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j-k-writes · 10 days ago

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The Bronze Targaryen - 11

Summary - War is brewing in Westeros, but Rhaenyra is determined to avoid it for as long as possible (to the frustration of her husband).

Warnings - General HOTD warnings, canon character death, minor violence between family members ((Y/N) and Daemon)

The end of season one! I'm putting this series on a bit of a hiatus while I figure out my plans for season two (thank you, Ryan Condal, for making my life miserable) but do not fret I have stories to hold y'all over in the mean time.

“What is our standing?”

“We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men at arms.” Daemon spoke, “Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves much to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

“We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, Bar Emmon.”

“As well as Coldwater, Sheet, and Tollett.” (Y/N) turned to Rhaenyra, “Runestone stands behind you. I have no doubt Lady Arryn will as well, the Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

He watched as Rhaenyra gave him a grateful smile and placed a marker on the table.

“Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, your grace. With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent raven to Lord Grover.”

Both (Y/N) and Rhaenyra paused at Maester Gerardys’ words, they both looked up at the Prince. (Y/N) narrowed his eyes at his father, who did not look the least apologetic as Rhaenyra spoke, “Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.”

“I am going to treat with him myself.” (Y/N) raised an eyebrow at his father’s boldness, watching as he and Rhaenyra glared at each other from across the room. His father had been falling into tendencies (Y/N) had hoped he’d grown out of these past days, and the new Consort was unsure how to feel about it.

“What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?”

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark the North will follow.”

“Lord Borros Baratheon will need to be reminded of his father’s promises.” Rhaenyra said, voice tight. More markers were placed around the table, the promise of war becoming stronger and stronger with each clang against the wooden table. “What news from Driftmark?”

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone.” Rhaenys said.

“To declare for his Queen?” (Y/N) asked.

“The Velayron fleet is in my husband’s yoke.” (Y/N) frowned, unable to stop the hot flash of anger in his chest at her words. “He decides where they sail.”

“We shall pray for both you and your husband's support. Just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health. There’s no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet.” Rhaenyra spoke before (Y/N) could open his mouth to speak his offense at Rhaenys’ answer. “And our enemies?”

“We have no friends among the Lannisters. Tyland has served the hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.”

“Without the Lannisters we are not like to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.” Both (Y/N) and Rhaenyra frowned.

“The Riverlands are essential, your Grace.” Daemon spoke. (Y/N) cringed inwardly at the knowledge that Daemon was making good points for all of his boldness and made eye contact with Rhaenyra from across the table.

“Pray forgive my bluntness, your Grace. But talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that not has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.”

“The Greens have dragons as well.” Rhaenyra responded.

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Vermithor-” (Y/N) winced at his father’s words, taking in a deep breath as his father continued on his rant. “-Caraxes, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer.”

“Daemon none of our dragons have been to war.”

(Y/N) grabbed his father’s arm, bringing him in close so that his words did not go any further than their small shared bubble. “And need I remind you, we do not have Vermithor until I am recovered.” He bit out, face hot as he spoke.

Daemon ignored him, causing (Y/N) to throw his head back and sigh, “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Silverwing dwells on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.”

“And who is to ride them?” Rhaenyra sounded as exasperated with Daemon as (Y/N) felt.

“Dragonstone has 13 to their 4. I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont. Now…we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host. Here, at Harrenhal.” Daemon spoke, ignoring his Queen’s question. “We cut off the west, surround Kingslanding with the Dragons and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

“Your Grace.” Ser Erryk spoke up, and (Y/N) relaxed, grateful for the interruption. “A ship has been sighted offshore. A lone galleon flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”

(Y/N) straightened in his seat, grabbing his cane as his father shouted out commands to the men around them. He stood making his way toward his wife, she was frowning as Daemon exited the room flanked by guards and lords.

“Follow him.” Rhaenyra said, “Make sure he doesn’t do anything rash.”

“And you?”

The smile she gave him did not reach her eyes, “Just go.”

(Y/N) kept one hand on his cane and the other on his sword as he watched Otto Hightower and his posse of Knights approach. Otto looked between (Y/N) and Daemon, chin up in the air and posture straight as the oak branch up his ass.

“I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.” He spoke. “I’ve been directed to deliver her message only to Princess Rhaenyra. Where is the Princess?”

Otto and his men were startled at the sound of Syrax’s screech overhead, causing (Y/N)’s lips to curve up in a smile. Syrax’s landing caused stones of the bridge to crack and fall off the side, and the she-dragon continued to growl and screech at the men as Rhaenyra dismounted and walked through the crowd. She took her place between (Y/N) and Daemon, turning to face Otto.

“Princess Rhaenyra.”

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now. And you all are traitors to the realm.” Rhaenyra spat.

Otto took her statement in stride, continuing on as if she’d never spoken. “King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name in his wisdom and desire for peace-” (Y/N) scoffed, but yet again Otto continued on. “-is offering terms. Acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Runestone-”

“He is my legitimate heir.” (Y/N) stepped forward, but Rhaenyra shot her arm out, blocking his path.

“-and all the lands and holdings of House Royce.” Otto looked smug as (Y/N) begrudgingly heeded his wife and stepped back. “Your sons Aegon and Viserys will also be given places of high honor at court: Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, Viserys as his cupbearer. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”

“I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken usurper cunt of a king.” (Y/N) said, hand flexing around his sword.

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne. He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a septon of the faith in the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him. And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon. Houses that have already received and are at present, considering generous terms from their king.” Otto spoke, causing (Y/N) to laugh.

“Generous? You have offered us things we already have.”

“Stark, Tully, Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir.” Rhaenyra said, and (Y/N) could see the anger deep inside her bubbling to the surface.

“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess. The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

“You are no more Hand than Aegon is king.” Rhaenyra moved toward the man before (Y/N) could have time to respond. She rushed the man, seething, grabbing the silver hand pinned on his chest. She ripped the pendant off, tossing it over the side of the bridge. “Fucking traitor.”

Once again Otto was undisturbed by the show of anger, “Grand Maester.”

“What the fuck is this?” He heard his father ask as Otto grabbed a folded-up piece of parchment from the Grand Maester, handing it to Rhaenyra. (Y/N) could not see Rhaenyra’s reaction from where he was standing, but his stomach turned at the sight of her angry posture softening ever so slightly as she looked at the paper.

“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other. No blood need be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace.” Otto said softly to Rhaenyra. “Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”

“She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father’s mouth along with his withered cock. Let’s end this mummer’s farce.” Daemon and the knights around him drew their swords, and (Y/N) smiled as Otto’s knights tensed. (Y/N) took a step forward, not bothering to draw his sword. (The scabbard was really only by his side for show, for he was practically useless with it until he could manage to bring his arm above his head without aggravating the wound in his shoulder.) “Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.”

Syrax roared, causing the stones they were standing on to shake and the men behind Otto drew their weapons in retaliation. Before anyone could make a move Rhaenyra turned on them.

“No.” She said, and the men around him stood down. (Y/N) raised an eyebrow at her, but she did not look at him as she continued. “Kingslanding will have my answer on the morrow.”

(Y/N) gaped as Otto Hightower and his crowd of traitors walked away completely whole. Daemon huffed and puffed in frustration the whole way up to the keep, but (Y/N) paid his grumblings no mind. His shock was aimed wholly on Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra would not look at him as they walked, or limped in (Y/N)’s case, and (Y/N) feared the worst. He bit his tongue as the council resumed, sorting through his scattered thoughts before he said something rash in front of the council.

He’d only wished his father could have the same sort of self control.

“It’s no easy thing for a man to be a dragonslayer. But dragons can kill dragons. And have.” Daemon spoke. “The simple truth is this: we have more dragons than Aegon, even with (Y/N) recovering.”

“Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. I know them well. When dragons flew to war-” Rhaenyra sighed, “Everything burned.”

“War has its casualties whether dragons are involved or not.” He mumbled from his seat. His voice was merely a whisper but Rhaenyra heard him anyway and shot him a subtle glare.

“I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone.” She said it to the room, but it was clear the words were directed to her husband and uncle.

“Are you considering the Hightowers’ terms, your Grace?” (Y/N) straightened to attention as Lord Bartimos asked the question at the forefront of his mind, on everyone's mind, apparently.

“As Queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos? Ensuring peace and unity? Or that I sit the Iron Throne, no matter the cost?” (Y/N) sighed at her words, frustration building as Daemon responded.

“That’s your father talking.”

“My father’s dead. And he chose me as his successor. To defend the realm, not cast it headlong into war.”

“They have already declared war, Rhaenrya.” (Y/N) could not help the bite in his words. His frustration and exhaustion finally boiling over despite his attempts at holding it down until he and Rhaenyra were in private.

“Clear the room.” The lords looked between the two warily but they left without complaints. As soon as the door shut behind the last lord Rhaenyra rounded on (Y/N), practically sneering. “Does the promise of war excite you?”

“I just ended one war, Rhaenyra. My last wish is to start another, but you cannot bend the knee to the Hightowers.” (Y/N) sighed, collapsing into his chair. The action brought attention to the wound in his shoulder, and he swallowed a groan of pain. He was dreading this war, but he was not going to sit in denial. Unless they were to take the Hightower’s terms, and (Y/N) would die before he let that happen, war was inevitable.

“If you could take the Iron Throne without putting Otto Hightower’s head on a spike, would you?” (Y/N) could not help but scoff at her question.

“Are you not angry?”

“I should declare war because I’m angry?”

“No.” (Y/N) said between gritted teeth, “Because it’s your duty as Queen to crush rebellion.”

“My oath reaches beyond our personal ambitions.” Did she not understand? How could she not understand what this slight meant for their family?

“Personal ambitions? Rhaenyra this is your birthright and they have stolen it from you the same way they tried to steal it from Luke. To bend the knee now-”

“Shut up and listen to me. You are acting like your father.” (Y/N)’s mouth shut with a click, his words dying on his tongue. Rhaenyra continued on, ignoring the rising anger in her husband. “My father told me something when he named me heir, The Conqueror’s Dream.”

“A dream?” (Y/N) scoffed, but Rhaenyra ignored him.

“A Song of Ice and Fire, a coming war against the darkness in the North. The realm must be united if it is to survive, so you must understand why I am so reluctant to plunge it into war.” She spoke with such certainty that (Y/N) almost wanted to concede to her.

Almost. “You are in denial, Rhaenyra.” He said, forcing his voice level. He was not his father and he would not take his frustration out on his wife, even if she was part of its origin. “There is to be a war over this. I do not want it, but I have accepted it and so should you.”

(Y/N) felt himself drifting off in his chair as the lords argued around him, barely letting Rhaenyra get a word in. His body throbbed, a few new bruises added onto them courtesy of his father’s drunken anger.

He’d sought the man out last night, too keyed up from his argument with Rhaenyra to go to their bedroom. He’d knocked on Daemon’s door hoping to drown in the wine his father no doubt had already brought up from the kitchens. Instead he’d found himself thrown into the wall after a particularly nasty screaming match that had multiple guards running into the room.

One snide comment about Rhaenyra's choices was all it had taken for (Y/N)’s already simmering anger to rise to the surface. Rhaenyra could frustrate them both to the grave, but she was still their Queen, and Daemon needed to give her his respect, especially in the presence of the other lords.

His father had not seen it that way.

“The Lord of the Tides, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.” (Y/N) snapped to attention at the sound of Ser Eyrrk’s voice.

“My lords.” Lord Corlys nodded to the lords around them as he limped down the steps and toward Rhaenyra. He looked well despite his injuries although the grimace he gave with every step betrayed just how healed he truly was.

“Lord Corlys. It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again. I extend my deepest condolences for the loss of your son, and heir.” Rhaenyra said.

“I’m very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man.” Corlys looked around the room, gaze falling on (Y/N) for a moment before he spoke again. “Where is Daemon?”

“There were other concerns which demanded my father’s attention.” (Y/N) responded, and Rhaenyra pursed her lips, having heard about these other concerns from a concerned guard the night before. She had not been happy at his father’s regressions in anger management, even less so with his decision to take his frustrations out on his already injured son.

Corlys hummed, obviously too familiar with Daemon’s temper. “Your declared allies?”

“Yes.”

“Too few to win a war for the throne.”

“Well, we would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”

“Hope is the fool’s ally.” (Y/N) frowned at the Sea Snake’s words, the lord of the tides was correct in his statement but that did not mean (Y/N) had to appreciate the sentiment.

“House Arryn shares blood with my house, but all of them swore oaths to me.” Rhaenyra was losing her patience.

“As did House Hightower, if I remember.”

“As did you, Lord Corlys.”

The room went silent at Rhaenyra’s statement, but (Y/N) simply smiled. He hid his soft laugh behind his hand turning in his chair to get a better view of Lord Corlys as the Lord seemed to ponder her unspoken question.

‘To who are you loyal to?’

“Your father’s realm was one of justice and honor. Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand. You have the full support of our fleet and House, your Grace.” Lord Corlys bowed his head to Rhaenyra who sputtered. She recovered quickly, turning to look at Rhaenys who simply nodded with a smile.

“You honor me, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys.” She straightened, letting her demeanor shift back to that of Queen. “But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war’s first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand.”

“You do not mean to act?”

“Taking caution does not mean standing fast.” Rhaenyra shot him a subtle yet harsh look as she spoke. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.”

“The consequence of Laenor’s sacrifice and my near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them. I took care to fully garrison the territory this time. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already. The Triarchy have been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours. If we further seal the gullet we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to Kingslanding.” The mood of the room immediately brightened at Corlys’ words.

“I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.”

“When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround Kingslanding, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens’ surrender.”

(Y/N) smiled at the sudden mood change amongst the lords of their council. Rhaenyra herself was not immune to the feeling and (Y/N) watched as her mouth curved up in a small smile as she watched the room. “If we are to have enough swords to surround Kingslanding, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.”

“I’ll prepare the ravens, your Grace.” Maester Gerardys moved to leave the room but Jace interrupted before he could.

“We should bear those messages.” Everyone turned to look at the young prince. “Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they’re more convincing. Send us.”

(Y/N) smiled at his son, “He’s right.”

“Very well.” Rhaenyra caught his eye from across the table and smiled. “Prince Jacaerys will fly north. First to the Eyrie, to see my mother’s cousin and his father’s liege Lady, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And the cost of breaking them.”

The gods, old and new, gave him no warning that day. There was no warning, no omen, for him to heed as they said their goodbyes. As he looks back on that day he wonders what he would have done differently if there had been.

“It's been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men. And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms we must answer to their gods.” Rhaenyra spoke. “If you take this errand, you go as messenger not as warriors. You must take no part in any fighting. Swear it to me now.”

“Under the eyes of the old and new gods.” (Y/N) added as the book was presented to his sons, and Jace smiled at the obvious disdain in which (Y/N) regarded The Seven. (Y/N) looked over his boys as they swore, locking eyes with their mother as they did so. Jace was as confident as (Y/N) had expected a boy of his age to be. He was still green and eager to prove himself to the realm.

“Thank you.” Rhaenyra turned to Jace. “Cregan Stark is closer to your age than to mine. I would hope, that as men, you can find some common interest.”

“The North follows the Old Gods as House Royce does, Jace.” (Y/N) added, smiling. “Do with that what you will.”

Jace smiled back at him, head held high. “Yes, your Grace.”

Luke was less confident, which brought a small frown to (Y/N)’s face. He did not comment on it, remembering himself when he first began to fall under the pressure and critique of the court. Luke was younger than he was when Rhea died, and Daemon brought him to Kingslanding, and he no doubt felt more pressure than (Y/N) could have imagined at his age.

“Storm’s End is a short flight from here. Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to host a prince of the realm and his dragon. I expect you will receive a very warm welcome.”

“Yes, Mother- your Grace.” Luke stumbled, and (Y/N) gave him a reassuring smile.

He touched his shoulder gently, bringing his voice to a whisper so that only Luke could hear him. “Do not worry, tresy. You are simply going to remind Lord Borros of his oath, if you cannot convince him he is already lost to us.”

Luke nodded, and (Y/N) kissed his head. He grabbed Jace next, who only gave a small protest as his father laughed and kissed his cheek. All three Royce’s turned to look at their Queen who nodded.

“Go to it then.”

(Y/N) had not thought to be worried as he watched his eldest sons fly off. It was only a few days later, when they received a raven assuring them of Jace’s safe arrival in the Vale, that (Y/N) began to worry about his younger son, and even then, he brushed it off. He told himself that perhaps Luke had just forgotten to write, and he did not know Lord Borros, but he would not put it past the man to not bother sending a raven. Rhaenyra began to worry immediately, watching the sky at every opportunity as if Luke would suddenly appear on Arrax to assure his mother of his safety. She would not hear (Y/N)'s excuses, and months later, in his grief, (Y/N) realized he was simply doing what he had yelled at Rhaenyra for doing not days before.

Living in denial.

They were in a council meeting when Daemon received the news. (Y/N) was immediately on edge at the look on his father’s face as he took both he and Rhaenyra aside. Rhaenyra and (Y/N) watched as his father struggled to find the words, turning his body so that he did not have to look at them as he spoke.

(Y/N) did not need Daemon to speak to know what the raven had said.

He vaguely remembers Rhaenyra’s gasp as Daemon finally got the words out. She turned away from both men as she processed the words, doubling over and clutching her stomach, sobs began to rack her body. (Y/N) stumbled as the voices in the room faded from him and his vision tunneled, Daemon reached to steady him but (Y/N) pushed his father away. He threw his cane across the room with a shout as the tears began to fall. His hands met the council table with a loud slam and he swept the nearest items off the table. The clatter of the items meeting the stone floor was not loud enough to drown out his curses and pleading words.

His father approached him when his body finally gave up on him, his legs unable to support his weight without his cane to steady him. He held him up, pulling him close to his chest. As (Y/N) sobbed, fists pounding against his father’s chest, Daemon leaned in close.

“An eye for an eye, a son for a son.” Daemon cupped his cheeks, forcing (Y/N) to look at him through his tears. “Your son will be avenged.”

---

Translations -

Tresy - son

#x male reader #x reader #x y/n #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x male reader #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon x y/n #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen x male reader #rhaenyra targaryen x reader

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kckt88 · 2 months ago

Text

Scorched Hearts V.

Summary:

'My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep, the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite' - William Shakespeare (Romeo & Juliet).

Aemond and Valaena arrive at Storms End and the dragons begin their dance with devestating concequnces for both the Blacks and Greens.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Secret Relationship, Funeral, Grief, Mild Threats, Mild Violence, Dragon Battle, Death.

AEMOND x O.C Niece

Word Count: 5079

A.N - Don't hate me, things must be this way for a reason!!

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

Valaena stood next to her brothers, Jace and Luke, her eyes fixed on the pyre where her little sister, Visenya, was being laid to rest.

The crackling flames illuminated Rhaenyra and Daemon as they stood at the head of the pyre, their hands joined in silent farewell to their daughter. All around them, heads were bowed in respect, the weight of grief heavy on the air.

Valaena could feel the cut on her palm sting as she pressed her hand to her stomach.

As she watched her mother and Daemon, Valaena wondered if what she was about to do was too cruel, to subject her mother to yet more pain.

But there really was no other way, Aemond was right there was only one way for them to be together now.

As the final words of mourning were whispered, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the sombre silence. Valaena furrowed her brow and turned, watching as Ser Erryk stepped forward.

He stopped behind Rhaenyra, reaching into his bag and pulling out a gleaming golden crown—that once belonged to King Viserys. He knelt, holding it up with reverence, his voice steady as he swore his loyalty.

“I swear to ward the Queen, with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife hold no lands and father no children.”

Daemon stepped forward, taking the crown from Ser Erryk’s hands. He turned to Rhaenyra, his face filled with fierce devotion.

With a deliberate motion, he placed the crown upon her head, then bent his knee before her, his voice ringing out loud and clear. “My queen.”

The words seemed to resonate through the gathered crowd, and Valaena, Jace, and Luke immediately bent their knees.

Soon, everyone in attendance followed suit, paying homage to Rhaenyra and acknowledging her as their Queen.

After the funeral, the gathering made their way back inside Dragonstone. The heavy doors of the hall closed behind them, and Daemon stepped forward, announcing Rhaenyra to the assembled lords and knights.

“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Rhaenyra, now wearing her father’s crown, approached the painted table with determination. “What is our standing?” she asked, her voice sharp and commanding.

Daemon stood beside her. “We have 30 knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and 300 men-at-arms. Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves much to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

Valaena stepped forward. “You already have declarations from Celtigar, Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon.”

Rhaenyra nodded, acknowledging her daughter’s support. “My lady mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

Maester Gerardys spoke up. “Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace. With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

Rhaenyra’s expression tightened. “Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to treat with him myself.”

As the discussions continued, Steffon Darklyn stepped forward. “What about Winterfell and Storm’s End?”

At the mention of Storm’s End, Valaena felt her stomach churn. She tried to steady herself, taking slow, deep breaths to keep from being overtaken by the wave of nausea. But the feeling of unease persisted.

Lord Bartimos stepped forward. “With House Stark, the rest of the North will follow. But perhaps an offer of marriage will convince Lord Stark to declare for the Queen.”

Rhaenyra turned to him, her brow furrowing. “Whose hand do you suggest I offer, my lord?”

Bartimos glanced towards Valaena. “Princess Valaena, Your Grace. She is your heir, and a match between her and Lord Stark would be most beneficial.”

Valaena’s hand instinctively went to the cut on her palm, a reminder of the bond she had forged with Aemond the night before.

She traced the mark lightly with her fingertips, remembering his words, his vow to her. Her heart raced in her chest, but she forced herself to take a deep breath.

"I will agree to the match, mother," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Rhaenyra studied her daughter, searching her face for any sign of hesitation. “Are you sure?”

Valaena nodded, her eyes flickering to the painted table. “Yes. I will do what I must in order to support my queen.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened with pride, and she gave a short nod before turning her attention to other matters.

“And our enemies?”

Daemon’s face darkened. “We have no friends among the Lannisters. Tyland has served the Hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.”

Valaena, still feeling sick, forced herself to refocus on the discussion. “Without the Lannisters, you are not likely to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.”

An older lord stepped forward, his voice blunt but respectful. “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.”

Rhaenyra’s expression tightened. “The Greens have dragons as well.”

Jace added, “Three adults.”

Daemon’s smirk returned. “We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your oldest children have Silverwing, Vermax, and Arrax. Baela has Moondancer.”

Rhaenyra sighed. “Daemon, none of our dragons have been to war.”

“We need a place to gather,” Daemon replied, eyes gleaming with ambition. “A toehold large enough to house a sizable host. Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with the dragons. And we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

Just then, Ser Erryk stepped forward, interrupting the conversation. “Your Grace a ship has been sighted offshore: a lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”

Daemon charged past Rhaenyra, barking orders. “Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies.”

Rhaenyra followed him quickly, but Valaena remained behind, standing with Jace, Luke, and the other lords.

A wave of sickness washed over her once more, and she had to take several deep breaths to keep from vomiting.

As she steadied herself, she noticed Rhaenys watching her closely, a curious look on her face.

Valaena quickly turned her attention to Luke, who was fiddling with one of the dragon figurines on the painted table.

A heavy tension filled the room as Daemon and Rhaenyra returned, their expressions grim. Daemon was the first to speak, his voice laced with frustration. “The simple truth is this: we have more dragons than Aegon.”

Rhaenyra, however, looked unsettled as she added, “I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone.”

Valaena, standing with her brothers and the gathered lords, stepped forward, her brow furrowed. “Were terms delivered?”

Rhaenyra nodded, her face betraying no emotion. “If I acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne, in exchange, he will confirm my possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to you, my trueborn daughter, upon my death. Jacaerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon. My sons, Lucerys, Aegon, and Viserys, will also be given places of high honour at court. And the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”

Valaena’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. Everything Aemond had told her the night before was true.

The offer was generous, but the underlying manipulation was unmistakable. She glanced briefly at Daemon, whose face darkened with anger.

“It’s a farce,” Daemon scoffed, his voice cutting through the room. “Offering you that which you already possess, and I would rather feed all of our children to the dragons before I bend the knee to that drunken usurper cunt of a king-”

Rhaenyra ignored his biting tone, her gaze unwavering. “As Queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos? Ensuring peace and unity? Or that I sit the Iron Throne, no matter the cost?”

Before Lord Bartimos could respond, Daemon interjected, his voice sharp. “That’s your father talking.”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened. “My father is dead. And he chose me as his successor-to defend the realm, not cast it headlong into war.”

Daemon’s eyes flashed with fire. “Well, the enemy has already declared war. What are you going to do about it?”

Before the argument could escalate further, Valaena stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “That is enough. This back and forth is getting us nowhere. The most important thing now is for you to establish who your allies are.”

Just as the tension in the room seemed ready to boil over, a familiar voice broke through. “Quite right, Princess.”

All eyes turned to see Lord Corlys Velaryon, hobbling into the room, leaning on a wooden cane. His weathered face showed signs of recent illness, but his presence was commanding as ever.

Rhaenyra’s face softened with relief. “Lord Corlys, it brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”

Corlys cast a glance at the painted table, surveying the situation. “Your declared allies? Too few to win a war for the throne.”

Rhaenyra remained steadfast. “We would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”

Corlys raised a sceptical brow. “Hope is the fool’s ally.”

Rhaenyra’s voice grew resolute. “Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house. But all of them swore oaths to me, and soon terms will be delivered to Cregan Stark, offering him a marriage with Valaena in exchange for his support.”

At the mention of her name, Valaena stiffened, but she kept her expression neutral. She had already agreed to the match, but hearing it spoken aloud brought a fresh wave of dread.

Corlys nodded approvingly. “You have the full support of our fleet and house. But what would be more beneficial is a total blockade of the shipping lanes. If we seal the Gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King’s Landing.”

Lord Bartimos added, “When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround King’s Landing, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens’ surrender.”

Daemon’s eyes gleamed with ambition. “If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, you must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.”

Maester Gerardys stepped forward, nodding. “I’ll prepare the ravens, Your Grace.”

Jacaerys, always eager to prove himself, stepped forward. “Send us. We should bear those messages ourselves. Dragons fly faster than ravens.”

Rhaenyra considered her son’s words, then nodded in agreement. “Very well. Prince Jacaerys will fly north, to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will go to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn-”

Valaena remembering Aemond’s words, stepped forward and said “-I will fly south to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon.”

Rhaenyra smiled and nodded “We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And the cost of breaking them.”

Valaena stood before the mirror as she worked through the final braid in her dark hair, each strand meticulously woven to stay in place during the flight.

She dressed herself in her riding leathers, the familiar feel of the well-worn material bringing a small comfort amid the tension.

Fastening the chain that secured her red dragon-scale patterned cloak across her chest, she pulled on her gloves, the last barrier between her and the journey ahead.

With a slow breath, she let her eyes drift to her reflection. Her gaze settled on her stomach, her gloved hand hovering there as she closed her eyes, whispering a silent prayer that what she was about to do was right.

Her heart felt heavy with more than just the weight of her mission; it carried secrets, promises, and a growing sense of duty.

A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts. "It's time, Princess," a maid called softly from the hallway.

"I'm coming," Valaena replied. She took one final look around her chambers, a place of comfort and warmth, but now filled with uncertainty.

With a steadying breath, she turned and walked out, her footsteps echoing as she joined her mother and brothers on the balcony just off the grand hall.

Rhaenyra stood tall, her expression both resolute and weary.

As Valaena approached, her mother began to speak, her voice commanding yet tender. "It’s been said that as Targaryen’s, we are closer to gods than to men. And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms-we must answer to their gods."

Rhaenyra’s gaze swept across her children. "If you take this errand, you go as messengers not as warriors. You must take no part in any fighting. Swear it to me now under the eyes of the Seven."

Two servants stepped forward, carrying an enormous holy book emblazoned with the seven-pointed star. Valaena, Jace, and Luke each placed their hands on the ancient tome.

"I swear it," they said in unison, their voices mingling with the heavy air of responsibility that lingered over them.

Rhaenyra handed Jace a rolled-up piece of parchment. "Cregan Stark is closer to your age than he is to mine. I would hope, that as men, you can find some common interest. But I do hope you get a sense of the man to whom I offer your sister’s hand." Jace accepted the scroll with a nod, replying, "Yes, Your Grace."

Next, Rhaenyra turned to Luke, giving him another scroll. "Lady Jeyne Arryn is our kin. I expect you to receive a warm welcome but be mindful of others seeking her favour."

Luke took the scroll from her, his young face serious. "Yes, mother—Your Grace."

Finally, Rhaenyra faced Valaena. "Storm's End is just a short flight from here. Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honoured to host a princess of the realm and her dragon."

Valaena accepted her own scroll, bowing her head. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Go to it, then," Rhaenyra said, her voice firm, but there was a softness in her eyes.

Valaena turned to leave, but something pulled her back. She spun around, quickly closing the distance between them, and wrapped her arms around her mother in a tight embrace.

"Avy jorrāelan, muña," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion (I love you mother).

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, returning the embrace. "You're squeezing me too tightly, sweet girl."

Valaena pulled back, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Sorry," she murmured, trying to compose herself.

Rhaenyra placed a gentle hand on her daughter's cheek, searching her face. "Is everything alright?"

Valaena nodded quickly, though her body betrayed her as her hands trembled. "Everything is fine."

Rhaenyra frowned slightly. "You're shaking. If you do not wish to journey to Storm’s End—"

"I must go," Valaena interrupted, her voice firm. "I will do my duty to my queen."

Rhaenyra pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, lingering for a moment as if to pass on strength through the gesture. Valaena gave a weak smile before stepping back.

She turned to Jace, hugging him tightly. "Naejot se hūra se arlī lēkia," she whispered, their bond unspoken yet ever strong (To the moon and back brother).

Jace squeezed her hand in return, his expression sombre. "And to you, sister."

Next, she approached Luke, pulling him into her arms. She removed one of the beaded bracelets she wore and fastened it around his wrist.

"Naejot gaomagon ao ȳgha," she said softly, her voice full of affection. (To keep you safe).

Luke glanced down at the bracelet, his eyes wide with surprise and gratitude. "Thank you," he whispered.

Valaena gave him one last smile before stepping away, her heart heavy as she looked at her mother one last time, committing her face to memory.

Then without another word, she turned and descended the steps leading to the caverns where Silverwing awaited her.

Her pulse quickened with each step she took, her heart pounding against her chest as the cool air of the caverns greeted her. The sound of Silverwing shifting in her lair echoed in the distance

Valaena approached Silverwing, her dragon’s presence filling the cavern with a sense of calm and strength.

She ran her hand along the familiar, warm silver scales, the ridges rough beneath her fingers. “Zȳha jēda,” she whispered softly (It’s time).

Silverwing responded with a determined trill, her eyes glinting in the dim light of the cavern.

Without hesitation, she lowered her massive shoulder, allowing Valaena to climb up and into the saddle.

The motion was second nature now strapping herself in, she tightened her grip on the reins, her heart steady but her mind swirling.

"Sōves," she commanded, her voice strong, and with that, Silverwing lumbered out of the cavern, the ground shaking slightly beneath the dragon’s weight. (Fly).

The cool sea air hit them as they emerged, Silverwing spreading her great wings wide and pushing off the rocky outcrop with a powerful beat.

The rush of air roared in Valaena’s ears as they ascended, circling high above Dragonstone. The island's jagged cliffs and the roiling seas below looked small from their height.

The dark clouds and distant thunder mirrored the tension she felt in her chest.

Soon, she was joined by Jace on Vermax and Luke on Arrax on either side of her, their dragons majestic as they cut through the skies.

They were soon followed by Rhaenys on Meleys. Together, the four dragons flew in formation, their powerful wings moving in synchronized rhythm, the sound like distant thunder.

Valaena cast a glance at Jace and Luke, their figures resolute upon their dragons. Her heart clenched.

Let them be victorious, let them be safe.

One by one, they began to break off. Rhaenys on Meleys peeled away first, banking sharply to the east to patrol the Gullet.

Then Jace and Luke turned their dragons north. Valaena’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, knowing how important his mission was.

Valaena turned in her saddle, watching her brothers until they became distant specks against the horizon.

She whispered another prayer under her breath, hoping they would succeed in their tasks—and return unharmed.

With a deep breath, she refocused her mind. There was still much to do. Her own destination awaited, and Lord Borros Baratheon would not be an easy man to sway.

Aemond’s words from the night before echoed in her mind, his voice a low hum as she remembered the plan.

"You can do this” she whispered to herself.

Silverwing responded, her wings beating faster as they adjusted their course southward.

Valaena leaned forward, her eyes fixed ahead, as Dragonstone disappeared behind her.

The rain fell in sheets as Silverwing descended toward Storm’s End, her massive wings slicing through the storm-laden sky.

Valaena’s heart pounded in her chest as the dragon landed with a heavy thud, the ground trembling beneath her. She dismounted quickly, her boots splashing in the mud.

As her feet touched the ground, she reached out, running her hand along Silverwing’s warm, familiar scales.

The heat radiating from her dragon comforted her, the low, contented rumble from Silverwing reminding her she wasn’t alone.

But then, a deeper, more menacing growl echoed across the courtyard. Valaena froze. Her heart skipped a beat, and she slowly turned, her breath catching in her throat.

Vhagar.

The monstrous dragon loomed behind the castle walls, her hulking form visible even through the sheets of rain. If Vhagar was here, that could only mean one thing—Aemond was here, and everything was going according to his plan.

Valaena swallowed hard, her stomach knotting with anticipation and dread. She steeled herself, pushing away the swirl of emotions clawing at her insides. She could not afford to falter now.

The knights of Storm’s End approached her, their armour clinking softly as they trudged through the rain.

“I am Princess Valaena Velaryon, and I have a message for Lord Borros Baratheon, on behalf of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

The knight studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Come. Lord Borros Baratheon waits in the Great Hall."

Valaena cast a final glance back at Silverwing, before following the knights into the castle. The courtyard blurred around her as the rain soaked through her cloak and riding leathers.

The heavy wooden doors of Storm’s End slammed shut behind them with a resounding thud.

Inside, the Great Hall was dimly lit, the flickering torches casting long shadows across the stone walls.

Lord Borros sat on his makeshift throne, his figure round and imposing, his eyes sharp as they landed on the drenched princess before him.

“Princess Valaena of House Velaryon,” a herald announced, and all eyes in the hall turned toward her.

Her gaze shifted toward the side of the hall, where Aemond stood, his posture relaxed, his hands clasped behind his back.

He was speaking with one of Borros’s daughters, a striking young woman with dark hair and sharp eyes, who seemed completely captivated by him.

Valaena’s stomach churned with jealousy and anger—how dare that Baratheon bitch look at Aemond in such a way, he was her husband, and she was carrying his child.

Valaena took a deep breath and ignored the urge to go over there and slit that bitch from ear to ear, for even daring to look at Aemond in such a manner.

“Lord Borros, I have brought you a message from my mother—the Queen,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm brewing within her.

Borros chuckled, his voice booming through the hall. “Yet earlier today, I received an envoy from the King. Which is it—King or Queen? The House of the Dragon doesn’t seem to know who rules it!” His laughter was coarse, echoing in the dim hall.

Valaena glanced at Aemond, who smirked at her with a tilt of his head, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

Borros grew impatient. “Well, then. What’s your mother’s message?”

Valaena handed the scroll to one of the knights, who quickly passed it to Borros. The Lord of Storm’s End squinted at the parchment, frowning. He summoned a Maester to read the letter aloud.

As the Maester relayed Rhaenyra’s message, Valaena could feel Aemond’s eye burning into her, though she refused to look at him.

Her clothes were soaked through, and she stood in a small puddle of rainwater, feeling the weight of every gaze in the hall.

Once the Maester finished, Borros leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “Remind me of my father’s oath. King Aegon at least came with an offer: my swords and banners for a marriage pact. If I do as your mother bids, which of my daughters will your brothers wed?”

Valaena hesitated before answering. “My lord, I am afraid that only two of my brothers are of age, and neither is free to marry. They are already betrothed.”

Borros frowned, clearly unsatisfied. “And what of you, Princess?”

Her breath caught in her throat. "Me, my lord?"

Borros leaned forward, his interest piqued. “I no longer have a wife. You are of age to marry and, if you are anything like your mother, I am sure you will give me many sons.”

Valaena’s heart hammered in her chest, and she risked a glance at Aemond. His jaw clenched tightly, and his hand now rested on the pommel of his sword, his face a mask of barely contained fury at the Lord audacity.

“My lord, I am not free to marry either,” Valaena said, her voice firm. “My brother flies north to offer my hand in marriage to Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell.”

The hall fell silent. Aemond’s eye narrowed, his grip on his sword tightening. The Baratheon girl beside him looked perplexed, but Aemond paid her no mind.

His rage was palpable, radiating from him like a storm, his wife had just declared she had been betrothed to that northern dog.

Aemond had to force himself to calm down, they had a plan, and he had to stick to it, he couldn't let his possessiveness over Valaena ruin what they had practised.

Borros scoffed. “Then you come with empty hands. Tell your mother the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog she can whistle up at need.”

Valaena dipped her head in a polite bow. “I will take your answer to the Queen.”

As she turned to leave, the wind howled outside, and the storm raged even harder. But before she could take a step, Aemond’s voice cut through the hall like a blade. “Wait, my lady Strong.”

Valaena froze, her heart pounding.

“Did you really think you could fly about the realm, stealing my brother’s throne, without paying the cost?”

She turned to face him, her heart pounding. “I will not fight you,” she said. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

Aemond laughed, withdrawing a dagger from his belt and tossing it at her feet. “Fight would be little challenge. No, I want you to put out your eye. As payment for the one your bastard brother carved from my skull.”

Valaena’s voice was cold, unyielding. “It is not my debt to pay, besides I thought your claim of Vhagar was worth the loss of an eye, you yourself declared it was a fair exchange. Or is your hoary old bitch of a dragon no longer worth it?”

Aemond’s smirk faded. His face twisted with faux anger, her words cutting deep. “You dare speak of Vhagar that way?” he hissed. “You know nothing of what it means to command the largest dragon in the world-”

“Oh, I know a thing or two about dragons,” Valaena retorted. “Do you truly believe Vhagar could withstand a combined attack from Silverwing, Caraxes, and Meleys? She may be the largest, but even she is not invincible.”

Aemond simply stared at her, his expression unreadable as he processed her words.

"-You always seem so eager to remind everyone how large Vhagar is," said Vaelyssa, a sly smile playing on her lips. "-One might wonder if you're trying to overcompensate for other-smaller matters-"

Borros Baratheon’s other daughters who were huddled together beside their father clasped their hands to their mouths and let out a melodious giggle that echoed around the hall, the intent behind Valaena’s comment clear for all to understand.

Aemond charged toward her, picking up the dagger. “Give me your eye, or I will take it bastard!”

Before he could close the distance, Lord Borros quickly rose from his throne. “Not in my hall!” he roared.

Aemond came to a sudden halt, breathing heavily, his eye locked on Valaena.

“-The girl came as an envoy. I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Take Princess Valaena back to her dragon. Now”

Valaena was then surrounded by guards and as she cast Aemond a look and she saw him nod sharply and mouth a single word—go.

She nodded back before she turned and followed the guards out into the storm and back to Silverwing.

Then without a word, Aemond stormed out of the hall, his boots echoing off the stone floor with each purposeful step.

Lord Borros called out after him, his voice reverberating through the chamber, "Prince Aemond, wait!"

Aemond didn’t stop. His jaw clenched as he pushed past the guards and courtiers that crowded the entrance of Storm’s End, his mind singularly focused.

He wasn’t interested in what Borros had to say. His thoughts were consumed by Valaena and their plan.

Valaena rushed through the storm, her boots slipping slightly on the rain-soaked stones as she reached Silverwing.

Her hands found the dragon’s warm, wet scales, and she pressed her palms against them, feeling the steady rhythm of her companion’s breath.

“Dokimarvose, Silverwing,” Valaena murmured urgently, her voice barely audible over the howling wind. “Lykirī se Rȳbās, tāemītsos naejot se kȳvanon.” (Focus, be calm and listen. Stick to the plan).

Silverwing let out a soft trill, her massive body shifting slightly as if to acknowledge the words. Valaena quickly climbed into the saddle, the leather straps slippery beneath her fingers. She fastened herself in, securing the reins tightly in her gloved hands.

With a deep breath, she shouted, “Sōves!” (Fly!)

Silverwing spread her wings and launched into the sky with powerful strokes, the wind and rain battering them as they ascended through the storm.

Valaena clenched her jaw against the force of the gale, her heart pounding in her chest. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the swirling clouds as they climbed higher and higher.

But then, a roar echoed through the storm, deep and earth-shaking. Valaena twisted in her saddle.

Through the thick clouds, she saw the hulking form of Vhagar chasing after them.

Tugging on the reins, she leaned hard to the left and shouted, “Aderī, Silverwing! Elēnās geptot!” (Quickly, bank left!)

Silverwing responded instantly, banking sharply to the left, her wings slicing through the rain. But Vhagar followed with terrifying persistence.

“Embrot!” Valaena shouted next, her voice straining against the wind. (Down!)

Silverwing tucked her wings tight against her body and dove sharply, cutting through the clouds like a blade.

The sudden dive gave them a burst of speed, and Vhagar, being as large as she was, couldn’t move as swiftly. Valaena glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see the growing distance between them.

The time had come to carry out Aemond’s plan, the only way they could be together, she just hoped her mother in time would understand why this had to happen.

Valaena tugged on the reins and commanded, “Pālegon!” (Turn!)

Silverwing arched through the air, twisting around to face Vhagar once more. The massive dragon loomed ahead, her wings spread wide, dark against the stormy sky.

Valaena braced herself, quickly hooking the spare strap from her saddle to her waist, making sure it was secure.

She reached for the chain that held her dragon-scaled cloak in place, tearing it from her shoulders and letting it fly off into the wind, the heavy fabric disappearing into the storm.

“Gīda, Silverwing” Valaena whispered, her voice calm despite the pounding of her heart. (Steady.)

Silverwing steadied her flight as they closed in on Vhagar, the two dragons hovering in the sky, locked in a face-off.

Rain poured down in torrents, streaking across Valaena’s face, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on Aemond.

He was there, atop Vhagar, as he raised his voice and yelled, “Drakarys!”

The word reverberated through the air, and flames erupted from Vhagar’s massive jaws, a torrent of fire rushing toward them.

But Valaena was ready as she shouted with all her might, “Drakarys!”

Silverwing answered her call, unleashing a blaze of fire in return. The two dragons’ flames met in the air, clashing in a violent explosion of heat and light.

The storm around them was momentarily drowned out by the roar of the fire, illuminating the dark sky as the two mighty beasts faced each other

TBC

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #hotd fic #aemond one eye #aemond x oc #aemond #prince aemond #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #prince aemond targaryen

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novaursa · 4 months ago

Text

The Price of Fire (6)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: If you wish to read all the parts of this story, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

-Rating: Explicit 18+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 5

- Next part: 7

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy

The flickering light from the torches casts ominous shadows across the walls of the Red Keep’s council chamber. The air is filled with dread and the metallic scent of incense mingles with the faint aroma of wine. The small council is seated around the long oak table, faces stern and expectant, as they await the king’s arrival. Whispers of conversations linger, drowned by the soft rustle of parchment and the distant clatter of steel as Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan stand vigil at the door.

The heavy doors swing open, and King Aerys enters, a brooding figure wrapped in the darkness of his own madness. His unkempt silver hair spills over his shoulders like a tarnished crown, and his violet eyes, once regal, now gleam with a feverish edge. He sweeps into his seat with a manic energy, the meeting commencing with a tension that hums in the room like a taut bowstring.

Tywin Lannister, seated with that practiced air of authority, eyes the king with the precision of a predator measuring its prey. His voice, cold and clipped, is the first to break the silence. “Your Grace, marriage proposals for Prince Rhaegar continue to flood in. There are those who still favor the union with House Lannister—”

Before Tywin can finish, Symond Staunton, a wisp of a man with thin, graying hair and a face like old parchment, interjects. “It is true, Lord Tywin, but there is greater wisdom in forging a bond with Dorne. Lady Elia Martell has strong connections in the south, and the Prince would be well-matched with her. The Dornish are fiercely loyal, and—”

“Loyalty from those who would do nothing but sully the prince’s blood with their lesser lineages,” Tywin cuts in, a sneer curling his lips. “The Martells are beneath what House Targaryen deserves.”

Before another word is spoken, Lord Lucerys Velaryon’s voice rings out, measured and full of conviction. “The Dornish alliance has its merits, Lord Tywin. But you are blind if you dismiss them so easily. Elia Martell’s bloodline may not match the legacy of House Velaryon or House Targaryen, but they are allies who know when to stand with strength. We cannot ignore the balance of power the marriage would bring.”

The discussion spirals into back-and-forth bickering, each lord trying to sway the king’s attention. All the while, Prince Rhaegar sits silently, his eyes cast downward, hands clasped in front of him as though praying for the gods to deliver him from this madness. The only flicker of emotion in his gaze is when your name drifts into the conversation, slipping in like a viper’s hiss.

It is Varys who speaks your name, his voice a smooth whisper that glides through the chamber. “Your Grace, might I suggest a proposal that has already been placed before the council in times past, one that Prince Rhaegar himself once hinted at? A union within the royal family, as it has been tradition, might ensure not only the purity of the bloodline but also strengthen the ties between your daughter, Princess Y/N, and the Crown.”

The effect is immediate. Aerys’ eyes snap toward the eunuch, a crazed, gleaming interest dancing in his gaze. He leans forward, almost conspiratorial. “Y/N… Yes, yes. My own daughter, kept close. Bound to the throne, where she belongs. No lesser lord is worthy of her.”

Rhaegar stiffens ever so slightly, a subtle tightening of his grip on his hands as he dares to glance at his father. But he says nothing, his face a practiced mask of calm, though those who know him well would recognize the torment simmering beneath. His mind is likely already racing—thoughts of the promises he made to you and Arthur, the private words exchanged in moonlit gardens where the walls had ears and love was a fragile, dangerous thing.

Tywin scoffs, loud and derisive, shattering the king’s moment of reflection. “You would have your son wed his sister when alliances with the wealthiest and most powerful lords are at your feet, Your Grace? It is madness.”

The room falls deadly silent at Tywin’s audacity. Even Ser Jaime’s eyes flicker with uncertainty, though his face remains impassive. Aerys’ expression darkens, fingers drumming against the wood as he glares at the Hand of the King. “Madness, you say?” he hisses, voice laced with venom. “It is you who would see my bloodline sullied with your golden-haired brood, Tywin. I will not allow it. My daughter—my jewel—will not be squandered.”

Varys, ever the shadow, interjects softly. “It is not madness, my lord. It is strength. The realm respects power, and what greater power than a dragon bound to another dragon? Y/N would not need to leave the Keep. She could remain under your protection, Your Grace, where no one would dare conspire against you through her.”

Pycelle, a toad-like presence at the table, nods sagely. “The history of the Targaryens is built upon such unions. The legacy of Old Valyria… it endures through such bonds.”

Rhaegar finally raises his eyes, and when he speaks, his voice is calm but edged with steel. “Father, I have always held that Y/N is deserving of more than to be used as a mere tool in the games of men. If it is your wish to keep her close, then let it be done, but let her also choose her path with dignity.”

Aerys’ gaze narrows, his thoughts a chaotic storm, but he is clearly intrigued by the idea. “You speak as if you would protect her, Rhaegar. Is this what you desire? To marry your sister as it was done in ages past? To have her by your side?”

Rhaegar’s pause is deliberate, calculated. He meets his father’s gaze, voice steady. “If it means she is kept from harm, then yes, Father, it is what I desire.”

The king’s laughter is a cruel, crackling sound, his mood volatile and unpredictable. “Then it may yet be. I will decide what is best for my daughter.” His voice lowers to a near whisper, eyes glittering with dark intent. “She is mine to give, as I see fit.”

As the meeting draws to a close, the lords exchange wary glances, knowing the king’s whims are as fickle as the flames he so loves to watch consume his enemies. But in this chamber, you are the invisible thread that pulls at the edges of ambition, loyalty, and madness. Rhaegar remains seated, eyes fixed on the table, a man who walks a razor’s edge between duty and brother’s love that drives him to protect you—at any cost.

And somewhere within the Red Keep, in the silence of a hidden alcove or the shadows of a quiet garden, you wait, unaware of the storm your name has stirred among the powerful and the damned alike.

The echo of boots striking stone reverberates through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep as Rhaegar moves with determined purpose. His mind is a tempest of conflicting emotions—anger, anxiety, and a deep-seated fear that gnaws at him like a starving wolf. Ser Barristan Selmy walks a respectful step behind him, silent and vigilant as always. The knight’s sharp eyes flicker between the darkened alcoves and shadowed corners, but it is not an assassin they fear in this moment—it is a whisper, a rumor, the delicate thread of secrets that could unravel everything.

Rhaegar’s silver hair shimmers under the torchlight as he rounds a corner, his steps quickening. He knows where to find Varys; the spymaster is as predictable as he is cunning, often retreating to the hidden chambers beneath the Keep after council meetings. Rhaegar’s fists clench at his sides as he spots the familiar figure slipping down a narrow stairwell.

“Varys,” Rhaegar’s voice rings out, clear and commanding, echoing off the cold stone walls. The spymaster pauses, then turns with that same eerie calm that always unsettles those who face him. His expression is one of mild curiosity, as if he has been expecting this conversation.

“Your Grace,” Varys says smoothly, inclining his head with a hint of mock deference. “What an unexpected honor to be sought out by the Prince himself.”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrow, every word he speaks measured and deliberate. “You mentioned my sister’s name during the council meeting. Why? What is your true intent in drawing attention to her in such a dangerous way?”

Varys’s expression remains inscrutable, his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his robes as he offers a serene smile. “I have no intent but the safety and wellbeing of the Princess, Your Grace. You care for her deeply, as do I. Surely we both seek to protect her from the treacherous currents that swirl through this court.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightens as he steps closer, his voice lowering to a cold whisper. “Do not play coy with me, Varys. You know exactly what you’re doing. My sister’s safety should not be bartered as a piece in this game. What do you stand to gain by placing her at the center of these discussions?”

Varys’s eyes glitter, and though his tone remains light, there is an edge of something darker beneath. “I gain nothing, my prince. But it is not I who endangers her. The whispers in court, the hungry eyes of those who would use her for their own advantage—they are the threat. By suggesting a union between you and the Princess, I merely shield her from more nefarious designs.”

Rhaegar scoffs, frustration seeping into his tone. “Shield her? You bring more attention to her, and you know how volatile our father is. He already watches her too closely. What do you hope to achieve by binding her fate to mine?”

Varys tilts his head, as if weighing his words carefully before responding. “Forgive me if I overstep, but I believe you already know the answer to that question, Your Grace. The king’s mind is... unpredictable, but his possessiveness over his daughter is unwavering. Keeping her close in a manner that both secures her honor and the Crown’s interests is, perhaps, the only way to prevent any... unfortunate rumors from spreading.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens, a storm brewing in his violet eyes. “Rumors? Speak plainly, Varys.”

The spymaster’s smile widens, but there’s a knowing look beneath his carefully cultivated mask of servility. “You care for your sister. So does Ser Arthur Dayne, does he not?”

The name lingers in the air like a drawn blade. Rhaegar’s heart pounds, his hand flexing unconsciously as if reaching for a sword he doesn’t carry. The implication is clear, the unspoken truth hanging heavy between them.

“You’re suggesting that my sister’s honor is in jeopardy,” Rhaegar says, his voice barely above a whisper, yet each word drips with a cold warning.

Varys’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, though his tone remains innocent, almost regretful. “I would never be so bold as to make such an accusation, Your Grace. But this court has eyes in every shadow and ears in every corner. Your sister is precious to many, and the attention she garners... can be misconstrued. Ensuring that she is wedded to a man who values her, who understands the importance of her standing, would silence those whispers before they take root. And who better to protect her than you, the brother who has always shielded her?”

Rhaegar’s mind reels, the weight of Varys’s words crashing down on him. He thinks of you—his only sister, and the nights when you had confided your fears to him in whispers. And then there is Arthur, the man Rhaegar respects more than any other, who has been by his side through every battle and who, Rhaegar knows, loves you with a passion that is both fierce and dangerous.

The prince’s voice is rough as he responds. “You’re using her to manipulate me. Do not think I don’t see it. But know this—if you push too far, if any harm comes to her because of your machinations, no one will be able to protect you. Not even the shadows you hide in.”

Varys’s smile never falters, but there is a flicker of something in his eyes—a glimpse of fear or perhaps admiration. “I live to serve the realm, Your Grace. And if keeping your sister safe also ensures your own security, then I will consider it a worthy endeavor. But heed this: Ser Arthur may be loyal, but the world is not kind to those whose love defies what is expected. A marriage to you would silence any talk of impropriety. It is a solution that benefits all, would you not agree?”

Rhaegar turns away, fists clenched as he struggles with the turmoil inside him. He knows Varys is right in a way that makes his blood boil. Marrying you would be the only way to keep your honor intact, to shield you from the ravenous wolves of the court. But it is a solution that comes at a cost—one that would bind you both to a life neither of you chose.

Without another word, Rhaegar strides down the corridor, Ser Barristan close behind. He needs time to think, to plan. But one thing is clear: he will not allow Varys, or anyone else, to dictate your fate. You are his sister, his responsibility, and he will protect you—no matter the cost. Even if it means sacrificing the love you share with another, a love that burns bright in the shadows where only the most dangerous of secrets dare to tread.

The gardens of the Red Keep are alive with the soft hum of bees flitting between blossoms and the gentle rustle of leaves in the summer breeze. Sunlight spills through the high branches, dappling the ground with patches of gold. You walk along the gravel paths with your handmaidens trailing behind, their laughter a light melody that mingles with the song of the distant fountains. It should be a serene moment, a reprieve from the suffocating intrigues of the court, but your thoughts are restless.

You stoop by a patch of flowers—delicate blue petals fringed with silver—and pluck one carefully. You roll it between your fingers, its softness reminding you of something more precious, more fleeting than even these quiet moments. From the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of polished steel reflecting the sun. Arthur stands near the edge of the garden, half-hidden in the shadows beneath a tree, his attention supposedly focused on his duty. But you know him better than that.

The handmaidens’ chatter grows more animated, distracted by some trivial gossip, and you seize the opportunity. With practiced grace, you drift closer to Arthur, your movements casual and unhurried. He watches you from beneath the rim of his helmet, his expression impassive to anyone else who might be watching. But there’s a flicker of warmth in his gray-lilac eyes—eyes that mirror your own violet ones, save for the quiet fire that only you can coax into a blaze.

You stop just within reach, turning slightly so the handmaidens don’t notice your proximity to him. As though admiring the flowers around you, you reach up with the small bloom still in your fingers and tuck it into a gap in his armor, just above his heart. His lips twitch into a faint smile, amusement dancing in his gaze. “A gift, my lady?” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a breath.

You glance at him, your own smile hidden behind the practiced serenity you wear like a veil. “It suits you, Ser Arthur. Perhaps it will remind you of the softness behind the steel,” you reply, equally soft, the words layered with more than their surface meaning.

His smile lingers, a rare thing for him in a place like this. “I have never needed reminding, Y/N,” he says, the sincerity of his words settling between you like a secret oath.

Before you can respond, your handmaidens call out, dragging your attention away with giggles and questions about the flowers and the latest court gossip. You cast a quick, regretful glance back at Arthur, and he offers you a small, almost imperceptible nod—a silent acknowledgment of the connection that binds you, even in these brief moments stolen from the world.

The garden soon returns to its usual rhythm, the clatter of distant hooves and the laughter of courtiers echoing from the nearby corridors. You try to immerse yourself in the conversation, nodding and responding as required, but your thoughts remain with Arthur and the unspoken words that passed between you.

It’s then that you hear the measured footsteps of someone else entering the garden, the swish of rich fabric announcing their presence before they even speak. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Cersei Lannister’s arrival is always accompanied by that distinct air of arrogance, thinly veiled beneath a pleasant smile. You force your own expression into one of polite welcome as you turn to greet her.

“Princess Y/N,” Cersei says with an almost saccharine sweetness, inclining her head in greeting. “I hope I’m not intruding. I thought I might join you for a walk, if you would have me.”

You smile, though it barely reaches your eyes. “Lady Cersei, you are always welcome,” you say, the words smooth but hollow. You’ve long since learned to play this game.

Cersei steps closer, her gown trailing elegantly behind her as she links her arm with yours. She makes a show of admiring the flowers, but you can feel the calculation behind every move she makes. She’s here for one reason, and you both know it.

“I hear the gardens are Rhaegar’s favorite place for reflection,” she says, her tone light but laced with an unmistakable intent. “It must be lovely to have such serene surroundings for your family. Perhaps I might see him here one day.”

You keep your expression composed, but inside, your irritation simmers. You know exactly what Cersei is doing—every word, every feigned smile is a step toward getting closer to your brother. She’s as ambitious as her father, and her desire to secure Rhaegar as her husband is no secret since she arrived during the festival. And now she’s using you to further that goal.

“Rhaegar finds peace wherever he can,” you reply diplomatically. “The burdens of the crown weigh heavily on him. I doubt he has time to simply stroll through gardens.” Your words are a subtle warning, one you know she’ll choose to ignore.

Cersei’s smile tightens ever so slightly. “A pity. I imagine the right company might lift his spirits.”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, your mind racing as you consider how best to deflect her without giving away too much. “He finds solace in music and books more than idle conversation, I’m afraid. But should I see him, I’ll be sure to mention your interest in sharing his company.”

Her green eyes flash, catching the subtle barbs beneath your words, but she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she laughs lightly, a sound that feels rehearsed. “You’re too kind, Princess. I’m sure you understand what it’s like to carry the hopes of your family on your shoulders.”

Before you can respond, your handmaidens, oblivious to the undercurrents of tension, pull you away to show you something among the flowers. You excuse yourself from Cersei with a practiced curtsy and a gracious smile, but inside you’re relieved to have a moment away from her scheming presence.

As you walk away, you can feel her eyes on you, sharp and calculating. Cersei Lannister may wear the mask of a courteous lady, but you see the ambition beneath—the hunger to be queen, to wield power, and to use any means necessary to get what she wants. You know she sees you as a mere stepping stone to her goal, and while you might be willing to play along for now, you will not be used in her game.

Your thoughts drift back to Arthur, to the fleeting moment of warmth in the midst of all this cold calculation.

The sun begins its descent, casting shadows across the stone walls as you make your way back into the Keep. Your handmaidens chat animatedly behind you, oblivious to the tension that knots in your stomach. Ser Arthur walks beside you, his presence, as always, a silent anchor in the growing unease you feel with every step closer to the heart of the castle. The closer you get, the more the familiar scent of smoke and something acrid begins to fill the air—a smell that turns your blood cold.

Your footsteps slow as you near the throne room’s vast, looming doors, the heavy sound of voices carrying from within. The torchlight flickers, casting eerie siluethes as you hear the distinct crackle of fire and the low murmurs of the crowd inside. The doors are open just wide enough for you to glimpse the grand chamber filled with courtiers, their eyes fixed on the spectacle unfolding near the Iron Throne.

You recognize the scene at once, and dread pools in your gut like ice water. King Aerys stands before the Iron Throne, flanked by pyromancers dressed in their dark robes, their hands outstretched toward a brazier where several dragon eggs, turned to stone over the ages, rest on beds of smoldering coals. The flames dance wildly, manipulated by the green-tinted powders the pyromancers cast into the fire. The court is packed, hundreds of nobles watching with bated breath, some in eager fascination, others in thinly veiled horror.

Ser Arthur moves slightly in front of you, as if to block your path, his voice low and urgent. “We should find another way, my lady. This is not something you need to witness.”

But it’s too late. Aerys’s head snaps up, and those fever-bright violet eyes find you across the room. His face twists into something that might be a smile—or a grimace. “There she is, my precious jewel! Come, daughter. Witness history in the making.”

The words hang in the air, and every eye in the throne room turns toward you. You feel the weight of their stares—curious, expectant, and some even pitying. The courtiers part like the sea as you step forward, masking your hesitation with a graceful bow of your head. Inside, every muscle tenses as you try to gauge what mood your father is in. You’ve seen this spectacle before—each attempt more desperate than the last, each failure driving him deeper into his madness.

“Father,” you greet him softly, your voice steady, though your heart races. You approach the throne, your steps light and deliberate. Each pace forward is a dance on the edge of a precipice. You feel Arthur’s presence just behind you, his every move like a shadow to your own, though you know he must hold his position near the Kingsguard—Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold Hightower already standing sentinel near the throne.

“Closer, closer!” Aerys beckons, his voice a sharp bark as he extends an arm toward you. “See how the fires burn brighter in your presence, child. Perhaps you will be the key, the one to awaken the dragons of old!”

You force a tight smile, hoping it appears genuine, as you step to his side. The heat from the brazier is intense, waves of it rolling over you, making your skin prickle with discomfort. The pyromancers chant softly, adding more powders to the flames, causing the fire to flare with green and yellow sparks. The dragon eggs, blackened and cracked from countless attempts, remain cold and lifeless.

“The blood of the dragon flows strong in you,” Aerys continues, his voice lilting into that dangerous sing-song tone he adopts when he’s teetering on the edge. “Perhaps the fire in your veins will be enough to wake them. Yes, yes, place your hand near the flames, my daughter. Do you not feel the call of our ancestors?”

You swallow, pushing down the rising dread. Every eye in the room remains fixed on you, the silence suffocating. You can sense the unease in the courtiers, even those who hide their discomfort behind practiced smiles. But you know better than to refuse your father in this state. Slowly, you extend your hand, holding it near the brazier, feeling the scorching heat lick at your skin but never touching it. The air wavers with the intensity of the fire, but the eggs remain still, unyielding as stone.

Aerys’s eyes gleam with a wild hope, a manic anticipation that threatens to snap at any moment. You know this pattern well. You’ve seen how quickly that hope can twist into rage, how the king’s mood can darken like a gathering storm when reality does not bend to his delusions.

“Nothing… nothing…” he mutters under his breath as the flames sputter and die down to embers. His gaze shifts from the brazier to you, his expression tightening. “Why do they not stir? Why?” His voice grows sharp, accusatory.

You steel yourself, forcing calm into your voice. “Perhaps the dragons sleep still, Father. The fire may not be enough this time.”

His eyes narrow, suspicion flickering in their depths, but before his paranoia can take root, one of the pyromancers steps forward with trembling hands. “Your Grace, it may take more time, more heat… We must be patient.”

Aerys rounds on the man, fury twisting his features. “Patience? I have given them years! Centuries, it seems!” He raises a hand as if to strike the pyromancer, but then his gaze snaps back to you, and the gesture halts. The rage fades as quickly as it came, replaced with a grotesque affection. He reaches out to cup your cheek with a hand that feels cold and brittle despite the warmth of the room. “You are the key, my jewel. You will see the dragons rise again. You will see our family reborn in fire and blood.”

You nod, not daring to speak, not trusting your voice to remain steady. You can feel the tension in the room, the shared relief that the king’s anger has not turned fully on you, at least not yet. But that could change in a heartbeat. You bow your head slightly, signaling your submission, and he finally releases you, his attention turning back to the eggs as if willing them to crack open by sheer force of will.

Arthur steps forward, positioning himself near Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold. The three of them exchange brief, tense glances, ready to act should Aerys’s mood shift dangerously once again. You can sense Arthur’s worry even without looking at him, the way he watches you out of the corner of his eye, prepared to intervene if needed. But all he can do now is stand silent and vigilant, a loyal knight bound by duty even as his heart wars with it.

The tension in the room lingers, thick as smoke, as Aerys waves a dismissive hand. “Enough!” he snaps. “Take them away. They will hatch when they are ready—when the time is right!” His voice trembles on the edge of a delusion, but the court obeys swiftly. The pyromancers bow and retreat, gathering the eggs and disappearing through the back entrance.

The courtiers begin to murmur, the moment passed, but you remain where you are, your heart still pounding. Aerys leans back in his throne, muttering to himself about fire, dragons, and forgotten magic. You take a step back, ready to return to your chambers and escape this madness.

But before you can, Aerys calls out once more, softer this time, almost tender. “My daughter, stay close. We have much to discuss. The future of our house lies with you.”

The room feels even colder despite the lingering heat of the flames. You nod, your throat dry. “Of course, Father,” you manage, offering him a faint smile as you move to stand beside him once more.

In your mind, you send a silent prayer to whatever gods might listen that the king’s mood remains stable, that this day does not end in violence or terror. Arthur’s eyes never leave you, a silent reassurance that he is near, even as you step deeper into the shadow of your father’s ever-growing madness.

The Iron Throne looms above you like a monstrous beast, jagged swords twisted into a towering mass of cruelty and conquest. Its shadow swallows the chamber, deepening the gloom that clings to every corner of the room. You swallow hard, keeping your face carefully composed, masking the fear that prickles at your skin as your father’s voice rings out once more, sharper this time, insistent.

“Come closer, daughter. Do not be afraid,” Aerys commands, his tone a poisonous mixture of affection and madness. The courtiers fall silent, the air thick with anticipation, as all eyes turn to you once again.

You keep your steps measured and deliberate, focusing on each footfall as you ascend the steps toward the throne. The steel swords of fallen enemies, twisted and rusted, cut through the air like spectral hands reaching out to snatch at you. The closer you get, the more you notice the crimson stains on the edges, not from the wars of old, but fresh—your father’s blood. The sharp blades have left small gashes across his arms, his hands, even his face. His silver hair is matted against his temples, streaked with dried blood. But it’s his eyes that unnerve you most—the wild, feverish gleam of a man caught between dreams and nightmares.

You stop when you’re near enough that you can feel the chill of the iron radiating off the throne, every instinct telling you not to go closer. But Aerys leans forward, waving you in with a spindly hand that trembles with urgency. “Closer, my daughter, closer,” he croons, his fingers twitching as though he wants to reach out and seize you.

You bite the inside of your cheek, steeling yourself as you step closer, stopping just within arm’s reach of him. “Father, I’m here,” you say softly, your voice controlled, though your heart hammers in your chest. “What is it you wish to speak of?”

His eyes narrow, studying you as though searching for something in your face—something only he can see. “You are the brightest jewel in our crown,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly tender. “The blood of the dragon runs pure in your veins, and you will be the one to continue our line. You, not the usurpers who circle like vultures waiting for my fall.” He reaches out and grips your arm, his nails digging into your flesh, the force of it surprising you. “You will do as I command, won’t you? You will obey your king?”

You force yourself to nod, hiding the discomfort as his grip tightens. “Of course, Father. Always.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch the subtle shift of movement among the Kingsguard. Ser Jaime Lannister’s lips twitch into a smirk as he watches the exchange with barely contained amusement, as though the whole thing is nothing more than a farce for his entertainment. But his eyes flick briefly toward Arthur, who stands tense and stone-faced, his jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. The sight of you so close to Aerys, within reach of those jagged swords and his unpredictable temper, clearly unnerves him.

Jaime’s whisper carries to Ser Gerold Hightower, the words laced with amusement. “It seems Ser Arthur doesn’t enjoy watching our little princess in the dragon’s den. He looks ready to leap forward at the slightest twitch from our good king.”

Gerold’s eyes remain forward, but there’s an unmistakable edge to his voice as he murmurs back, “Quiet, Jaime. Mind your tongue. This is no jest, and you would do well to remember that.”

Jaime’s smirk fades only slightly, but he falls silent, though his gaze remains fixed on Arthur, as if savoring the tension. The Dance of Dragons may have ended long ago, but Jaime seems keen to witness a different kind of dance—the one playing out between Arthur’s duty and his hidden emotions.

Aerys, oblivious to the whispers of his guards, pulls you even closer, his breath hot and acrid as he leans in, his eyes boring into yours. “They think they can take everything from me, but they cannot take you,” he hisses, his voice a low, venomous whisper. “You belong to me, just as the throne does. I’ll not let them tear us apart.” His grip slackens slightly, as though his mind drifts somewhere distant, before he snaps back to focus, eyes narrowing once again. “You will marry as I command. You will strengthen our house. You are the key to it all.”

Your stomach churns, the cold weight of dread settling deeper within you. His words, his tone, they carry the dangerous edge of a plan forming in his fractured mind—a plan that might involve you as a pawn, a sacrificial piece in the twisted game of power he plays. You’ve seen this look in his eyes before, the glint of obsession and control. The words he says are a riddle, but you know better than to question him now, not here, not with so many watching.

“Of course, Father,” you reply, keeping your voice soothing, placating. “I will always do what is best for our house.”

Aerys releases you suddenly, as though satisfied, and slumps back into his throne, muttering to himself once more about fire and blood, about dragons that refuse to wake. You take a careful step back, then another, relieved to put distance between you and the jagged blades that surround him.

Arthur moves discreetly closer as you descend the steps, his gaze locked on you with concern barely masked beneath the rigid stoicism of a knight. “Are you well, my lady?” he asks quietly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

You manage a nod, though your hands are trembling slightly. “I am,” you lie, offering him a faint, strained smile. But you can see in his eyes that he knows the truth. He always does.

Ser Jaime’s voice cuts through the murmurs in the hall, his tone laced with dry humor. “It’s a wonder the throne doesn’t consume him whole one day, with how he insists on bleeding over it like some offering to the gods.”

Arthur shoots Jaime a sharp look, his usual control slipping for just a moment. “Show respect, Lannister. You serve the king, as do we all.”

Jaime raises a brow, clearly enjoying the tension, but Ser Gerold steps in with a quiet command. “Enough. We have a duty, and it’s not to indulge in petty remarks.”

You draw in a steadying breath, regaining your composure as the court begins to disperse, the spectacle over for now. But even as the noise of the crowd grows, you can’t shake the unease that clings to you, the feeling that this encounter was merely a prelude to something far more dangerous. You can still feel the phantom grip of your father’s hand on your arm, the desperation in his eyes.

Arthur remains at your side as you leave the throne room, his presence a comfort in the midst of this madness. But even his silent support can’t chase away the dark thoughts that cloud your mind. Your father’s words echo within you—words that hold a promise and a threat all at once.

You only hope that whatever he plans, you’ll have the strength and the allies to survive it. And in the depths of your mind, you fear that the price of his plans might be higher than anyone is willing to pay.

Rhaegar’s footsteps echo ominously through the cold, winding halls of the Red Keep as he strides toward his father’s chambers. His usually calm demeanor is barely held in check, fury simmering beneath his pale skin like the fire that never truly sleeps within the blood of the dragon. He has lived his life balancing between duty and his own desires, but today, hearing of the spectacle in the throne room, something within him snaps.

When he reaches the chamber doors, they are flanked by two nervous guards who stiffen as he approaches. They share a glance, as if silently debating whether to announce him, but the intensity in Rhaegar’s violet eyes leaves no room for hesitation. They step aside immediately, pushing open the doors to allow him entry.

Inside, the room is shrouded in shadows despite the flickering candles and the low-burning hearth. King Aerys is seated near the far side of the chamber, hunched over as he murmurs to himself, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm on the armrest of his chair like he always does. His figure is draped in black robes, the rich fabric stained with old wine and flecks of blood—his own, no doubt from where the Iron Throne bit into him yet again. Aerys doesn’t look up as Rhaegar enters; his attention is consumed by whatever mad thoughts are swirling in his fevered mind.

But Rhaegar’s presence cannot be ignored for long. “Father,” he says, his voice steely with restrained anger. “We need to speak.”

Aerys’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as they focus on his son. There is a flash of recognition, followed by suspicion. “Ah, Rhaegar,” he hisses, the name dripping with equal parts derision and warped affection. “Come to lecture me, have you? To question your king? Or perhaps you’re here to bow at the feet of greatness, knowing what I shall accomplish.”

Rhaegar takes a steadying breath, holding back the words that surge to his lips. He knows confronting his father is a delicate game, one where a single misstep could provoke a wrath as unpredictable as wildfire. But this is about you, and Rhaegar won’t be silent.

“What I’ve come to do, Father, is remind you that my sister—your daughter—is not a toy to be used in your mad attempts to hatch dead dragon eggs,” Rhaegar says, his tone measured but fierce. “What happened in the throne room was nothing short of cruelty.”

Aerys’s eyes blaze with sudden fury, and he rises from his chair with an unsteady lurch. “Cruelty? Cruelty is what they did to our ancestors when they tore dragons from the skies and butchered them! I am trying to restore what was lost, to awaken the power that rightfully belongs to us!” His voice cracks as it rises in pitch, his hands shaking with rage. “You call it madness, but it is you who are blind, Rhaegar! You cower behind your songs and your books while I reach for greatness!”

Rhaegar steps closer, refusing to back down. “You’re delusional, Father. These dragon eggs are nothing but stone, and no amount of pyromancers or desperate prayers will change that. But dragging Y/N into your obsessions—putting her at risk—cannot be allowed to continue.”

Aerys’s face twists into something grotesque, his lips peeling back into a mockery of a smile. “You think you can dictate terms to me? I am the king! I will decide who is sacrificed for the good of our house! And Y/N—she is mine to command, mine to wield as I see fit.”

“You speak of her as if she’s an object,” Rhaegar spits, his own temper slipping free, the cold rage in his eyes matching the heat in his voice. “She is your daughter, not some pawn to be used in your schemes. And I won’t stand by and let you ruin her with your madness.”

Aerys’s expression flickers, the fury giving way to something more insidious—calculating and dangerous. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You forget your place, Rhaegar. You think you can save her? You think you can protect her from what I choose for her? Perhaps I should have taken her for myself, as was the way of our ancestors. Perhaps then you would understand what it means to preserve the bloodline.” His eyes glint with something unholy, a twisted hunger, and Rhaegar’s blood runs cold.

The air crackles with tension, and for a moment, Rhaegar considers the sword at his hip. But he knows that drawing steel here would only lead to bloodshed—bloodshed that would change nothing, except to plunge the realm into chaos.

Instead, Rhaegar speaks through gritted teeth, his voice laced with quiet defiance. “You will not have her. I won’t let you destroy what little humanity you have left by dragging her into your madness. She is more than just your daughter—she’s the only reason the court hasn’t torn itself apart.”

Aerys laughs, a shrill, grating sound that echoes off the stone walls. “She is mine, as are you. You think you can defy me? You think the lords will follow you if you move against me? They all cower and scrape before the throne, and so will you.”

Rhaegar meets his father’s gaze, unflinching. “I don’t need their approval, nor yours. I’ll protect Y/N, even if it means going against you, Father.”

Aerys’s eyes narrow, and his voice drops to a hiss. “You’ll protect her by doing exactly as I command. You’ll marry her if that is what I decide. And you’ll do so with a smile, just as you’ve smiled through every indignity this crown has laid upon you.”

Rhaegar’s breath catches in his throat. He expected this, but hearing it aloud sends a jolt of cold reality through him. His father’s madness is now bound to entangle you both, drawing you into a fate neither of you wanted but one that might be the only way to keep you safe. The bitter irony of it twists in his gut.

Before he can respond, Aerys leans back, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “You think you’re clever, boy, but you’re as much a slave to this crown as the rest of us. You will do what’s required, or I’ll see to it that Y/N pays the price.”

Rhaegar’s fists tighten until his knuckles turn white. There is nothing left to say. He knows he cannot reason with a man so far gone, but he also knows he won’t let his father’s threats go unanswered. Without another word, he turns and leaves, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding echo.

As he strides down the corridor, his mind races. He has to find a way to protect you, to shield you from the king’s madness, even if it means embracing a path he swore he would never take. But deep down, he knows that the storm gathering within the Red Keep is only just beginning—and you are at the heart of it.

In the hidden recesses of the Red Keep, deep within a forgotten corridor, a secluded chamber lies veiled by shadow and silence. The stones are cold beneath your bare feet, but the heat between you and Arthur makes the air crackle with a warmth that banishes the chill. You’ve slipped away from the prying eyes of court, finding a rare moment where neither of you is expected, your absence unnoticed for a fleeting hour. The heavy wooden door to the chamber creaks shut, closing off the world and leaving only the two of you in this sanctuary of stolen time.

Arthur’s hands are on you the moment the door is locked, his touch both tender and urgent as he draws you into his arms. His breath is warm against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. The tension of the day melts away in the press of his body against yours, the familiar strength of his arms encircling your waist. There’s an unspoken need in the way he holds you, a hunger fueled by the uncertainty that haunts your every waking moment in this treacherous court.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, your name a prayer on his lips as he kisses a path from your jaw to your mouth. His voice is thick with desire, tinged with something deeper—fear, perhaps, or desperation. He knows as well as you do that each time you meet like this could be the last.

You respond without words, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer, your mouth capturing his in a kiss that is fierce and unyielding. There’s no space for hesitation, only the burning need to feel something real in a world that constantly threatens to strip you of everything. His hands move to your back, finding the laces of your gown and pulling them loose with practiced ease. The fabric slides down your shoulders, pooling at your feet, and you shiver, not from the cold, but from the thrill of being laid bare before him.

His eyes darken with hunger as they drink in the sight of you, and he steps back for just a heartbeat, as if to etch the image of you into his memory. “You are more beautiful than I deserve,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion, his fingers grazing your skin as though you might vanish if he isn’t careful.

You shake your head, pulling him closer, your fingers working at the clasps of his armor. “Don’t say that, Arthur. We deserve this, even if the world would deny it to us.” The plates of his armor clatter softly as you remove them piece by piece, the task made more urgent by the racing of your heart. Beneath the steel and leather, you find the man who is yours—yours alone, in this chamber and in these moments where the rest of the world falls away.

When he is free of the armor, his tunic follows, and then there is nothing left between you. You let out a shuddering breath as his hands find your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto a low table, his body pressing flush against yours. The kiss that follows is slow, deep, a mingling of breath and desire that sends heat coursing through your veins. His hands roam over your skin, reverent and possessive all at once, mapping every curve, every scar, as if committing it all to memory.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours, his voice trembling slightly. “Tell me we aren’t just imagining this—a stolen dream before the waking world tears us apart.”

You cup his face in your hands, pressing a soft kiss to his brow. “It’s real, Arthur. This is real. You and I… in this moment, nothing else matters.”

He kisses you again, more fiercely this time, his need for you driving him to claim every part of you with a desperation that matches your own. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips as he pulls you closer, fitting himself between your thighs. When he enters you, it’s with a slow, deliberate thrust, the motion drawing a gasp from your lips as you wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper.

The rhythm of your lovemaking is both gentle and wild—a dance of passion and affection, of longing and love. The world outside this chamber is a cruel place, full of shadows and deceit, but here, in this sanctuary, there is only the two of you and the fire that burns brighter with every touch, every whispered promise.

His movements quicken, each thrust drawing you closer to the edge, but he never loses that tenderness, that quiet reverence for the connection you share. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he whispers your name, over and over, like a vow. “Y/N… my love… my everything.”

Your fingers dig into his back, holding onto him as if he’s the only safe harbor in a storm that threatens to drown you both. “Arthur, don’t stop,” you plead, your voice breaking as pleasure coils tight in your belly, threatening to spill over. “Please… I need this. I need you.”

He lifts his head, meeting your gaze with eyes darkened by desire but softened by love. “You have me,” he breathes, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve always had me, and you always will.”

The world narrows to this moment—his breath mingling with yours, the slide of skin against skin, the heat building between you until it’s almost unbearable. And when you finally shatter, it’s together, his name a broken cry on your lips as pleasure crashes over you both like a wave, pulling you under and washing everything else away.

For a few blissful moments, there is only the sound of your mingled breaths, the beating of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again. Arthur holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, your lips, as if grounding himself in the reality of your shared intimacy. He remains inside you, unwilling to let go just yet, as if this closeness is the only thing that can stave off the darkness that awaits beyond these walls.

But reality can’t be held at bay forever. Slowly, reluctantly, he withdraws, and you both dress in silence, the weight of what awaits you outside this chamber pressing heavily on your minds. Once fully clothed, he pulls you into his arms, cradling you against his chest, as if to shield you from the world. “I wish we could stay like this, just for a little longer,” he murmurs into your hair.

You nod against him, your heart aching with the same longing. “I know… but we’ll find another moment. We always do.” You pull back slightly, looking up at him, your fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “And until then, I’ll carry this with me. It’s enough to keep me strong.”

Arthur leans in and kisses you one last time, slow and lingering, before finally letting you go. “Remember, no matter what happens… you’re not alone.”

“I know,” you whisper, your voice filled with quiet determination. “Neither are you.”

With that, you both slip out of the chamber, returning to the world of shadows and intrigue where you must once again play your parts. But in the depths of your heart, the fire of this moment lingers, burning bright against the darkness that surrounds you.

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