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kckt88 · 23 days

Text

Fracture.

Summary:

After taking Harrenhal, Aemond is haunted by his past sins.

Warning(s): Angst, Swearing, Drama, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Smut, Oral Sex, (F Recieving), Loss of Virginity, P in V, Visions, Torment, Despair, Aemond POV, BAMF Alys Rivers, Ending Open to Interpretation/Ambiguous.

AEMOND x O.C

Word Count: 9870

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole

Prince Aemond Targaryen lay in a dilapidated bed within the blackened ruins of Harrenhal, the once-mighty castle now a testament to fire and war.

The room around him was in disrepair, with crumbling stone walls, broken windows that allowed the cold, damp air to seep in, and a ceiling that leaked, letting the rain pour in rhythmically.

Aemond's one good eye stared up at the ceiling, his mind replaying the events that recently transpired.

He and his men, including Ser Criston Cole, had ridden into Harrenhal with expectations of battle, ready to face his uncle Daemon.

But the castle had been deserted, save for a few trembling inhabitants too frightened to flee.

Initially, they had celebrated their bloodless victory, mocking Daemon as a coward who had fled before the might of the Greens.

But the victory was hollow.

News had soon arrived that King's Landing had fallen to the Blacks, and Rhaenyra now sat on the Iron Throne, his mother and sweet sister taken as hostages.

Daemon, far from being a coward, had outmanoeuvred him, drawing Aemond to Harrenhal while the real prize slipped away.

The realization had been a bitter one, and now Aemond lay in the ruins of a castle that was as broken as his plans.

The rain poured harder, as if the gods themselves were mocking him. Every drop that struck the stone was a reminder of his failure, of how his uncle had outsmarted him.

Anger seethed within him, a fire that threatened to consume him from the inside. He was trapped in Harrenhal, far from King's Landing, with little choice but to regroup and try to salvage what remained of the Greens' cause.

Aemond clenched his fists, the anger fuelling his resolve. He would not be beaten, not by Daemon, not by anyone.

As the rain continued to pour, Aemond began to form new plans, his mind racing with possibilities.

But for now, all he could do was listen to the rain and wait.

Aemond tossed and turned in the tattered bed, sleep evading him as his mind churned with anger and frustration.

The rain outside had grown heavier, its pounding relentless against the ruined walls of Harrenhal.

Suddenly, in the midst of his restlessness, Aemond noticed a shadow pass by the closed door of his chamber.

Who could be prowling the halls of Harrenhal at this hour? He rose from the bed and reached for his sword, unsheathing it silently.

Moving with the stealth of a hunter, he approached the door and slowly pushed it open, peering into the dimly lit corridor.

The hallway was empty, but he could hear the faint sound of footsteps echoing through the stone passages.

Determined to uncover the source, Aemond stepped out, following the elusive sound. The rain hammered against the castle even harder now.

The flickering torches cast long, wavering shadows as he crept forward, every muscle coiled and ready to strike.

He turned a corner and saw a shadowy figure slip into a room at the end of the hall. With a narrowed eye, Aemond quickened his pace, his grip on the sword tightening.

He reached the door, hesitating only for a moment before pushing it open and stepping inside.

The room was small and dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of herbs and something faintly metallic.

Before him stood a woman, the very one he had spared when he first took Harrenhal. She moved calmly, busying herself with adding ingredients into a bowl as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

"It's a touch late to be stalking about a strange castle putting its people to the sword," she said, not even looking up from her work.

Aemond’s sword flashed as he pointed it at her, his voice cold and sharp. "You—"

She turned to face him, a faint smile playing on her lips. "I'm Alys."

Aemond's eye narrowed as he assessed her. "Strong?" he demanded.

"No. Rivers," she replied evenly.

His sneer was immediate. "A bastard."

Alys only smiled wider, her gaze steady and unperturbed. "Once you get to know me, you'll find that I'm not so bad."

Aemond scoffed at her audacity. "What are you, a maester?"

She smiled again, a sly, knowing expression. "In a manner of speaking. I took on the duties after the last one fled."

Aemond circled the room slowly, his sword still held at the ready. "Why?"

Alys shrugged lightly, still focused on her task. "He just never settled in."

Aemond watched her intently, the tension in the room thickening as the rain drummed louder against the stone.

He was caught off guard by her calm demeanour, her unflinching presence in the face of his hostility.

There was something about her that unsettled him, though he couldn’t place what it was.

"How are you settling in, my Prince?" Alys asked suddenly, her voice smooth and knowing. "I've come to know the face of tortured rest well enough. Sleep can be thin in this place." She began mixing the ingredients in the bowl, the sound of the pestle grinding against the mortar echoing in the small room.

Aemond bristled at her observation. "What would you know of my sleep?"

Without missing a beat, Alys took a lumpy red substance and tossed it into the bowl. "Harrenhal has been cursed since its first stone was laid," she said, her voice taking on a slightly ominous tone.

She licked the red substance from her fingers, her eyes never leaving Aemond's. "Black Harren felled a grove of weirwood trees that grew on these lands, with heart trees imbued with the spirits of those who lived long before he came. It’s said their whispers can still be heard sometimes."

Aemond scoffed, his scepticism clear. "Ridiculous."

Alys only smiled, her expression inscrutable as she continued her work, the eerie atmosphere in the room growing thicker with every passing moment.

Alys looked up from her work, her gaze steady as she spoke. "The very bed you sleep in was made from such a heart tree; you know. Its whispers are likely what keep you from finding rest."

Aemond frowned, his eye narrowing. "You are a very strange kind of woman."

Alys giggled softly, a sound that echoed eerily in the small room. "I’m no woman at all, my Prince. I’m a barn owl cursed to live in human form."

Aemond curled his lips in disdain at her strange words, turning to leave the room.

But before he could step out, Alys’s voice cut through the air, stopping him in his tracks.

"Your hands will never be clean of the blood you’ve spilled, all for the sake of a debt that you once claimed was worth the eye you lost when you gained your dragon."

Aemond froze, his heart skipping a beat. "What did you say?"

Alys turned her eyes on him, her expression grave. "It was not your niece’s debt to pay, yet you claimed it so and took her maidenhead. Your thirst for vengeance then claimed its next victim in the skies above Storm's End—a nephew's life taken in rage. And that, in turn, led to the loss of your other nephew, a son for a son. And then there was your brother, burned and maimed for life by your command."

Aemond's face twisted in anger, his voice low and dangerous. "Do not try me with your insolence, witch."

Alys didn’t flinch, continuing as if she hadn’t heard his threat. "You don’t realize what you’ve lost. Things could have been so different."

He scoffed, turning his back on her, but her next words hit their mark.

"Even now, you think of her—of what might have been had you not been so cruel."

Aemond paused, his breath catching in his throat. The truth of her words unsettled him, stirring memories he had tried to bury.

He turned to see Alys pouring the contents of the bowl into a cup, the mixture dark and steaming. She held it out to him, her expression calm and knowing.

"Here, drink this," she said softly. "You’ll need your sleep if you are to right the wrongs you have committed."

Aemond hesitated, his pride warring with the growing sense of unease she had planted in his heart.

But something in her gaze—something ancient and wise—compelled him to reach out and take the cup. He brought it to his lips and drank deeply, the liquid bitter on his tongue.

Aemond found himself adrift in a dreamlike state, his surroundings shifting and warping until he was no longer in the ruins of Harrenhal but back within the familiar walls of the Red Keep.

He was disoriented, as if he were both present and not, a ghost in his own memories. The hallways of the castle were dimly lit by flickering torches, and the echoes of distant footsteps reverberated through the stone corridors.

As he walked, his body moved with a purpose that was not entirely his own, as if some unseen force was guiding him.

He knew where he was going, even before the door appeared before him, the door to the chambers Lucella had been given during her stay at the Red Keep.

After the fight at the dinner, he had followed her that night, unable to banish her image from his thoughts.

She had been so beautiful, so enchanting, and yet he had convinced himself that she was nothing more than an opportunity—a chance to exact a twisted form of vengeance for what her bastard brother had done to him.

As he approached the door, he felt the weight of his own guilt and desire pressing down on him, but he had pushed those feelings aside at the time, replacing them with cold calculation.

The door creaked open as he stepped inside, and there she was, just as he remembered.

Lucella stood by the window, her back to him. She had turned when she heard him enter, her eyes wide with surprise and something else—hope, perhaps? He had seen it then, but he had refused to acknowledge it.

In this strange, almost out-of-body experience, Aemond watched himself move toward her, watched the way his younger self’s eyes had lingered on her, drinking in every detail.

She was so vulnerable, so trusting, and he had taken advantage of that.

"You shouldn’t be here, Uncle" she had whispered, her voice trembling.

He had ignored her words, stepping closer until he was right in front of her.

His hand had reached out, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear, and he had marvelled at how soft it was, how perfect she was.

Even when he was a child, he had always thought she was beautiful.

But he had steeled himself, reminding himself of why he was there.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, the kiss searing and insistent.

Lucella pulled away, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and desire. But the intensity of his kiss, had been too much to resist.

With a soft moan, she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him back passionately.

Aemond’s hands slid down her back, pulling her closer, his kisses growing more fervent.

His hands roaming over Lucella’s back as he slowly backed them towards the bed.

Their lips never parting; each kiss more heated than the last. Lucella breath hitched as she felt his long fingers deftly begin to untie the laces of her dress.

As the laces came undone, Aemond's hands brushed against her bare skin. Lucella shivered at his touch, her heart racing with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

Aemond smiled, a rare, genuine smile that softened his usual intensity.

His hands moved with purpose, sliding the dress from her shoulders and down her body, exposing her skin to the cool air.

Lucella’s hands found their way to Aemond’s own clothing, eager to remove the barriers between them.

Once she had removed the out layers of his clothing, her fingers explored the hard planes of his chest and abdomen.

Aemond groaned softly at her touch, his lips trailing down her neck as he laid her back against the soft sheets.

Aemond positioned himself above her, his expression a mixture of desire and determination.

Lucella’s breath caught in her throat as she gently cupped his face with her hands. Her fingers brushed against the rough texture of his scar.

Slowly, she slipped off his eyepatch, revealing the sapphire he had placed where his eye once was.

With tenderness, Lucella leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his scarred cheek.

She felt Aemond’s sharp intake of breath, a moment of pure vulnerability passing between them.

Her fingers moved to the tie that bound his long, silver hair. With a gentle tug, she undid it, and his hair cascaded down, framing his chiselled face.

“So beautiful,” whispered Lucella, her voice filled with affection.

Aemond’s gaze softened, the fierce intensity giving way to something more tender, more real.

“My sweetest-” whispered Aemond as he pulled away and descended down her body, kissing and nipping at her skin as he went.

A strange feeling of familiarity lingered within his mind. Almost like they'd done this dance a thousand times before.

“W-What are you doing?” asked Lucella shyly.

“I want to kiss you-here” replied Aemond as he pressed forward and ran his tongue over her warm wet folds.

She bit the back of her hand to keep herself from screaming as Aemond began using his long fingers to slowly tease her entrance.

“None of that. I want to hear how good I make you feel” growled Aemond as he began moving his tongue against her, in rhythm with his fingers.

“A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” moaned Lucella, as she writhed against the sheets.

“That’s it-such a good girl for me” growled Aemond.

“OH-” whimpered Lucella, as Aemond continued to move his tongue and fingers over her centre.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen. Come for me” whispered Aemond, his tongue moving across her pearl.

Lucella arched her back and let out a scream as her pleasure erupted.

Aemond slowly crawled up her body, placing gentle kisses on her skin as he moved higher and higher.

Lucella blushed furiously when she saw that Aemond’s chin was shining with her slick.

“Calm yourself issa zaldrīzes” muttered Aemond, as he swiped his fingers over his chin and then placed them in his mouth, sucking off her slick. (My dragon).

“W-What are you doing?” asked Lucella as Aemond’s hand slid down her body and began teasing her folds.

“I-I need to prepare you a little more” whispered Aemond.

“P-prepare me?” whispered Lucella.

“You are a maiden-” replied Aemond.

“Aemond” exclaimed Lucella as he slowly slipped a finger inside her, the slick from her first peak easing the way.

Aemond buried his face in Lucella’s neck as he began peppering kisses along her smooth skin as he added another finger, moving them in and out slowly.

“So warm-so wet for me” rasped Aemond, his hot breath tickling her skin.

“I-I think I’m ready” whispered Lucella.

Aemond removed his fingers and then moved between her open legs, supporting his weight on his left arm as he reached down and took his hard cock in his hand and placed the tip of it against her slick entrance.

Lucella shut her eyes tight, taking a deep breath as Aemond sheathed himself within her.

Aemond leaned down and pressed gentle kisses to her cheeks, his tongue catching her fallen tears.

Aemond’s cock twitched and throbbed with need, and he released a shuddered breath while Lucella sighed in relief.

“Are you ok?” asked Aemond.

“I-I think you can move now” whispered Lucella her hands running along the smooth plans of Aemond’s back.

Slowly Aemond withdrew and then moved forward, his cock reaching deep inside her.

“Are you ok?” repeated Aemond as he thrust inside her.

“Y-yes-I think you can move faster”

Aemond rested his head in the crook of her neck as he thrusts faster, his moans muffled against her skin.

“Ooh Aemond-that feels good” whined Lucella.

“Your perfect-” whispered Aemond.

“P-please Aemond. F-faster. H-harder” exclaimed Lucella.

“Lucy-my Lucy” moaned Aemond as he began to pound into her, his hips slapping against hers.

“-I-I f-feel-” whimpered Lucella.

“-Let it happen-my sweetest, peak for me” exclaimed Aemond.

“ OH- ”

“Fuck-that’s it-that’s it” muttered Aemond as he slipped his hand between their bodies and slowly began rubbing her pearl.

“ AEMOND ” screamed Lucella’s her peak exploded, making her entire body shake.

“Fuck-” groaned Aemond as he felt the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“-Aemond” whimpered Lucella.

“Lucy-” moaned Aemond pushed into the hilt for one last time, his cock throbbing as he spilled rope after rope of his seed.

Aemond watched the scene, the bile rising in his throat, he knew what was coming.

He would pull his softened cock from her and redress himself with all the haste he could muster.

The sound of her sweet shaky voice asking him to stay was like a knife to the heart.

He watched himself hesitate, that inner conflict, he remembered it well.

Torn between staying or following through on his plan.

In the end, he chose the latter.

He convinced himself that this was justice, that she was nothing to him.

But the truth had been far more complicated. He had wanted her—truly wanted her. The fire that had burned within him that night was not born of anger or revenge, but of a deep, undeniable desire.

Even as he took her, he knew that she meant more to him than he could admit.

But he had buried those feelings, locking them away beneath layers of pride and pain.

He had told her she meant nothing, that she was just a means to an end, that he had taken her maidens blood in exchange for the eye he lost, but even now, in this strange half-dream, half-memory, he knew he had lied.

Then he had left her there, discarded her with her maidens blood and his seed between her thighs.

Her sobs had haunted him as he walked away, the weight of what he had done pressing down on him like a physical burden.

Aemond watched as his younger self walked out of the room, leaving Lucella behind. He wanted to scream, to reach out and stop himself, to tell her the truth—that she had meant something to him, that she had always meant something.

But he was trapped in this memory, unable to change what had already been done.

The memory began to fade, the walls of the Red Keep dissolving around him as the darkness closed in.

Aemond was left with the echo of his own voice in his mind, the cruel, cold words he had spoken, and the knowledge that he had lost something precious that night—something he could never get back.

Aemond sat at the head of the table, the once-grand hall of Harrenhal a shadow of its former self, much like his own fraying composure.

Ser Criston Cole spoke with authority, laying out plans for their next move. His voice was calm, confident, as he detailed a potential assault on the small town of Drarry.

The town’s levies could bolster their dwindling forces, he reasoned. It was a sound strategy, one that should have commanded Aemond's full attention.

But Aemond wasn’t listening. His mind drifted, the words swirling around him like the incessant rain outside, distant and meaningless.

His attention was instead captured by the young boy serving wine, a boy who shouldn’t—couldn’t—be there. It was Lucerys.

Aemond's heart pounded as he stared, unblinking, at the boy. The youthful, innocent face he had once known approached him, but something was horribly wrong.

Luke’s visage began to warp and twist, the fresh, unmarred skin turning a sickly grey, decaying before Aemond’s eyes. His eyes bulged grotesquely from their sockets; his flesh rotted away to reveal bone.

Deep, jagged gashes crisscrossed his body, and parts of him were simply missing—his left arm gone, his torso a ghastly open wound.

"Wine, Your Grace?" Luke rasped, his voice a nightmarish croak as water and bile spilled from his mouth.

Aemond lurched from his seat. The occupants of the table stared at him, confusion and alarm evident in their expressions.

Ser Criston Cole’s voice cut through the sudden silence, sharp with concern.

"Are you all right, Your Grace?"

Aemond’s breathing was ragged, his eye wild as he pointed toward the abomination before him. "Can’t you see him?"

Criston exchanged worried glances with the other men at the table. "See who?"

Aemond’s words died in his throat as he turned back to where the twisted figure of Luke had stood.

But instead of the grotesque apparition, there was now only an older, grey-haired woman, her movements slow and deliberate as she poured the wine.

Her face was lined with age, her expression calm, as if nothing had happened. The room around Aemond felt suddenly too small, the air thick and suffocating.

His breath hitched as he glanced back at Ser Criston, who was watching him with deepening concern.

"Are you all right, Your Grace?" Criston repeated, his voice softer this time, as though speaking to a man on the edge.

Aemond forced himself to nod, swallowing hard against the bile that rose in his throat. He tried to focus on the words still being spoken around the table, tried to ground himself in the reality of their situation, but his mind was spinning, unable to shake what he had just seen.

He reached for the cup in front of him, his hand trembling slightly as he brought it to his lips. The bitter taste of the wine lingered on his tongue, sharp and acrid, but it did little to steady his nerves.

His thoughts were a tangled web of anger, fear, and something else—something he couldn’t quite name.

Aemond sat slumped in a chair before the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows across the worn stone walls of Harrenhal.

His head hung low, cradled in his hands, the weight of the past days pressing heavily upon him.

He felt disconnected, as though the world around him had become a blur, the edges of reality fraying like the tattered banners that hung in the desolate castle.

With a sigh, he pulled off his eyepatch, exposing the sapphire that gleamed coldly in the firelight. The socket where his eye had once been throbbed with a dull ache.

He took a slow sip of wine, hoping the liquid might numb the gnawing unease that had settled in his chest.

But then, a sound pierced through the haze that enveloped him—a soft, mournful weeping.

The sound was faint, distant, but unmistakable. He set the cup down, the echo of its base clinking against the table, and reached for his sword.

The cold steel felt reassuring in his grip as he rose from the chair, the fire at his back now casting long, dancing shadows along the walls.

He moved through the darkened corridors of Harrenhal, the sound of weeping guiding him like a beacon through the gloom.

The castle was silent save for the rain still pounding against the stones outside, but the weeping cut through it all, a sorrowful melody that pulled him deeper into the bowels of the keep.

Aemond paused in front of a closed door, the source of the weeping just beyond. He hesitated for a moment, his pulse thrumming in his ears, before pushing the door open with a slow creak.

Suddenly, the world around him shifted, the cold, crumbling walls of Harrenhal melting away to be replaced by something entirely different.

He blinked, disoriented, as he found himself standing in a chamber unfamiliar yet unmistakable. The walls were adorned with carved dragons, their serpentine forms etched into the stone, and the distant roars of dragons echoed through the air.

The air here was warm, heavy with the scent of salt and ash. It dawned on him with a start—this was Dragonstone.

The weeping grew louder, more desperate, and Aemond’s breath hitched as he moved further into the room.

On the bed, shrouded in shadow and sorrow, was Lucella. She was huddled against her mother, Rhaenyra, who held her tightly, stroking her hair in a futile attempt to soothe her daughter’s anguish.

Lucella’s sobs were gut-wrenching, her small frame shaking with the force of her grief. Aemond’s breath caught in his throat, a mix of confusion and dread rising within him.

He took a step forward, the sword in his hand now feeling alien, almost wrong, in this place.

His gaze locked onto Lucella, her face buried in Rhaenyra’s shoulder, her tears soaking her gown.

Aemond’s grip tightened on his sword, his knuckles white, but he felt powerless, a mere spectator in this twisted dream. His mouth opened to speak, to say something—anything—but no words came.

He was paralyzed by the weight of his own guilt, the sight of Lucella’s broken form etched into his mind

Aemond stood at the foot of the bed, his presence unnoticed by the two women.

The air was thick with tension, the only sounds in the room the soft crackling of the fire and Lucella’s quiet sobs.

"On the night of the petition for Driftmark-" Lucella whispered, her voice trembling as she confessed the truth that weighed so heavily on her. "Aemond, came to my chambers, and he took my maidenhead-"

Rhaenyra's grip on her daughter tightened, her knuckles white as she struggled to contain the fury simmering just beneath the surface. "Did he force himself on you?"

Lucella shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "No, Mother, he didn’t force me. He whispered sweet words and when he touched me, it was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. He was gentle, he made me feel good" Her voice faltered, a wistful note creeping in as she remembered that night, her words tinged with a sadness that pierced through Aemond like a dagger.

“Lucella-” whispered Rhaenyra softly.

"But when it was over," Lucella continued, her voice breaking, "He discarded me. Like I was nothing. He said that I was a means to an end, that my maidens blood was an exchange for the eye he lost"

Rhaenyra's expression darkened, her eyes burning with cold, calculated fury. "He took advantage of you and he will pay for it," she swore, her voice low and dangerous. "For what he has done to you, for what he did to Lucerys. I swear it. He will pay”

Aemond felt the weight of her words like a noose tightening around his neck. This was his fault—he had done this.

He had shattered Lucella’s trust, her innocence, and now, as he stood there, he was faced with the unbearable consequences of his cruelty. He had thought himself in control, convinced that this was justice, but now, watching the devastation he had wrought, he realized how terribly wrong he had been.

But then, Lucella spoke again, her voice trembling with something deeper, something that sent a cold chill down Aemond’s spine.

“Mother-forgive me” she began, her breath hitching, “His seed, it took root. I carry his child inside me.”

The room fell deathly silent, the air thick with the weight of her words. Aemond’s heart stopped, his mind reeling as he stared at Lucella, unable to process what she had just said.

A child. His child.

Rhaenyra’s reaction was immediate. Horror and disbelief flashed across her face as she pulled Lucella even closer, as if trying to shield her from the harsh reality of the situation.

"No-" she whispered, her voice breaking.

Lucella nodded, her tears flowing freely. “It’s true, Mother. I carry his child.”

Aemond’s knees felt weak, his body trembling as the full weight of his actions crashed down upon him.

He had not only destroyed Lucella’s innocence but had also left her with a child—a child that would bear the burden of his sins.

"Do you wish to keep the child?" Rhaenyra's voice was soft, but there was an undercurrent of urgency, of desperate concern.

Lucella hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "The child is innocent of their father's sins," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I cannot condemn them for what he has done. This is my child, Mother”

Rhaenyra’s heart ached with a mixture of pride and sorrow. She held Lucella close, pressing a kiss to her forehead, her mind already racing to find a way to protect her daughter and the innocent life she now carried.

"You are strong, my sweet girl," she murmured. "But for your safety, and that of the child, we must keep the identity of the father a secret—at least for now. No one can know that the child belongs to Aemond”

Lucella nodded again, understanding the gravity of her mother's words.

The war had already torn their family apart, and the truth of her child's lineage could ignite a blaze that would consume them all.

"You will go to the Vale along with Aegon and Viserys, to stay with Lady Jeyne Arryn” said Rhaenyra, her voice firm with determination

Lucella's eyes widened slightly at the mention of her younger brothers. "Aegon and Viserys?"

Rhaenyra nodded. "Yes, they will go with you as will your dragon Silverwing. You will be well cared for in the Vale, but you must remain far from this war. Jacaerys has informed me that Lord Cregan Stark has agreed to take your hand in marriage, of course you being with child does complicate things, and I understand if you do not wish to follow through with the marriage-”

“What man would take a woman as his wife whilst she carries another man’s child” asked Lucella quietly.

“An honourable one-but it’s your choice my sweet girl, I will not force you” said Rhaenyra.

“I support my Queen, and I will consider the marriage”

Rhaenyra hugged her daughter tightly, as if trying to imprint this moment into her memory. "You are so brave, my love, I was truly blessed the day you were born"

As the embrace lingered, Aemond, still standing at the foot of the bed, felt an overwhelming urge to reach out to Lucella, to tell her that he had not meant for things to turn out this way.

But when he extended his hand, it was as if an invisible barrier prevented him from touching her.

He tried to call out to her, but his voice was lost in the void, drowned out by the increasing darkness that surrounded him.

The room, Rhaenyra, and Lucella began to fade, their voices becoming distant, muffled.

Panic surged through Aemond as he fought against the encroaching blackness, desperate to hold onto the last vestiges of the vision.

And then, in an instant, everything vanished.

Aemond jolted awake, gasping for breath. He was back in his bed at Harrenhal, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like a cold sweat.

His heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with the revelation that Lucella was carrying his child. The weight of what he had seen, what he had heard, bore down on him like a leaden shroud.

This was no ordinary dream—it was a vision, a cruel reminder of the consequences of his actions.

Lucella, far away in the Vale, hidden from the war and from him, was carrying his child. A child he might never see.

Aemond sat there, staring into the darkness of his chamber, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions.

The morning sun barely touched the horizon when Aemond stormed through the corridors of Harrenhal, his mind set with a singular purpose.

The events of the previous night, the vision of Lucella and the revelation of his child, had ignited a fierce determination within him. He could no longer afford to remain idle, bound by the chains of his own mistakes.

Ser Criston Cole, deep in discussion over battle plans, was abruptly interrupted as Aemond barrelled past him, disregarding his shocked protests.

The plans for an assault on Drarry, once deemed crucial, now seemed inconsequential in the face of the personal turmoil Aemond faced.

As he descended the stone steps toward Vhagar’s resting place, the sound of his hurried footsteps was interrupted by a familiar, unsettling voice.

“It’s too late,” Alys said softly, her tone almost too calm for the gravity of her words.

Aemond stopped abruptly, turning to face her. “What do you mean, it’s too late?”

Alys’ lips curled into a smile that held no warmth. “Lucella is no longer in the Vale.”

Aemond’s heart pounded as he demanded, “Where is she?”

Alys’ smile widened, her eyes glinting with a cruel delight. “Lucella now resides at Winterfell, as the soon to be wife of Lord Cregan Stark.”

The words hit Aemond like a physical blow. “What?”

Alys tilted her head, her gaze unwavering. “To secure the North for her mother, Lucella has agreed to wed the Warden of the North. It was a strategic marriage, one that consolidates power and allies. Your child will be raised in the North, under the protection of House Stark.”

Aemond’s face twisted in rage. “She carries my child! She belongs with me!”

Alys merely smiled again, her expression unchanging. “Aye, she carries your child. But Lord Stark is an honourable man. He has pledged to protect both Lucella and the child. Tell me, kinslayer, how does it feel knowing that your son will be raised by a wolf? That he will grow up calling another man father?

“You dare-” snarled Aemond, freezing as he felt something soft move across the back of he clenched hand.

He looked down and for the briefest of seconds a saw a flash of ribbon, gold and white.

“Your arrogance and pride have cost you the one thing you have sought your entire life. Lucella would have been a good wife; she would have loved you, given you many children. You would’ve had everything you ever wanted, but now, such things are lost to you.”

Aemond’s breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to comprehend the enormity of what Alys was saying.

The world seemed to spin around him, the walls of Harrenhal pressing in on him as if mocking his loss.

Alys turned to leave, her form slipping back into the shadows as she offered no further comfort or explanation.

Her parting words lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the choices that had led him to this point.

Aemond was left standing alone, his thoughts a storm of anger, regret, and despair. The realization that Lucella, the woman he had wronged, would soon belong to another, and that his child would grow up under another man’s name, crushed him under a weight he could barely endure.

As Alys disappeared from view, Aemond sank to his knees, the full impact of his actions crashing down upon him.

Days blurred into an unrelenting haze for Aemond, each one melding into the next as the weight of his actions and their consequences pressed down on him.

The war continued, relentless and unforgiving. Strategies were drawn and redrawn, plans for battles and sieges were made and executed with grim efficiency.

Patrols scoured the countryside, small settlements loyal to Rhaenyra were attacked and burned, their inhabitants driven from their homes or slaughtered.

The brutality of the conflict seemed endless, a grim reflection of the turmoil within Aemond’s own mind.

Yet, despite the relentless pace of war, the nights were far worse.

In the darkness, where shadows danced and the silence of Harrenhal was punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the hearth or the distant rumble of thunder, Aemond was haunted by nightmares that left him waking in a cold sweat, his heart racing.

Lucerys appeared to him in his dreams. Sometimes, he came as a sweet-faced child, his eyes wide and innocent, his smile unblemished by the cruelty of their world.

Other times, Lucerys was a grotesque, rotting mass of flesh and bone, his once-pristine features now distorted by decay and violence.

His body was marred by deep wounds, the sight of him a horrific testament to the fatal consequences of Aemond's vendetta.

As if the visions of Lucerys were not torment enough, Aemond was plagued by the weeping sounds of Lucella.

Her voice, broken and plaintive, filled the nights with a sorrowful lament. She would ask, over and over, "Why?"—a question that cut through Aemond’s soul with a sharpness that left him gasping for breath.

He could not answer her, could not explain why he had allowed the rage and hatred within him to consume his compassion, why he had been driven to such cruelty.

And then came the visions of his brother Aegon, a spectre of burnt and charred blackened flesh.

Aegon’s form was twisted and unrecognizable, his once-familiar features now a nightmare of burns and disfigurements.

His ghostly voice would accuse Aemond of betrayal, of causing his suffering and letting him fall.

"We are brothers," Aegon would rasp in the dreamscape, the anguish in his voice palpable. "How could you do this to me? Do you truly hate me that much?"

These nightly horrors, each one a reflection of his deepest fears and regrets, eroded Aemond’s sense of self.

The lines between dream and reality grew increasingly blurred. He would wake up trembling, the echo of his nightmares clinging to him like a shroud.

The faces of Lucerys and Aegon, the sound of Lucella’s weeping, all of it haunted him with an intensity that made the waking hours a desperate attempt to outrun the demons that plagued his sleep.

In the harsh light of day, he would rise, draw his sword, and return to the cycle of war and violence, but the burden of his actions weighed heavily on him.

The faces of the people he had wronged, the blood on his hands, the dreams that taunted him with their cruel reminders, all mingled together in a relentless torment that made him question if there was any escape from the darkness that had now consumed him.

Aemond stood alone in the ruined courtyard of Harrenhal, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow over the desolate stone.

He had taken to spending his time in solitude, seeking solace in the cold embrace of the night sky and the silence that now enveloped the once-majestic castle.

His thoughts, tangled in regrets and what-ifs, churned restlessly as he gazed at the distant, indifferent moon.

The serenity of his isolation was suddenly pierced by the soft, unmistakable sound of a newborn baby's cry.

The sound was so incongruous with the emptiness of Harrenhal that it jolted Aemond from his reverie.

He followed the sound with a mix of confusion and desperation, his heart pounding with a sense of urgency that he could not explain.

He came to a stop before a set of weathered wooden doors, their surface marred by time and neglect.

With a deep breath, he pushed them open and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, and his eyes were drawn to Lucella, who sat on the edge of a bed, gently rocking a small bundle in her arms.

Aemond’s heart ached as he saw himself sitting on the bed beside her, taking the bundle into his own arms with a tenderness that seemed foreign and distant.

He watched as this other version of himself whispered softly, “ēdrugon ñuha zaldrītsos” (sleep my little dragon).

The warmth in his voice was palpable, and Aemond felt a pang of longing for a peace and connection he had never fully embraced.

Before he could process the depth of the moment, the room began to fade, plunging into darkness.

The sound of a child’s giggle echoed around him, drawing his attention.

Aemond turned to see a silver-haired boy, no older than six, standing proudly in the training grounds of the Red Keep.

The boy swung a wooden sword with a determined grin, his laughter ringing out as he called, “Watch me, Kepa! Watch me!” (Father).

Aemond’s heart warmed as he observed this tender scene, the boy’s eager energy a reflection of his own youthful enthusiasm.

He watched himself teaching the boy the skills of the sword with patience and affection.

The bond between father and son was evident in their shared joy and the way they moved together in a dance of instruction and play.

In an instant, the scene shifted again. Aemond found himself standing beside Lucella as she gave birth to a baby girl.

The sight of the child being placed into her arms, Lucella’s exhausted yet elated expression, was accompanied by the sound of his own cries as he held their daughter.

The raw emotion on his face was a testament to the profound love and vulnerability he felt.

The vision continued to shift, and he saw another version of himself taking his children flying on Vhagar, with Lucella flying beside them on Silverwing.

The thrill of the flight was unmistakable, the sky filled with the sound of their laughter and the roars of their own hatchling dragons soaring alongside them.

The scene was a vivid portrayal of a life filled with joy and familial bonding, a life that seemed so out of reach, but at the same time it seemed like a memory, one that he couldn't place.

Aemond felt an intense pressure in his chest, as if the weight of the vision was physically constricting his breath.

The laughter of his children, so vibrant and full of life, became a haunting reminder of what he had lost. The scenes began to dissolve, and the joy that had filled them faded into the encroaching darkness.

Gasping for air, Aemond reeled backwards, clutching his chest as if trying to hold onto the remnants of the dream.

He stumbled and found himself back in his chamber at Harrenhal, the oppressive darkness of the room pressing in on him. He slumped into the corner, his back against the cold stone wall, and the tears that had long been pent up finally broke free.

As Aemond cried, the sound of his children’s laughter seemed to be swallowed by the void, leaving him alone with the heavy, crushing weight of his regrets and the unbearable knowledge of what might have been.

Aemond sat in the cold, dark corner of his chamber, his body trembling as he sobbed uncontrollably.

The overwhelming flood of grief, regret, and torment seemed to crush him from all sides. He could barely breathe through the anguish that wracked his entire being.

He cried out into the emptiness of the room, his voice hoarse and pleading. "Leave me alone! Please, just leave me alone! I can't take it anymore-"

The silence that followed was heavy, almost oppressive, until Aemond felt a subtle movement in front of him.

He looked up, his tear-blurred vision struggling to focus, and saw Alys kneeling before him.

She reached out, her fingers gentle as they brushed through his dishevelled hair, an unexpected comfort in the midst of his despair.

Aemond, driven by an instinctive need for solace, moved forward and wrapped his arms around her, his grip desperate and tight. He buried his face in her shoulder, his cries muffled against her. "Please, stop tormenting me-to show me the chidren its cruel"

Alys remained still for a moment, her voice soft and almost serene. "Your only freedom is within the eye of the gods."

The words struck Aemond like a blow to the chest. He remembered his sister Helaena’s words, the chilling premonition she had uttered when he had begged her to come with him to Harrenhal and she had refused.

"Aegon will be king again," she had said, "he's yet to see victory, he sits on a wooden throne, and you'll be dead, swallowed up in the gods' eye, you were never seen again."

The memory was like a dagger twisting in his heart, amplifying the sense of doom that had followed him.

He pulled away from Alys, his face a mask of anguish and realization. "Leave me," he said, his voice breaking. "I wish to be alone, just as I always have been."

Alys’s hand reached out to him, a gesture of compassion, but he snatched it away with a harsh movement. His anger and sorrow surged together, mingling with a desperate need for solitude.

"I said leave!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

Alys stood, her expression unreadable, and then she slowly walked away, her footsteps fading into the distance.

As the last echoes of Alys’s departure faded, Aemond slumped back against the cold stone wall, the chill seeping into his bones.

He closed his eye, trying to shut out the overwhelming sense of loss and failure.

With a whisper barely audible even to himself, he repeated the one name that seemed to encapsulate his pain, his regret, and his longing: “Lucella.”

As the days dragged on, Aemond’s mind grew increasingly fragile, the weight of his regrets and visions pressing down upon him with relentless intensity.

The once-proud prince who had thrived on determination and strength now found himself teetering on the edge of madness.

Each night, the visions that plagued his sleep became more vivid, more insistent. Lucerys haunted him with that same blend of innocence and grotesque horror, Lucella’s weeping echoed in the corridors of his mind, and Aegon’s charred, accusing form lingered at the corners of his consciousness, sniping and hurling insults at him.

'Coward, treasonous dog and vile cunt' were some of the one's his brother favoured.

When word reached Harrenhal of Helaena’s death, Aemond’s fragile grip on reality began to unravel entirely.

The news that his gentle sister had thrown herself from the window of Maegor’s Holdfast struck him like a dagger to the heart.

Helaena, who had seen visions of the future in her dreams, had become yet another victim of the war that had torn their family apart. The shock of her death sent Aemond spiralling deeper into the abyss of his own despair.

He withdrew further from the world around him, preferring the cold comfort of solitude over the company of others.

He stopped attending the war councils, even as Ser Criston Cole and the remaining host of thirty-six hundred Greens prepared to march south from Harrenhal to meet the Hightower forces.

Aemond refused to join them, claiming he would follow later, though deep down he knew he had no intention of doing so.

Instead, he lingered in the empty halls of Harrenhal, haunted by the ghosts of his past and the weight of his failures.

He ate alone, trained alone, and slept fitfully in a chamber that seemed to grow darker and more oppressive with each passing day.

After Criston and the men had left, the silence in Harrenhal became deafening. The once-mighty fortress, now nearly empty, seemed to breathe with the echoes of lost battles and the whispers of curses long forgotten.

Aemond’s thoughts turned inward, his despair and grief consuming him whole.

There was no longer a way forward, no victory that could redeem the losses he had suffered. His mind circled around the same grim conclusion: there was but one way out now.

With a heavy heart, Aemond sat at a table in his chamber, a quill in hand. He stared at the blank parchment before him, the candlelight casting flickering shadows across his face. He hesitated for a moment, then began to write. finality, each stroke of the quill marking a step closer to his inevitable end. The letter was addressed to his uncle, Daemon.

"Daemon," the letter began, the words sharp and direct, "The time has come for us to settle this war as it should have been settled from the start—between you and me. I challenge you to meet me in the skies above the Gods Eye. Let this war end in fire and blood"

Aemond set the quill down, his hands shaking. He folded the letter carefully and sealed it with wax, pressing his sigil into the hot, red wax.

The task completed, he sat back in his chair, feeling the weight of the decision he had made settle heavily on his shoulders.

The room seemed to grow colder, the shadows lengthening as the candle flickered and sputtered. Aemond closed his eye, the sounds of Lucella’s weeping and the laughter of his lost children echoing in his mind.

The visions that had haunted him were not gone, but now, they seemed distant, as if they were preparing to leave him for good.

The next day, he would send the letter. And then, he would wait for the response that would seal his fate.

Two long weeks passed before Daemon finally arrived at Harrenhal.

Aemond spent those days in a fevered state of anticipation, his mind torn between dread and the fierce desire to end this war, to end himself.

When the day finally came, Aemond watched from the crumbling ramparts as Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, descended from the skies, his crimson scales glistening like blood in the fading sunlight.

The sight of his uncle astride the fearsome dragon filled Aemond with a cold resolve. This was it. The end.

He made his way to Vhagar, and with practiced ease, Aemond ascended the rope ladder and secured himself into the saddle.

He could feel Vhagar’s own anticipation, the bond between rider and dragon thrumming with shared purpose. With a roar that shook the very stones of Harrenhal, Vhagar took to the sky.

The two dragons met in the air, their roars echoing across the sky.

They circled each other, two titanic forces of nature, before clashing in a fiery, savage battle. Vhagar and Caraxes locked talons, their wings beating furiously as they tore at each other with teeth and claws.

The sky above the Gods Eye was filled with the sound of snapping jaws, the ripping of flesh, and the heat of dragon fire.

Caraxes was the first to find purchase, his long, serpentine body coiling around Vhagar’s neck. With a vicious twist, Caraxes latched onto Vhagar’s throat, his fangs sinking deep into the thick scales.

Blood, hot and dark, poured from the wound, raining down upon the waters below. Vhagar let out a deafening roar of pain and fury, her massive wings beating frantically as she tried to shake the smaller dragon off.

In a final, desperate act, Vhagar managed to tear into Caraxes’ belly with her claws.

The Blood Wyrm’s entrails spilled out, steaming in the cold air. But Caraxes did not release his grip on Vhagar’s throat. The two dragons were locked in a death embrace, neither willing to yield.

As Aemond struggled to keep control, he looked up in time to see Daemon leaping from the back of Caraxes, his sword, Dark Sister, gleaming in his hand.

The older man’s face was a mask of grim determination as he hurtled through the air, landing with catlike grace in front of Aemond on Vhagar’s back.

There was no time to react as Daemon moved with the speed of a man possessed, thrusting Dark Sister into Aemond’s remaining eye.

The blade pierced through flesh and bone, driving deep until it burst through the back of Aemond’s throat. The young prince gasped, a final, choking breath escaping him as the world went dark.

Below them, the two dying dragons plummeted toward the Gods Eye. The impact sent a gargantuan splash of water into the air, the surface boiling with the mingled blood of the two beasts.

As Caraxes, his strength failing, clawed his way onto the bank, he let out a final, rattling breath before collapsing, dead.

Vhagar, her throat torn out and her life slipping away, sank beneath the surface of the lake, her massive form dragging Aemond’s lifeless body with her.

The weight of the ancient dragon pulled them both down into the cold, dark depths.

Aemond jolted awake, his hand instinctively pressing against his remaining eye, his heart pounding with the intensity of a nightmare that lingered as a grim reality.

The sensation of the sword piercing through him still felt vividly real, the ghost of pain haunting him as he tried to calm his racing breath.

The room around him seemed to spin, the shadows from his nightmare clinging to the edges of his vision.

He felt a gentle hand on his arm and turned sharply to see Lucella gazing at him with concern.

For a split second, he was paralyzed by fear, convinced that this was yet another vision sent to torment him.

He gasped, moving backwards and falling out of bed with a heavy thud that echoed in the quiet room.

Aemond scrambled to his feet, the words of the witch, telling him that his freedom lay in the eye of the gods, seemed to mock him from the depths of his confusion.

He began pacing the room, muttering to himself about the unreality of it all. “It’s not real- another vision-sent to torment me-why must you keep tormenting me” His mind was a tumultuous storm, and he could barely grasp the threads of sanity slipping through his fingers.

Lucella got out of bed and moved to his side, taking his hand and pressing it gently to her cheek.

“I’m real, ñuha jorrāelagon” she said softly, her eyes filled with a tenderness that cut through his panic (my love).

But then Aemond’s voice wavered as he asked about the war. “The Greens repudiated the succession-crowned Aegon as King. Lucerys-he died in the skies above Storm’s End. Jaehaerys was murdered in retribution. A son for a son-” His babbling grew frantic, but Lucella’s calm presence seemed to anchor him, if only slightly.

Lucella placed her hands on his face and shushed him gently. “All is well,” she assured him. “Your grandsire had the intent to crown Aegon, but he lost his head for it, along with those who conspired against my mother. But it was our marriage that truly united the family.”

Aemond blinked, stunned and stammering. “M-marriage? What about your marriage to Lord Cregan Stark?”

Lucella grimaced slightly. “Cregan? He’s married to Alysanne Blackwood.”

Aemond’s eyes widened in confusion. “He is?”

Lucella sighed, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “What in the hell was in that wine you were drinking with Aegon?”

Aemond paused at the mention of is brother.

"A-Aegon. How is he?"

“Other than being deep in his cups, he was fine the last time I saw him.” replied Lucella.

“What about Helaena?” Aemond pressed.

“She’s recovering well” said Lucella.

“F-From what?” asked Aemond.

“From birthing another child—a son named Maelor. That’s why you were drinking with Aegon; you were celebrating the news of his son.”

“S-Son? But he and Helaena, t-they d-don’t-” muttered Aemond.

“Things aren’t perfect between them, but in recent years they have found comfort with one another-Aegon is trying and that’s all we can hope for” said Lucella softly.

The revelations were disorienting, but the most startling came next.

Lucella glanced towards a corner of the room, where a soft babble could be heard.

Aemond’s attention snapped to the cot, and he moved swiftly to see the babe inside. He stared down at the child, who reached up toward him with tiny, outstretched arms.

He picked up the baby, cradling them gently, and rocked them with a sense of deep, overwhelming affection.

Lucella’s smile was warm as she observed him. “You always were better at soothing our daughter than I was,” she said.

Aemond looked at her, his eye wide with astonishment. “D-daughter? What about our son?”

Lucella smiled softly. “Aerion is asleep in his nursery across the hall.”

The enormity of it all seemed to sink in. Aemond was overwhelmed by the flood of memories that quickly returned to him—the execution of his grandsire, the crowning of Rhaenyra, the wedding to Lucella, the birth of their son, Aerion, and the moments of being with his family.

He remembered reading to Aerion, singing to him in High Valyrian, helping him learn to walk and talk. He saw Lucella beside him once more, giving birth to their daughter, Daenys.

Stunned and teary-eyed, he whispered, “It’s real-all of this is real.”

Lucella’s expression softened, and she gave him a playful pinch. Aemond winced, and Lucella’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she said, “Is that real enough for you?”

Aemond furrowed his brow but then his eye caught sight of the gold and white ribbon, delicately wrapped around a book.

Lucella followed Aemond's gaze and smiled, "The ribbon that bound our hands on our wedding day-"

"Y-You kept it" muttered Aemond, remembering the feel of it on the back of his hand.

"Yes-I did" replied Lucella softly.

Aemond’s face broke into a genuine smile as he leaned in to kiss her lips. She then went on her tiptoes, whispering in his ear, “I’m with child again.”

Aemond’s joyous laughter sounded round the room, his arms holding their daughter even closer.

“T-Truly?”

“Yes-it seems that your seed really likes to take root inside me ” replied Lucella smirking.

As Aemond pressed another kiss to her lips, his attention was caught by the door as it creaked open softly.

Aemond looked to see their son, Aerion, standing in the doorway.

The little boy was sucking his thumb and clutching a stuffed dragon teddy to his chest, his silver hair tousled from sleep. His big, round eyes gazed at his parents, filled with the innocent worry only a child could have.

Lucella smiled warmly at the sight of their son. "What’s wrong, sweet boy?" she asked, her voice gentle.

Aerion shuffled into the room, his thumb still in his mouth as he mumbled, “No sleep, Mama.”

Lucella’s heart melted at the sight of him. She walked over and scooped him up in her arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "How about some snuggles with your father?" she suggested softly.

Aerion nodded, his thumb popping out of his mouth as he hugged his stuffed dragon tighter. Lucella carried him to the bed and placed him beside Aemond, who had just settled with Daenys resting on his chest.

Aemond smiled tenderly as Aerion snuggled up against his side, seeking comfort and warmth.

Aemond gently adjusted his position, leaning back against the pillows to support both children.

Daenys, nestled on his chest, made small, contented noises in her sleep, while Aerion curled up close to his father.

The boy's tiny fingers clung to Aemond's loose cotton shirt, his stuffed dragon tucked securely under his arm.

Lucella climbed into bed beside them, her eyes filled with love as she watched her family. She reached out, gently brushing her fingers through Aerion’s hair before leaning into place a soft kiss on Aemond’s cheek.

Aemond turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze, and smiled—an expression filled with deep contentment and peace.

In that moment, Aemond felt like he finally had everything he had ever wanted. The weight of his past, the burdens of a war that would never come to pass, and the haunting visions that had plagued him all seemed to dissipate, replaced by the warmth and love surrounding him.

His family was whole, safe, and with him—everything else faded away.

As they all settled into the quiet, Lucella lay her head on Aemond's shoulder, her hand resting lightly on Aerion's form.

The gentle rise and fall of their children’s breathing filled the room, a soothing rhythm that lulled them all into a sense of serene calm.

Aemond glanced down at the two small faces resting against him, then over at Lucella, who smiled up at him, her eyes shining with the same love he felt in his heart.

The world outside could wait.

For now, in the sanctuary of their bed, surrounded by those he loved most, Aemond was content.

He finally had his family, his children, his wife—the life he had longed for, and it was more beautiful than he had ever dared to dream.

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