the Iron Throne, your grace. This is the highest of treasons,” your mother reasoned, stepping forward to her slouched father as you attempted to reach for her hand to keep you hidden. “Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such awful slanders.”

As you gazed at your mother, her expression eerily mirroring that of Alicent’s, your lips began to quiver with unease. Was your mother implying that he should be subjected to torture? It seemed unfathomable. She couldn’t possibly be serious.

“Over an insult?” the Queen asked, shaking her head in disbelief. You knew she was trying to protect herself as you glared at the woman you once thought held the moon. “My son has lost an eye!”

“Tell me, boy. Where did you hear such lies?” the King seethed, face a hairsbreadth from Aemond as you whimpered.

“The insult was training yard bluster,” Alicent swiftly reasoned, eyes flicking desperately from her son to her husband. “The lot of boys. ‘Twas nothing-”

“Aemond,” your grandfather interrupted, ignoring his wife’s explanation. “I asked you a question.” 

Your uncle sat in solemn silence, his lone violet eye unwaveringly fixed on the ground while his father awaited his reply. Before he could utter a word, the Queen unexpectedly interjected. 

“Where is Ser Laenor, the children’s father? Perhaps he would have something to say on the matter,” she jeered.

Your grandfather turned, sparse brows scrunching together as he turned to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. “Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?”

“I do not know, your grace. I… could not find sleep and decided to take a walk,” your mother answered for them, smooth palms wiping across her crimson skirt.

The Queen let out a derisive laugh, her disbelief evident as she shook her head at her old friend. It was impossible to ignore the precise timing of Daemon’s arrival into the Hall of the Nine, trailing just moments behind Rhaenyra with her tousled strands of golden hair. Alicent bore the knowledge of her friend’s calculated machinations, even as Rhaenyra’s children stealthily slipped out of their beds to perpetrate the heinous act of maiming her son. She couldn’t dismiss the nagging suspicion that Ser Laenor was likely engaged in equally treacherous activities.

“Entertaining his young squires, I presume,” Queen Alicent sneered like before, making you feel the same deep-seated ire. 

As no one dared to voice their opposition to her words, a glint of silver caught your eye from the corner, revealing Ser Criston Cole’s silent laughter. Like Ser Harwin, you felt the urge to wipe that smug grin off his tanned face, even though you knew it was impossible.

“Aemond, look at me. Your King demands an answer,” your grandfather began, staggering before your uncle. “Who spoke the lies to you?”

Everything went silent; the roaring of the fire and the crashing of the waves in the darkness were all that could be heard in the Hall. You understood that whoever Aemond implicated might not live til the next morn. You felt your throat grow tight and struggled to breathe, clutching at your throat as you swallowed the acrid taste in your mouth. Queen Alicent told him as you recalled the time in Helaena’s room. It confused you at first why she would spread such gossip as she seemed to hold a tenderness for you. Claiming your brothers were bastards went without saying you were, but you realized that whatever contempt she had within her heart weighed far more significant than any affection for you. 

Some of you wished to shout that it was her, but you realized that was something Alicent would do without a second thought if the roles were reversed, and you did not want to be like her. She was wicked and cruel, just like her eldest.

“It was Aegon. He told Aemond to call us that,” you answered as every pair of eyes flocked to you. You didn’t like how close your grandfather was to him, afraid that he might strike him for the consequences of his mother. You felt your heart lurch into your throat as you gained the courage to speak the words aloud of all the bad things he did to you. “And he… he”

Before you could finish, your mother tucked you into her waist, kneeling and pushing your face into her shoulder. You tried to pull away from her when his hand rested on your head, the welt sensitive to touch. 

“Don’t,” she whispered into your hair, disguising it as a kiss. They deserved to know. Everyone needed to know what awful Aegon did to you. You wanted to move against her, but your mind was foggy and muscles weak.

“Me?” Aegon exclaimed with shock, wide amethyst orbs looking at you with a broken expression. 

“And you, boy,” your grandfather crept towards him, the rhythmic tapping of his cane piercing your skull like an ice pick. “Where did you hear such calumnies?” Your uncle refused to answer him as his gaze bore holes into your being. There was no remorse in your heart for him. “Aegon, tell me the truth of it!” Viserys shouted, causing you to flinch and cover your ears. 

“We know, father,” Aegon replied fearlessly, refusing to remove his stare from your quivering form. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Feeling the stares from the guests, you admired your uncle for not implicating his mother like a coward, removing your body from your mother, wiping the snot from your lip. Let them look, you thought, inhaling a deep breath as you felt your mother bring you closer. They would stare at you for the rest of your days. It was best if you grew accustomed to it now.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” the King declared, banging his walking stick off the pale stone floor. “All of you! We are family! Now, make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it.” 

You grimaced at his words, and though you loved your grandfather, having been his favorite granddaughter, you disagreed with him. You refused to apologize for your family trying to defend themselves, and the Queen couldn’t help but agree more. 

“That is insufficient,” Alicent said, gesturing to her son. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, my King. Goodwill cannot make him whole.” 

Aemond’s fingers dug into the wooden framing of the armchair, and your chin quivered at the thought of what he might be feeling. 

“I know, Alicent,” Viserys sighed, “but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it’s been taken,” she sobbed, clutching at her chest, flicking her hair back in a manner that reminded you of Aegon. “There is a debt to be paid. I shall have the hand of her eldest to one of my sons. To mend the rift and unite the House of the Dragon once more.”

“Alicent,” your grandfather breathed in a warning, yet still turned to his daughter, having a hint of hope in his violet eyes.

You looked at your mother, shock overcoming any sadness you felt as she shoved you behind her skirts like a hen would do to her chick, too stunned to speak. “I refuse.” 

The Queen shook her head, a sneer curling her plump lips and wet cheeks. Rhaenyra was a selfish, wicked woman with no inclination of decency. Why couldn’t she see this would be solved if she returned Alicent’s rightful daughter to her? The Queen steeled herself to the belief that she would have to fight for her right to have you. She knew deep in her bones that you would one day be by her side.

“Then I shall have one of her sons’ eyes in return. The Princess is innocent,” the Queen declared with a desperate wave of tears. 

Aemond looked to his mother, face impassive, and senses dulled from Milk of the Poppy. He didn’t recall telling her about what you did for him, though it was very little. It felt like he was becoming a second thought to his mother, who seemed only to be scheming on how to insert his niece into their lives. Aemond realized then that he would always be second in his mother’s heart to you, and he felt hollow at the thought, the love that once filled it for his niece ceasing to exist.

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment,” your grandfather warned Queen Alicent. She said nothing as her chest heaved, brown orbs flicking between her husband and old friend.

Believing the matter finished, the King backed away, but Alicent wouldn’t allow this to be the end. She looked to her sworn protector, an apathetic expression on her visage. 

“If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.” Ser Criston looked to the Queen with a startled expression as Luke cried for your mother. “He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son.”

“You will do no such thing,” your mother steadfastly declared, ensuring the three of you were behind her.

“Stay your hand,” the King commanded as the Queen shook with rage, desperately looking between her husband and sworn protector. She reminded you of a deer cornered in a vast forest, listening to the distant howls of wolves closing in for the hunt.

“No, you are sworn to me!” she yelled, finger pointing to her chest indignantly. All waited for the knight to respond, the Lord Commander slowly bringing his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Protect your brother,” your mother whispered, never straying her eyes from the Queen. Without further instruction, you stood before Luke, gradually backing him away from the group of people unnoticed. You understood Alicent would not hurt you, as did your mother. 

“As your protector, my Queen,” Ser Criston replied with a wary head tilt.

“Alicent, this matter is finished. Do you understand?” your grandfather declared, seething, his face centimeters away from his wife before he addressed the room. “And let it be known that if anyone’s tongue dares to question, the birth of Rhaenyra’s children should have it removed.” 

Breathing a sigh of relief, you let go of Luke, coming to take your place beside your mother as she thanked the King. The unsheathing of a blade cut through the room as the form of Queen Alicent charged toward your family, startling you, the King’s ancestral dagger in her grasp. Luke screamed as she reached the four of you, but your mother stepped in her path before Alicent could enact her rage. 

Suddenly, a person shoved into you, disregarding your existence as you found yourself on the floor. You noticed how the stone seemed to ebb and wave like the flow of the tide. Lord Corlys appeared beside you, lifting you into his arms, securely bound around your torso as he took you into the circle of your cousins and brothers, your mother struggling against the Queen. 

“You’ve gone too far!” your mother admonished the Queen as tears burned her eyes. She pushed against Alicent, and she jerked against her, trying to get to your brother.

“I?” Queen Alicent exclaimed, voice thick with anguish as you attempted to push out of your grandfather’s arms, kicking your legs into his side. “What have I done, but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, and the law while you flout to do as you please?”

“Alicent, let her go!”

The Queen still poised the dagger to strike, its new path being that of the heir to the Iron Throne as your mother looked helplessly to the onlookers. No one made to separate the two as they all stared in shock, the fire illuminating their faces like wraiths of death. Landing a hard smack to Lord Corlys’s neck, he dropped you as you shoved through the onlookers toward your mother. She put her life for yours and your brothers, but who would put hers before theirs? 

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? My happiness and dreams? It’s templed under your pretty foot again!” the Queen sobbed, her form trembling with hurt and rage, everything that she bottled inside her for years. 

“Release the blade, Alicent,” Lord Otto commanded, a man you hadn’t met until this morn, but she paid him no mind, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she pushed against her old friend. 

“Wasn’t taking her, my only light, enough for you? And now you take my son’s eye, and to that, you feel entitled,” she confessed, tears making the Queen’s mouth thick with wetness as you shouldered your way to the inner circle of people. 

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness,” your mother interrogated, a bitter grimace on her sharp lips. “But now they see you as you are.”

Alicent stared at your mother with an enraged offense that wrinkled her brows as she felt fire surge through her, and with a loud cry, she unthinkingly swung your family’s ancestral dagger. You screamed, running to your mother as you pulled her back, seeing a gash on her inner arm that gushed with blood. 

“Mama,” you wept, tenderly holding her limb as if it would break. 

Dropping the dagger, Alicent took an instinctual step toward you, a blanched, horror-stricken expression across her round face. She longed to go to you, to dry your tears and stroke your head against her bosom like your true mother would, but she could not. The terror and fear in your wide brown eyes that resembled her own sliced through her chest and laid her heart and soul bare as she felt a small hand slide into hers. The Queen hoped to see you standing beside her and thought herself mad before she securely took her son’s fist.

Much like you, Aemond knew his parent needed him. “Do not mourn me, mother. ‘Twas a fair exchange,” he expressed with a maturity beyond his years. He turned to you, a violet gaze once filled with joy now devoid, hollow, and one less eye. “I may have lost an eye but gained a dragon.”

You wished Aemond hadn’t claimed one this way and felt a hiccup wrack your lungs as you cried into your mother, Jace, and Luke coming beside you. You sadly realized this was the end of the fleeting companionship you cultivated with your uncle. All the stolen moments of reading, ideas, philosophies, and aspirations you shared under the cover of privacy were nothing more than air the moment he ran across the dunes. You would have still cared for him without a dragon, as before, but his pride wouldn’t allow it, and now he stared at you with an eye that you knew far too well. 

Aemond hated you. He loathed you and your brothers with a fire that would never cease. This was your fault. He lost an eye because of you—because he cared about his bastard niece and had the foolish dream of becoming the man you loved. You did not deserve it. You were nothing more than a common girl born from sin, undeserving of your station. He would despise you for the rest of his days no matter how his heart screamed to have you by his side when darkness fell and all that was left was the ghost of your touch. 

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Happiness never lasts in ASOIAF. I'm going to miss writing for baby Aemond and reader. They were so cute! From now on it's going to be messed up young adults with severe mommy uses and mental illness. I'm not going to say who has which XD. Thank y'all so much for reading and I hope to see y'all in the next chapter!

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