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eldrith · 3 months ago

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ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴅᴇɴ ; ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ.

ʜᴏɴᴇʏ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ғᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʀ ; ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍʏ ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ

jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader words: 3.1k synopsis: jacaerys falls for a woman in aegon's garden. notes: happy haunting season! here's part one (more of an introduction or prologue) to my october mini-series! a little horror love-letter from me to youse <3 so many thanks to my beautiful sweet brains @useralba & @dipperscavern ... dippy fetched my header for me & they basically co-wrote this whole concept. chapter warnings: this is The Most Normal™️ part out of the whole series so not much. canon-typical mentions of death/grief, but jace is thugging it out. morally gray jacaerys (& reader) throughout the story, though hes p normal in this. series masterlist. main masterlist.

A SHARP ACHE PIERCES JACAERYS’S MIND.

It has lingered, ebbing and flowing in the corner of his vision since the news came by raven this afternoon; whispers of fury, nostrils flared around the Painted Table as gasps of shuddered grief echoed in the dusting quiet. A gust of sharp wind blows his curls from his temple, his lips wettened and chilled by the cold of eve.

Soil turns soft underfoot as Jacaerys stalks down a trail less frequented; the Outer Bailey of Dragonstone Castle is thick with land, and yet rather sparse in people - most of whom are within tubs. Or, more likely, tending to those within the tubs - though tonight, as much as it can be afforded, he wishes not to not remain within those suffocating walls.

Walls which still echo, in the slumbering quiet when candles are all snuffed and guards repose drearily against stone, with laughter and footsteps of his kin; walls which whisper of doves, wings clipped and soiled by blood of innocent, by hatred stale and harbored.

Walls which used to hold his family - which now cage the fragmented remainder of such a thing; of tense jaws and eyes that cannot help but glaze over each other in pursuit of some long predetermined destiny.

He sniffs against the chill of the evening, rather disturbed by the beauty, raw and wild, of the island - steep cliffs clumped by wildgrass and staggering up into sharp black slates, which yawn high into the sky; the Mont, steeping with heat and nesting ancient beasts within its belly.

And the garden, just ahead - a primordial thing, once shining and primed by the glory of a beautiful empire. When he'd stormed from the council room, he'd been rather dead-set upon the garden - if only in a bout of frustration lingering in the denial of his mother, yet projected as a sharp mind ache that laid somewhere in the bowels of Aegon's Garden. Searching for a figure, one that likely exists in only his imagination - the one he's seen through bleary eyes of his chamber window, dancing through leaves and past faces of stone; their presence a low hum in the back of his mind that pierces and grates against his resolve.

The castle’s hearths burn low now after supper, and the eve falls dreary upon quiet ocean-misted moors. His footsteps drag untenanted, burdened by the weight of some distant crown as he clenches tight to his pommel.

Those empty feet had indeed carried him all the way down from the tower; past guards and faces familiar, as though his mind was tethered to a memory, a shadow flickered in the distance of his chamber window.

The cliffs are black in the fall of night, the walls of the keep warm but crumbling in the lower Baileys. The Sept - a rather forgotten relic these days - has a soft glow from within; though through the thickening fog, Jacaerys wonders if the figures he sees within are truly there.

Silent Sisters, his mind whispers, though there is no body reclaimed for them to prepare. She lies with the Red Queen still; a war without bodies, though he fights the thought from festering - no bones to wrap, no flesh to burn. Only names, which will die on the tongues of those who are too agonized, too vengeful to mourn.

The trail is unkempt; it is not often the inhabitants of the island come to the Garden, less so now that looming war plagues the realms. Death grasps Dragonstone Castle in its implacable grip these days; and anger, that hungry beast that bites at the tail of revenge - it ravages his house.

He has known since the very first moon they came to Dragonstone, all that time ago - in the earlier years; Luke, Joff, and himself - stumbling over hilts longer than their legs, watching the spiraling towers of Dragonstone become swallowed by thick clouds. And there had been Maester Gerardys, in the first of many lessons to come round the table, tone imbued with something rather distant, gaze fixed upon the window.

Even now, years later, Jacaerys knows that the ground he walks is tainted - the Dragonmont looms, its acidic breaths falling in years over toppling years, watching Dragon Kings rise and leave for their birthright; and yet still it remains, sprinkling its volcanic acids to leech into the earth below.

The soil the castle was built upon is imbued with the very acid that grows beneath the island’s crust - and from it, the plants in Aegon’s Garden now grow unruly, unbidden; No longer tended to by hands familiarized with their needs.

The soil is rich, Maester Gerardys had looked out the sharp window in the drum, eyes weathered as the skies. But even when the Conqueror landed, it was unfit for nurturing life. We eat not from the fruit which grows from this side of the island. The blooms stay within their home, and return with each cycle of life back into the ground.

Evening fog swallows the burst of trees on the other side of the Thorned Dragon; it twists into the sky high enough that Jacaerys can see the horns through the iron gates to the garden. Fresh sprouts crawl out of the earth from under the wall, curled with the kiss of frost which visits each evening and thawed by the island's sun come each morning. Life into death.

The circle turns.

The gates to the garden are marred with the same rust that crawls up the chains lining the Western Docks; Jacaerys grasps the cold metal and pushes through with surprising ease.

A creak of groaning metal. Trees are gnarled; they twist and wind down the path that he walks, his mind lingering up in the thick clouds - a faint gust sends the scent of smoke through his nose.

Dragonfire.

A clench within his chest; the falling of the Queen Who Never Was echoes in his mind, the fluttering of raven’s wings, the whisper in a chamber much too empty for all the people who occupied it - and a suppression of the stab of loss which threatens to crawl out his throat.

The garden is bright, despite the falling daylight. It bursts with untamed indigenous flora, thick with the air of blossoms - roses, red and thorned; bark, dampened upon twisted trees older than his mother’s mother, rough under his palms. Stoned statues loom with twisted grins in the half-light, some relic of his ancestors which turn now to mock him in his solitary march.

Jacaerys’s breath comes out in a puff of fogged chill - the evening brings a cool seabreeze, although his heart has always beat rather warm.

A gentle caress seems to bring forth a curling smile from a bushel of red anemone blossoms as he passes - a twitch of a grin upon his own lips though the lingering feeling of walking deeper into a shadow looms within his mind.

Any semblance of peace is disrupted at the slither of fabric around a lingering statue of a melancholy ancestor, a rustled noise - his heart stops.

Though his mind is muddled with tumult, there is some life breathed back into him when he catches a glimpse of shining tresses around a tall thorny hedge, and the snaking curl of dress skirts around the bottom; and so he begins to stalk after the scent of earth, of some deep turn of late summerfruit.

Another flicker of movement, a rustle in the vines; and still he follows, heart slamming as the clouds roll over the sunlight.

In the deeper part of the garden lies the Thorned Dragon - a once-wonderful iron statue which now crawls with thick vines and time-bitten rusted holes; though below sits stoned benches for respite.

And there Jacaerys halts his footsteps, deadening at the sight before him.

Concealed, only the whisper of skirts near hidden feet, strands of glowing hair, the peek of one timid eye thickened by long wisps - of a brow that arches, peeking only just so from beside the iron Dragon.

A young woman.

“Hello.” His voice is schooled with confidence - this is his island, after all.

The sun glints in a sharp fight against the rolling clouds; the foggy cloud around his feet swirl as he carries himself with curiosity - it is unusual for Housestaff to venture into such a place. At his voice, there is a flicker, a twitch - slither of skirts until his gaze meets the pair of wide eyes.

You stand on legs doelike and unsure, bent slightly at the hips as if prepared to skitter away at the slightest of movement; and he, with a skip in his heart at the glow of your skin, the flutter of lashes upon sweet cheeks.

“Hello,” you echo his very essence, voice a mirror of his own tone though syrupy and curling with the warmth of summerfall.

He is struck at once by your beauty.

A breeze picks up; the scent of rich earth beneath his boots, the thick blooms even in so chill a climate. Skirts blown back gently, your hair rustles against the wind and he finds the soft beauty upon your visage arresting.

Your feet are bare. His brows drawn, he moves just slightly, cloak fluttering in the wind; and you, watching with owlish eyes as he nods cordially, struck with the natural compulsion to greet you with proper manners.

“I am Jacaerys,” he is rather unsure why he omits Prince from his introduction - though with a pang of storm clouds looming in his mind, he dwells not.

Indeed it matters little, for you offer some sudden beaming smile - a bright thing, a leap from his heart at such a blessing from the Gods as you have been given; and you nod gently, lips glistened and pale.

A sharp smile, something that would seem coy, unpropitious if not for the small flash of kindness that lingers in your stare.

“-Jacaerys Velaryon,” you finish, dropping into a curtsey that brings about a slight glide of interest over your form; he chastises himself sharply in his head, bowing back.

A Houseworker, then, though he’s never seen you in the halls; nor has he seen a maid or cook wear such material of their gowns. He reclines upon a stone bench; you follow after he invites you kindly, your eyes skittering over the fine folds of his tailored clothing, lingering on the line of his jaw, then hooking rather intently on the dragon upon his chest. Your own dress seems to shift with the light - it is white, then gray, then a near muted purple; it fits with the glow of your chest, with the glint in your eyes.

You tell him your name then and it lodges itself warm and wanting into the cavity of his chest. It drips with the glazed sweetness of blooms left in the care of the sun and preserved in the chill of shade.

Pines linger tall around you; a sea of green, though the true thing lies far in the distance, its tidal breath a slow roll in the evening air. Your fingers are lithe as they trace over a spiny vine hanging off the Thorned Dragon; and yet, peculiarly, you give no hiss as you press your thumb down against a thorn - in fact, your lips curl into a quick grin, eyes dark in interest when the thorn nearly pierces your flesh.

“-Why are you here?” His question is one rather improper, though he finds himself perturbed and cannot bring himself to feel remarkably bad. Indeed, your dreamy hum silences any doubt that may linger in the back of his mind, “It was my assumption not many come to Aegon's Garden anymore.” He admits.

And something about his words must be amusing to you; a grin that you hide with a tilt of your head, your hand leaving the thorn on the vine. He can smell the scent of your hair; a honeyed thing, a gentle thing. A sweet thing.

“I tend to it,” you murmur, voice gentle as a psalm, though your eyes flicker off towards the peak of a twisted treeline upon the far end of the garden, past the murky bog. “-Though sometimes I feel as though it tends to me.”

Dreamlike, your eyes glaze over - and Jacaerys is left rather uncomfortable against the cooling stone. A foreboding prickles at the edge of his mind; and as fog creeps towards the shore each morning, he has a sudden urge to back away from your curling chill - there is something familiar within your lilt, in the way your eyes shift under dappled sunlight. His aunt had much similar a tone when they were young; with fingers that slid between bars of small cages, prodding creatures which nuzzled back against her, musing words that never quite strung together right.

“And you?” You add now, fingers cupped within your lap. His brows draw as you murmur again, “What brings you here, my Prince?”

Behind your shoulder is the long path narrowed by closing hedges, by twisted trees and creeping vines untamed and wild with life; with life, a part of him rejoices silently, life, though so much death looms over Dragonstone these days.

His hesitation lingers in the quiet thick fog that creeps through the grass. “I’m…” His brows furrow, a sudden cloud of amnesia confusing weighing his tongue. He feels almost blank, save for the sweet scent of you beside him.

“...I don’t know.”

A flicker of your visage in his peripheral, as if you’ve moved - though when he turns to your countenance once more, he wonders if the sharp, darkly unnerving smile that had flashed onto your face was only in his mind. It unsettles him deeply within his stomach as your eyes remain upon his, muscles lax, as though the smile you’d given earlier was the first in years.

His mind is too clouded - Rooks Rest has weighed heavy on the tongues of the council today, though it seems it weighs even heavier so on the mind. He must be rather exhausted.

“I…” He struggles once more, unsettled by the false image of that hungry grin, gaze focused upon the soil, fresh and puffy below his boots. “I thought I was…looking for something.” It is said absently, straining to recall his initial intentions - and it feels only slightly incorrect.

You do not say anything to this, and for the sake of his nerves, he pretends to ignore the growing smile slow over your countenance in the corner of his vision.

In a breeze cooler than expected, his unnerved eyes rise to the Castle - up, to the window of his own chambers high within the spire of the Stone Drum with such direct view of the garden, of this very statue.

Gulls cry in the distance; the blooms overgrown above your head seem to droop, as if bowing towards your companionship. A beauty Jacaerys has never once fathomed; though he is momentarily distracted by the movement of your hands, once so still within your lap.

It is with surprise when he finds your fingers delicately peeling away at some foreign fruit, revealing the glistening flesh within - and your lips, wettened with your tongue as you pluck at the tissue of its skin.

A heaviness in his throat, muddled bewilderment leaking through the cracks of his mind; though any true alarm melts away as you slowly bring the fruit to your gentle, awaiting lips, its crimson juice staining your fingers.

Slow bites, teeth sinking into tender flesh in the stillness of the bright garden; and Jacaerys, transfixed upon the glow of your skin, the gentle sigh from your chest at the taste. It is bizarre he has never once seen you here - perhaps you are new to the island; with the influx of residents within the castle, it has provided ample new jobs for the smallfolk around. He is certain he’d have remembered such arresting eyes.

It is a sight so innocent, yet so incredibly salacious in its sudden intensity - he finds it a battle to cast away his gaze; his toes drag through the dirt upon the earth, watching the sprouts bounce back upwards once the pressure of his presence is relieved.

“Have you ever had one?” Your voice curls through fog, some sweet melody that startles him. His cheeks are flushing red, though you are much too enraptured with the fruit, lips stained dark as wine. “-A fig,” you mend, an afterthought as your eyes rise once more to the larger of the trees deep in the gardens; and a buzzing haze that creeps through Jace’s mind as the empty shell falls from your fingers onto the ripe dirt below.

He watches it lie to rest, bespeckled with the damp dark of soil.

The circle turns.

His mouth is dry, and he struggles to swallow; “No,” he admits, clouded by déjà vu and a sudden, mild perplexity. “I haven’t.”

Your lips curve into that slow, knowing smile once more - less unsettling when it is fixed upon his gaze this time. Your fingers trace the smooth skin of another fig before your palm extends, offering it with a slight tilt of your head. “They are divine,” your words lilt, syllables sung out into the garden’s thick air. Divine.

And gods, you are divine - an arresting thought, one that jolts him out of the trance he’d so unwittingly tumbled into - and with a blink, he hesitates.

A half-remembered tale told in the dim light of hearths drawn moons, years ago - and he shakes his head, the thought of food at a time like this rather sickening. “Where did you get them?” he wonders instead of accepting, though your palm remains outstretched, enticing. There is a thrumming in his ears, though he realizes with a start that his headache has ceased.

“They come from me,” you reply coyishly; though there is some glint in your eyes, some shift of the breath you take - and he looks away just before that smile reclaims your face.

A strange girl, he decides. A strange girl, yet quite endearing.

He cannot help the smile he returns to you, a short chuckle, mostly out of nerves from him which is echoed rather enthusiastically, nearly unsettling in its fervor, by you.

His heart beats faster, though he cannot say why - his lips are wettened by the prod of his tongue, and he pretends not to notice the flush upon your hollowed cheeks, nor the way your head seems to dip lower to observe his countenance.

“No, thank you,” he declines, voice barely a whisper; and his eyes search yours, your name echoing heavy in his mind - so familiar a name.

Your smile returns, though this time it is sharper; and with darkened eyes, the corners of your lips twitching as if you already knew what his answer would be. When you respond, it is not what he expects. “As you wish, my Prince.”

And then you bring the last fig to your chest, fingers delicate even when they tear at the little flesh as though you've been starved; his stomach rolls, entranced as a drip of juice rolls down your chin, crimson against your muted skin.

Night falls. Council will be called soon, he knows - and the bells will be rung though they are barely heard from outside the inner bailey. Jacaerys is hesitant to leave, yet there is a chill that has begun to seep through his bones; a pit that grows within his stomach. Each pulse of his blood through his heart, a bite of your teeth into the fruit of the fig - but he waits until you’ve finished your repast to clear his throat.

“I must return,” he decides, a strike of hesitance at your look, that kind stare that flickers in the death of sunlight.

You hesitate as he rises, just for a moment - and then, leaning forward as crimson fingers grasp the stone bench, your smile drops. A fleeting thing, a sparrow upon a windowsill, a hummingbird through the morning air.

“Thank you, Prince Jacaerys.”

His brows furrow; and you, staring up at him with a gaze so unalloyed, so pure - a lingering darkness in his chest that grows each day of unrest cooped up in his coddled little nest within the island.

Though he smiles only gently back at you - a twist of soft pity that bleeds into an odd affection for such a sweet stranger; a much needed respite from the faces much too familiar and suffocating in the choking smoke of war and duty.

“I suppose I find myself rather lonely,” you confess, eyes dropping to stare at the figs that now rest in your lap - a blink from Jacaerys at the sight of them, once more bewildered at their presence. “Not many come to the garden anymore. I worry I tend to it only for myself these days.”

Jacaerys finds himself rather uneasy - there is that guilt that coils familiar, a serpent squeezing his stomach. The circle turns, he thinks.

“I will have to return then, my lady.” He feels rather uneven on his feet, “This garden is quite beautiful.”

And if you bristle at his assumption of your title, you do not show it; an absent look has plagued your seraphic features, leaving you with shallow breaths and a plumped lower lip. “I would hope so, Jacaerys.”

For a dreadful moment, he fears you might begin to cry; a stoke of regret and pity through him. Though it is quelled rather abruptly as you snap up, eyes staring down the row of hedges behind him before returning to his own, much more warm than before.

You hold his gaze for a horrible few breaths - and he knows not what to do, as you sit faraway and dreamlike, your hair moving in a breeze he cannot feel.

“Are you turning in soon?” He wonders, unable to quell his curiosity - he cannot imagine your duties much require you to extend your services into the dark of night, though he admittedly has paid less than staunch attention to the Housestaff as of late.

Your eyes remain distant, though a soft wisp of a smile grows as you rise to your height, standing oddly against the vines which creep down towards you.

You look back beyond his shoulder, a glint of firelight in your eyes though the sun still whispers its last stretches of breath across the indigo sky.

“Not so soon, I'm afraid. The roses need pruning,” you sigh. “I detest thorns.”

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huramuna · 5 months ago

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banshee's lament - chapter 11.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 3.8k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

we are back! new act, new header! enjoy!!!

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, death

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It was placid in the keep, like the still waters before the dew drips into a pool. But placidity can be deceiving. Aemond knows this– he’s always known it. It is exhausting, as a person, to keep your guard up at all times without respite.

The previous night was a respite. A much needed change in flow, in focus. But he is suspicious of such a gift– mayhaps he doesn’t deserve it. He has always been damned. This very notion is why he awoke early in the morn from the deepest sleep he’s known in years… to an empty bed.

Shera had gone. His head throbbed from how deeply the sapphire felt embedded into the socket, pressing at the tender teams of nerves that the maester said makes up one’s eye. He throws his legs over the side of his bed, twisting and turning until his spinal column cracks, somehow giving a sliver of relief.

Mayhaps I shall speak to her. His fingers, blistered from overworking the blade since Aegon was crowned, made quick work of his tunic. His outfit was a simple black undershirt and leather nightcoat. It was early enough in the Keep where dressing properly didn’t particularly matter– Shera’s chambers were a swift enough walk away, anyhow. He made his way hastily to the guest hall, which was bereft of guards.

Odd.

Upon opening the door, the momentary feeling of lightness and interlude in an otherwise rigid life, was snuffed out. Snuffed out like the dithering flame upon a bedside table, smoke swirling upwards until there is nothing but coldness. A chill ran up Aemond’s spine that could only mean one thing; something was wrong.

The room was torn to shreds, blood splattered on the cobblestone floor like rose petals. His mind swam momentarily, heart squeezing in abject horror. Wrong, wrong, wrong. This is wrong. His boot squelched into the still drying pool of ichor as he descended further into the unfolding scene of gore and carnage. All of her things were broken, drawings strewn and stained, her dress stands were pushed over upon one another, and a cup of her tea was left half-drank, liquid absconded to the side.

Picking up the cup, he inspected the remains of the tea leaves and murky fluid. His senses were overwhelmed by the pungent scent of milk of the poppy– and dreamwine. The leaves were soaked in the duo of medicinal regents, the combination of both only used in dire situations of pure agony, intended to keep the imbibed numb to pain— as well as the world around them, lulling them to a deep sleep and even a deeper sense of malleability.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

A low growl filled the room, Moongeist emerging from the adjoining bedroom. His hackles were raised, lip curled, showing off his bloodstained teeth. The whole of his muzzle was caked in the stain of flesh.

“Where is she,” Aemond spoke, glowering at the giant wolf as if he were nothing more than a pup. “Where is she?”

Moongeist’s hackles lowered as he sniffed the air, snapping his mouth shut. His amber eyes roved towards a mass in the corner of the room. ‘Twas a man. Dead, with the fingers on his left hand ripped off, and his windpipe torn out. Aemond shifted the corpse with the tip of his boot, his expression dimming even more into a scowl.

“I don’t give a shit about this sod,” he hissed to the wolf, his pupil constricting into a tiny orb hoisted over a violet sea. He knew he looked mad— he could feel the madness creeping further and further into him with each passing moment that he didn’t find Shera. “You didn’t do your duty, dog.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The wolf whined, a warbling noise that turned into a growl as he nosed some of his master’s strewn items on the floor.

“You’re useless!” Aemond’s voice raised above its usual whispery tone, the rage bleeding into him like he was a stuck pig. “You had one duty— to protect her,” his hands balled into fists, unsure whether he was yelling at the dog or himself. “You fucking failed.”

His own visage caught his eye on the shattered mirror. He looked crazen, as if he were to sprout wings and claws like Vhagar and burn the world down in search of her.

Mayhaps he would.

—

‘Tis so quiet, she thinks. So quiet— like death. Am I dead?

She walks along the darkness, soles skimming a pool of cool water. There’s ripples in her wake, reverberating out into nothingness. She feels fine. It’s disconcerting, in a way, how normalcy in itself can feel abnormal. Shera is able to stand steady on two feet without assistance or hindrance, her sight wide and clear as she gazes to the void.

Death isn’t much like they say it to be, now is it? Not so cold, but not so fiery either.

A glint catches her eye— the infinite void to her side has formed itself into a door. Not just a door, but a hallway with a myriad of cracks of light.

A myriad of choices.

Her hand stills on the knob closest to her. It is ornate bronze, deep grooves worn into the metal from much use. A small twist, and the gateway gives in.

The sunlight is blinding, more bright than she remembers. There is a pleasant sting in her eye as it adjusts from the total encompassing darkness of nothingness to the ever growing, lilting palette of everything before her.

The place seems familiar but Shera cannot quite place it, as if it is an amalgamation of many places she’s been before— so close to perfection but in all totalities completely wrong. It was a garden with all of the flowers in bloom, grapevines growing up the trellising walls to escape, to mayhaps grasp the sun. There is a faint scent of sea air and she can almost feel the spray of a rogue wave crashing against the seawall.

Bare feet pad onto the cobbled walkway deeper into the terrace, fallen petals wilting under her. She leans to a honeysuckle plant, rubbing its leaves between her thumb and forefinger. Upon closer inspection, the flower is home to insects.

No, not home. It is made of insects.

Beetles, millipedes and caterpillars writhe under her touch. The flying bugs buzz around her, their fussing akin to anger, their temper flaring with every step of her trespassing.

“‘M sorry,” Shera whispers, hastily wiping her hands down the front of her chest. “‘M sorry,” she continues as she slowly backs away, back the way she came. As she makes her escape, the garden oasis withers. It begins to decay before her eyes, maggots and blowflies feasting on the rotting remains of the plants.

Back into the darkness, she slams the door behind her. Just before it fully closes, the image of a barn owl crunching upon a locust is her final glimpse. The errant buzz of parasitic and opportunistic gnats rings in her skull like a taunting song. She almost trips over her own limbs as she backs away slowly, stomach wringing itself into knots.

Onto the next door, the knob is a curved ring, better suited for knocking rather than just opening. It would be rude to come in uninvited, wouldn’t it?

Shera wraps the door three times, each wrap more thunderous than the last. The door is hewn from an odd red wood, the hinge creaking as she walks in. It’s suddenly warm— not unlike the warmth and breeze of King’s Landing, but decidedly different, the hum of a distant roar reverberating in her mind.

“Hello,” a small voice piqued. It belonged to a young girl, no older than six years old. Her hair was a pale silver, violet irises wide with trepidation. “Are you one of Ser Willem’s friends?”

The appearance of the girl struck Shera like a bolt of lightning— she was of Valyrian descent, surely, but she didn’t recognize her. She shifted her weight uneasily between two feet as she stared at the child. “Ehm,” she muttered. “I am, indeed— a friend of Ser Willem’s.”

The girl held her hands behind her back and mimicked Shera’s nervous swaying, but in a decidedly more childlike fashion. “He is sleeping. He sleeps a lot,” she said, tilting her head towards a hallway. “Would you like to see my room?”

Something in Shera’s chest rattled against her ribcage as the child spoke. She felt a certain keen sense of terror, feeling that she did not belong here. And yet— she took the girl’s hand in her own as she was led down a corridor.

“I have my very own room. I usually have to share with my brother or with a lot of other people. Sometimes it is not a room at all,” the girl pauses, tugging Shera gently to the open window. “I even have my very own window. I like to look at the lemon tree.”

“Do you like lemons?” Shera asked, staring at the one lone lemon tree that stood stalwart.

“They are… yucky by themselves. Viserys tricked me into biting into one like an apple,” she pouted. “It was quite mean.”

Viserys? Shera’s heart floundered. “Viserys? Is that your brother?”

The girl nodded.

Shera did not recall Viserys and Daemon having a sister. Her mind swam as she stared at the girl, then the open window. “You must forgive me— I have forgotten your name.”

“Daenerys. My brother calls me Dany.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong. In learning High Valyrian with Aemond all those years ago, they had also extensively studied the winding circled wreath of the Targaryen family tree— as muddled and messy as it may be, Shera could recall no Daenerys.

That creeping fear that had nestled into her body as soon as she saw the girl began to grow— grow into an ever engulfing beast. ‘Twas the same feeling she had when she saw the vision of Rhaenyra and Viserys talking about Aegon’s dream. The feeling that she was trespassing on something, being somewhere she was never meant to be.

That sensation gripped her wholly, her body moving faster than her mind as she fled Daenerys’ room, towards the red door that led out.

“W-where are you going?” Daenerys whimpered, following behind Shera quickly. “I’m sorry— did… did I do something? Please don’t go.”

Shera turned the knob, stepping halfway out of the abode and into the darkness. She looked back at Daenerys— she was engulfed in flames, shadowed by a hulking black mass of writhing scales and dread come again.

When she fled back into the abyss fully, the red door closing behind her as flames licked the wood, her consciousness faded.

She was done dreaming.

—

The twisting of her rings was a nervous habit that Rhaenyra never broke. It would be a fruitless effort to do so, as she would pick up some other compulsion in a similar fashion. Tearing out strands of hair from the root, pressing crescent indentations upon her skin from her nails— or mayhaps, picking the skin around the nail bed until they are red and bloody. That one seems familiar to her.

Her hands now, however, aren’t occupied upon twisting her rings at the moment. They’re splayed over her stomach, palms playing over the stretched skin. The maesters say she is due any day now, ‘tis only a waiting game.

How she desires for a daughter, so wholeheartedly.

Something pulls at her. The hour is late and Daemon’s side of the bed is cold, blanket still in the same position from the morning. It's an odd, inexplicable tug to something that has her out of the room and meandering down the hall with a candelabra. The shadows dance upon the ancient stone, casting light upon the deep cracks.

As she descends through the castle, the logical and queenly part of her mind is in protest of her current situation. A heavily pregnant wife shouldn’t go looking for her husband in the middle of the night. And yet— the other part of her brain, the one that had an insatiable thirst for truth had her driving forward.

Hushed voices hummed low towards the sequestered guest chambers. From the inflection and cadence, one of them was Daemon. The other, hurried and blathering like an anxious mouse, was unknown to her.

“Y-you set us up for failure, Daemon! I nearly lost my own life— you didn’t tell us of the beast!” the mystery voice quipped, quivering in pissant fear.

“Pity you didn’t lose it, then. I told you what I needed from you and what you needed to do. Any other extraneous details are unnecessary.” Daemon responded coolly.

Rhaenyra walked closer to the open door, heavy candlelight illuminating from within. She hastily blew out her own.

“Unnecessary? You’re mad! Outright bonkers! I… I want double the pay— n-no, triple! As compensation for the hazard to me life!”

“You’ll receive what we agreed upon.”

“I need more! Or— or I’ll go back to King’s Landing and tell the King what happened! He’s fond of that little thing, isn’t he? Or mayhaps his brother, with the giant drag—“

The man’s voice was cut off, silenced by what Rhaenyra could only assume was a blade. The sound of his body crumpling and soft gurgling confirmed it. She stepped into the room, fisting her skirts. The mystery offender was now divorced from his head, akin to the way Vaemond had been. Daemon was wiping the blood and viscera off of Dark Sister upon the bedsheet. The bed in question, however, was not unoccupied like she had thought it would be.

The small, crumpled form of Shera Stark, identified by the undone length of curls falling by her wayside, was unconscious upon it.

Rhaenyra blinked profusely, heat rising within her as she tried to piece together exactly what was going on.

Daemon let out a soft sniff, “Bloody idiot.”

“Daemon? What… what is this?”

“What does it look like? The key to the North.” he sneered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Rhaenyra’s hands came together as she loosened the ring on her pointer finger. “She does not look like she is a willing participant in being here.”

From the looks of it, the girl was hardly breathing. Her chest rose and fell in such shallow lengths that it took a moment to register if she was even alive at all.

“I doubt she would be. I did what needed to be done.”

“What… needed to be done? No, I don’t think you’ve begun to count the errors you’ve made here. Did… did you even think of the consequences, Daemon?” Rhaenyra started, her face emanating a red-hot heat, only continuing to warm as she twisted her ring with a violent, fervent nature.

“Consequences? I’ve brought her here to solve our problems, Rhaenyra. Do you think that honor-bound Northerner Cregan Stark would still fight for you as Queen if you broke your oath to keep his sister safe? He very well may kiss Otto Hightower’s hairy sack just for his sister to return to him. We won’t win this war without the North. And we won’t have the North without the girl.”

“There is no war yet! I am still awaiting responses from Alicent on how we may resolve the… misunderstanding of crowning Aegon in my stead. You… you’ve only fanned the flames of something you have been brewing for years against the Hightowers. Cregan is an honorbound man, he swore an oath.”

“I am merely thinking ahead, Nyra! Oaths are broken as easily as they are made. Alicent is no friend of yours any longer, you’re no longer a girl! As if we can count on any lies coming from that cunt. You have a blind side for Alicent, Rhaenyra, you always have!”

“And even so— you’ve stolen Shera in the night. From what your… accomplice said, ‘twas a messy fight. What do you think, my half-brother Aemond shall think, when he comes upon Shera’s rooms in disrepair and bloodied?” She narrowed her gaze, trying to keep a hold on herself. “You’ve brought ruin to our doorstep. We both know what he is and what he can do, you know he favors her— all he has to do is mount Vhagar and rain fire upon us! You have invited that possibility to our home, to our family!”

Daemon was silent for a moment, jaw clenched and lip twitching ever so slightly. He glanced over at the unconscious girl, brow furrowed. “We need to satisfy the oath you made to Lord Stark. The betrothal will be fulfilled,” he kept wiping his blade on the sheet, even far after it was clean. “They must marry on the morrow.”

“The oath,” Rhaenyra echoed, voice suddenly hollow. “Marry— she is not even conscious, Daemon. She won’t even be able to recite the vows or cut Jacaerys’ lip.”

Her husband let out a scoff, a sound so synonymous with who he was. “There won’t be a Valyrian ceremony, even if she was completely well. Needn’t any more Andal blood mingled than is already necessary,” he finally sheathed his sword. “It will be done as quickly and painlessly as possible. Lord Cregan will need to hold up his side of the oath forthwith.”

Rhaenyra worried her lip between her teeth until she tasted copper. “You cannot make these… rash decisions without coming to me first. I will not tell you again, Daemon.”

Daemon, surprisingly, acquiesced— verbally, at least. He stared at her for a few heartbeats with a hard glint in his eye before bowing out of the room.

—

He had no need for riding leathers, no need to put his hair up, no need for his eyepatch. All he required was his sword and his rage.

Servants and highfolk alike plastered to the walls as Aemond parts through them like a ship’s masthead, whispers and aghast looks glazing against his hull. He isn’t calculated and cold like usual, as is his reputation around the Keep. His aura is rash and filled with churning lava, sparks threatening to singe any who stray too close.

The wolf follows behind him— for a reason that Aemond cannot quite understand— Moongeist stays five feet behind him, but matches his fervor and drive. The pair of them are an unlikely duo— and yet, they are unmatched in their combined terror.

“Where are you off to, brother?” Aegon interjects suddenly, flanked by his newly appointed Kingsguard lackeys. The crown sits low on his brow– coming back from a council meeting where he most likely received a tongue lashing from mother and grandsire alike.

“I’ve need of something,” Aemond answers, words short and clipped.

Aegon’s brow raises as he inspects his brother, seeing Moongeist’s hulking form behind him. “You know what they say about lying with dogs, brother,” the king continues, in his faux laissez-faire tone that he is ever so fond of. “You will get fleas.”

“They took her.” the prince said— flatly, dejectedly, detached. The single strand of self control still tethered within him straining. The thread was unraveling bit by bit with each word, each moment wasted.

“… what?” Aegon whispered, the varnish of his empty words fading away.

“They. Took. Her.” Aemond repeated, looking up at his brother.

Aegon paused, no doubt feeling the heat and blood rising within him at the revelation. “W— wh—,”

“They took her right under our noses, Aegon. As if she was a dessert for a child to pilfer,” the prince’s hand flexed and unflexed, itching for his sword. “I am going to retrieve her.”

“Retrieve her? And do you know exactly who took her? Where she’s been taken to?” Aegon leaned in, brow knit. “Or are you just planning to abscond on your dragon and burn down Westeros until you find her?”

Aemond did not respond for a long moment. “You and I both know who did it. And you know they lie right across the bay upon Dragonstone. An easy enough conquest for Vhagar.”

“What shall you expect upon your arrival, brother? For Rhaenyra and Daemon and their endless brood of brats to kneel at your feet? ‘Oh, please, we are so sorry for taking your ambiguous lover, please don’t burn us!’” Aegon’s hands clasped together in mock sympathy. “You and I both know that Daemon would rather incinerate everything around him than kneel to you or I. Mayhaps even his own wife.”

“Something must be done, Aegon. They will think us— me— weak for letting them waltz in and take what is mine.” Aemond continued to pace, his body spun tight like a taut spring, half ready to bolt through the hall at a moment’s notice. With each passing moment, the copper spring strains as his patience lowers and his rage simmers.

“It is really disconcerting when I am the levelheaded one here, Aemond,” the king continues, stopping his brother’s pacing with a firm hand to his shoulder.

“So you propose we do nothing? Let her lie in that den of… traitors?”

“I never said we would do nothing.”

—

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The neverending sound of water splattering onto the floor is the ballad of the ancient castle— most of it in disrepair and ruin from the hot malice of dragonfire.

“A raven arrived from King’s Landing, early this morn,” the pageboy offered the slightly damp letter to the current castellan, Ser Simon Strong.

“Aye, thank you Tomas. Be sure to get yourself some porridge, keep your bones warm.” Simon grinned, the deep wrinkles of his face lifting in mirth. He split the seal which was embossed in the symbol of some bug or other— he couldn’t quite identify which house the sigil was from.

His eyes scanned the paper, which was not addressed to him. Rather, it was addressed to another resident of Harrenhal. The scriptures upon it was not of the Common dialect, only bits and pieces of words with some odd runic language.

“Alys!” the older man called. “I know you’re skulking about out there. I believe this letter is for you.”

Peering from the doorway behind him, a woman slunk to his side, her movements swift and precise. Her sudden and quick appearance caused him to jump. “Aye? What makes you think it’s for me?” she hummed, tilting her head in a bird-like manner.

“Your name is Alys Rivers,” Simon pointed to the addressing line of the letter, the name ‘ALYS RIVERS’ spelled out in the common tongue before the rest of the script becomes nonsensical. “Is it not?”

“Depends on who you ask, I suppose,” Alys blinked, tugging the paper from the lord’s fingers. “Hmm.”

“I presume you can read that hogwash, can ye? Wouldn’t surprise me none, you’re a very odd woman.” Simon waved his hand to dismiss her.

She took the dismissal in stride, slipping out of the chamber like she had never been there in the first place. Unfolding the letter completely, most of which was in the Old Tongue.

To Alys Rivers,

ᛏᚺᛖᛁ ᚨᚱᛖ ᚲᛟᛗᛁᚾᚷ. ( THEY ARE COMING.)

ᛈᚱᛖᛈᚨᚱᛖ ᛁᛟᚢᚱᛊᛖᛚᚠ (PREPARE YOURSELF.)

#aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond x original female character #aemond x ofc #my writing #banshees lament #fic: banshee's lament

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