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nebulaafterdark · 2 months

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The Succession (Pt 5)

Summary: After the battle of Rook’s Rest, Queen Y/N is forced to rule alongside Prince Regent Aemond, in an attempt to keep her children safe and eventually seat her mother, Rhaenyra, on the throne. While attending her husband, on what appears to be his deathbed, she begins to unravel the dark truth of his near passing.

Warning: Suggestive language

Aegon Targaryen x Velaryon (Strong!Reader)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“You do not understand,” Y/N protests. “I need to see my brother, he must be tended first. If he dies, my mother will kill me.”

“If you die, the King shall kill us.” The grand maester taps her chin. “Let’s see the damage.”

Y/N moves her hand from her shoulder. “How bad is it?”

The maester begins cutting away surrounding fabric to reveal the extent of her wound. An open, oozing gash, torn clean from one side through the another.

Alicent rushes in, “what have you done?” She demands.

“Aemond is dead.” Y/N whispers, “I killed him.”

“I meant to yourself, what have you done to yourself?” Alicent demands.

“He stabbed me, and he fell.”

“What of the dragons?”

“Baela and Moondancer are searching for Jaecerys and Vermax. Vhagar is dead, as best I can tell.”

Alicent holds a hand to her head.

“Mayhaps you might look in on my husband?” Y/N says, “tell him I am well and that I love him.”

“You expect me to lie to my injured son?”

“Only the first part would be untrue.” Y/N arches a brow.

“Drink this, your grace. For the pain.” The maester presents her a black vile, milk of the poppy. “We’re going to pack the wound.”

Y/N’s eyes widen, “why?”

“I fear the blade must’ve twisted, your grace. The area has been gouged clean. There is not enough flesh for a stitch to hold.”

“Seven hells,” Y/N grimaces, chugging it down.

Even milk of the poppy does little to dull the pain as they begin pressing against the wound. Her screams can be heard echoing the Red Keep for less than a minute, before she faints.

————————————————————————-

“And now I need you to wake, sister.” A voice says, reaching Y/N in her dreamless sleep.

“Jace, she needs time.”

“There is no time.”

Y/N groans, willing her eyes to open.

Jacaerys pats the side of her face, “there you are.”

“You’re alive?” Y/N croaks out, blinking at him in the dim light.

“As are you.” Her brother says, simply, “at present Daemon’s army is marching on us from Harrenhal and mother is on her way for the throne.”

“That is no matter,” Y/N says, “we were only ever holding it for her.”

Baela looks to her betrothed.

“Sister,” he takes her hand, “what is expected of our mother now…to truly seize power, you understand what it would cost?”

“Aegon is in no state to bend the knee, I’m sure if I could speak with her-”

“I fear there may be no chance, if you, yourself, do not provide a show of strength.”

“Helaena has Dreamfyre and I have Stormborn, my children’s dragons are small. Sunfyre is gone.” Y/N reminds them.

“You’ve Vermax and Moondancer.”

Y/N looks to her brother.

“We will stand with you.” Baela assures her.

“Against our mother, you will stand with me?”

“Surely you have not done this for a crown, which would’ve been yours in time. You have done it for Aegon.” Jace sighs, “he is an idiot, but from what I understand, he loves and cares for you.”

“He does,” Y/N nods.

“He has been in talks with our mother for some time, attempting to make terms. That is why he lies injured.” Jace tells her, “his raven did not arrive in time and Rhaenys thought it an attack levied against her. Still I do not wish for his head.”

“Do you think she would do it?” Y/N wonders, “kill him in front of me?”

“You have not seen her these past weeks, since Luce’s death, I cannot say what she’ll do.” Jace loves his mother, fiercely, but he loves his sister too.

“We can anticipate even less of my father’s movements,” Baela admits. “He’s not returned to Dragonstone in nearly as long.”

“I hope to resolve this peacefully.”

“I do not believe our mother thirsts for Aegon’s blood, this is merely a precaution.” Jacaerys tells her. “You must dress, prepare the dragons and the King’s Guard, we do not have much time.”

“We will also raise the smallfolk, they will stand with us.” Y/N says, crying out as she sits upright. “And Aemond’s body, make sure it’s found. I plan to make a gift of it to our mother.”

Jacaerys nods, taking Baela’s hand and setting off to their tasks.

Chérie comes to dress her, pulling out the red dress Rhaenyra gifted her daughter as a symbol of solidarity on the day of Lucerys’ petition. A show of force against the Hightowers, even as she stood beside them.

Y/N shakes her head. “Bring me the green dress.”

Chérie swallows hard, “at once, your grace.”

The green dress is arguably the most beautiful gown she owns. A gold hand embroidered tapestry over emerald green satin. A wedding gift from Aegon. She’s never worn it, save for his rooms upon request, or to have it fitted after the births of their children. This day she stands for her husband and his house. This day she wears Hightower green.

She passes her husband’s apartments on her way to the throne room, turning the knob with familiarity. “Where are the children?”

Aegon looks to her, “in with the maids, shrouded by guards, my darling. I’ve just had the wounds dressed, I did not want them to see.”

Y/N nods, “of course.”

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” Aegon smiles.

Y/N shifts between feet. “Thank you, my love. I am headed to the throne room to meet with my mother and discuss terms of the succession.”

Aegon holds a hand out to her, “come.”

Y/N closes the distance between them, lacing their fingers together as she stands at the side of his bed.

“If her only want is my head, let her have it.”

“What?” Y/N reels back, “no.”

“Hush now and listen,” he insists. “My body is broken, the maesters say I will never be whole. You will be free to remarry-”

“Stop it.”

“A fitting father for our children.” Aegon continues, “so long as I live, I will only stand in your way.”

“No,” Y/N tears her hand away from him, “you’re wrong.”

“I say this out of love,” he insists.

“No harm will come to you. Those are my terms, I present my mother with the throne, and the body of the man who killed her child. I offer her the peace I have made and all the good with it. It is nonnegotiable.”

“It needn’t be this way,” Aegon tells her.

“You’re mine, Aegon.” Y/N insists, “my husband, my confidant, my dearest friend. You are still all of those things to me, however many times I need say it, however many years it takes for you to believe me, I have time. We have time.”

Aegon sighs, “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”

“A punishment for something, surely.” Y/N lets out a laugh.

Aegon shakes his head, “a gift from the gods.”

Y/N presses a quick kiss to his lips. “I’ll be back.”

“I will be here.”

Y/N closes the doors to her husband’s chambers behind her. “Stay with my husband.” She orders Cole, waiting to collect her in the hallway.

“Your grace, I am needed at your side.” He says.

“No, you will stay here and defend my fucking husband as though your life depends on it, and best believe it does.”

————————————————————————

Rhaenyra meets Daemon along the gates of the Red Keep. The streets are lined with smallfolk and the occasional yellow cloak, clearing a path for them.

Aegon the fourth begins to fuss in his grandsire’s arms.

“I’ll take him,” Rhaenyra offers. The babe quiets almost instantly.

“He well and truly does not like me.”

Rhaenyra only laughs. “It happens that way sometimes, I’m afraid. Though it may help if you smile.”

Daemon scoffs.

The line of bystanders continues down to the throne room, where Jacaerys and Baela stand on either side of Y/N, at the iron throne.

“This is quite the battalion you’ve assembled, daughter.” Rhaenyra remarks, “do you plan to challenge my claim?”

“Not in the least,” Y/N assures her. “I should like nothing more than to see you sit this throne. But I do have terms of my own.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“First and foremost, the guaranteed safety of Aegon and our children.”

“And what of Aemond?” Rhaenyra wonders.

“Bring him,” Y/N says, to the guards.

Daemon watches as a large black sack is carted in and laid at Rhaenyra’s feet.

“I slain him myself, with the help of my brother and his betrothed.” Y/N tells them, “you may see for yourself. Though I must warn you, he fell from the sky. The sight is not a pretty one.”

Daemon is the one to tear back the fabric and confirm that it is, in fact Aemond. Nodding to his wife.

“What other terms do you have?” Rhaenyra asks.

“Alicent, Helaena and her children.” Y/N swallows, “I wish for their safety as well.”

Rhaenyra pauses, as if to consider.

“You should also know that these guards and the smallfolk which line our halls are here for me. In my name, for my claim, not Aegon’s. The White Hart appeared for me; they follow me.”

“And who do you serve?”

“You, mother. Same as I always have.”

“You will bend the knee?” Rhaenyra purses her lips.

“Now, if it pleases you.” Y/N assures her, “so long as my terms are met.”

Rhaenyra nods, “very well. I should like to be crowned in the dragon pit, where I will reaffirm your title as my heir.”

Y/N takes a deep breath as she rises, approaching her mother and taking Aegon IV in her arms. “Thank you, my Queen.”

“Mother.” Rhaenyra corrects her, gently.

————————————————————————

Over the next weeks, Aegon grows tired of lying about. His unlikely budding friendship with Lord Larys seems to be the culprit.

Y/N is halfway to Aegon’s bedchamber when she hears his pained cries. Rushing in to find him collapsed on the floor.

“I can’t, I can’t.” Aegon protests as the grand maester attempts to bring him upright.

“I am so sorry, your grace.” Orwyle apologizes.

“Leave him.” Y/N shoos him away, “leave him.”

“Your grace,” the maester sighs, allowing Aegon to rest against the floor, “I must get him back to bed.”

“I will do it.” Y/N shakes her head.

“My Princess, surely with your injuries you cannot.”

“If I should need your assistance I will call upon you, Grand Maester. At present, I require a quiet word with my husband.”

The maester nods, “yes, your grace.”

Y/N waits until the doors close behind him to address her husband. “Aegon, I know how dearly you desire to walk again. But it has been but a moon turn since you arrived here in such a state they could not say if you would live. You must remain abed.”

“You did not marry a crippled man.” Aegon bites out, bitterly. “I did not father children as a crippled man.”

“You did not marry me with one arm that may never rise above my head or a scar across my face.” Y/N reminds him.

“My cock is ruined, did I tell you that?” Aegon laments, “it is burnt and disgusting, they do not believe it will rise.”

Y/N sighs, lying down at his side, “allow me to worry about that.”

“It is not you.” Aegon explains, “my love, I cannot bear to look upon my own reflection. I do not know the man staring back at me.”

“I hear your words, husband. You are entitled to this grief. But you needn’t punish yourself for it, nor face it alone. We will fight this battle together, as man and wife.”

“It is difficult for me, allowing you to see me in this state of disrepair, I am…they tell me I will never be whole.”

“My heart aches for you,” Y/N tells him, “but I do not pity you. I believe in you.”

Aegon nods, “you’ve no idea how much it pleases me to hear you say this.”

“You are different, I will not deny this. But different needn’t always be a bad thing. However different our circumstances, I can appreciate the distaste for one’s own reflection. I have felt it most my life, I do not look the part of a Targaryen Princess.”

Aegon exhales, looking to his wife. “You are devastatingly beautiful, the fact that you cannot see it is a tragedy all its own.”

“I love this body because you are in it, not the other way round. When you are no longer in pain, we’re going to train your cock, like a dragon to heel.” Y/N points a finger toward it. “Dohaeris, Rȳbās,” serve, obey.

“Ow, fuck,” Aegon protests clutching his side as he laughs.

Y/N covers her mouth to stop her own outburst.

By the time the Grand Maester rushes in, they are curled up on the floor, cackling like animals and holding their wounds. “Your graces!”

Aegon mutters to his wife, some form of gibberish, only she seems to understand.

Nodding as she chokes out, “lykiri.” Be calm. Sending them into such a state the Grand Maester simply excuses himself, without another word.

“Is everything alright?” Alicent asks, standing with a hand to her heart just beyond the door.

He smiles, “the road ahead is long and painful, but his grace laughs. He has joy.”

“And Y/N?” Alicent wonders, “how is she?”

“The wound is clean but slow to heal.”

“Is the arm lost to her?” Will it move?

“There will be pain, but it moves even now.” He rests a hand on Alicent’s shoulder, “better days in due time, your grace.”

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#house of the dragon #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen #hotd aegon #aegon ii #aegon imagine

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captainamericasmotercycle · 1 month

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Can you write a Cregan Stark x Targaryen wife where she is readying to go to the battle since she is the rider of Cannibal and he is with her nervous and makes her promise to come back to him and before she leaves he tells Cannibal to take care of her, he is nervous the whole time that she is away only calming down when he sees her and Cannibal come back.

omg i love this 🥹 wc: 1.7k

warnings: reader is a targaryen (parents and family are unspecified), cannibal's rider, ooc cannibal, cregan loves his wife and will never stop, reader has silver hair and is shorter than cregan (its okay tho he's huge)

After being away all day, the only thing that Cregan wants is to be in your arms. He searches around Winterfell, looking to find a glimpse of silver hair. He finds you in your chambers, hunched over the small desk by the window.

The candle you had lit was almost gone and you didn’t hear him enter. He stalks over to you, noticing your riding clothes on the settee by the bed.

“Did you go out today, my love?” He leans over you from behind, kissing you on the cheek.

You are hesitant to respond, just staring at a message that had arrived this morning. Cregan takes a knee beside you, trying to read the message that has taken all of your attentoin grasped in your hands.

My dearest kin, the Hightower usurpers have taken the lives of the Prince Lucerys Velaryon and the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, along with their dragons. The Rogue Prince and his dragon still remain to be of any help in our time of war. The Queen remains cautious and Vermax is still much too young to be of great help. Baela is doing the best she can on Moondancer, patrolling the East ends of the Riverlands and the Reach, but we need more. My mother has recruited mongrels to ride Seasmoke, Vermithor, and Silverwing. We need you and Cannibal, here, on Dragonstone at once — a command from the Heir to the Iron Thone.

Cregan freezes. You rub a hand over his knotted hair. He reads over the message again, and again, and again. You were going to war, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He stood from his position, making his way over to the settee where your clothes were layed out. He cleared his throat, pushing out the feelings he was having.

You followed his actions, standing from your place at the desk.

“I must go.”

“I know,” he wouldn’t look at you, running his hand over his face.

You sauntered closer to him, “Cregan, look at me.”

He turned his body and his head, but his eyes were still focused on the floor of your chambers. You walked to him, pressing your body against his and taking his face in your hand; you could feel the beginning of a beard forming.

Pushing his face, you forced him to look at you, “Talk, please.”

“I do not know what you want me to say. You must go. It was a command, so it is final. They need you.”

His tone was soft and quiet, much different than the harsh and commanding tone he usually had. He held his hands on your waist.

“When shall you go?”

You take a breath, “I shall leave at first light.”

He brought his head down to rest on your shoulder. You pull him further into you, holding the back of his head tightly.

You pull from him, getting in your shared bed. You pat the spot next to you, asking him to come to bed with you. He discards his pelts, weapons, armour, outer clothes, and shoes, and gets into bed with you.

He lays against the headboard, you lay against his chest. He wraps his large arm around you, rubbing circles into your bicep.

“Rickon…” you began, thinking of the son you had become a mother to when you and Cregan had wed.

“Rickon will be cared for only by me and any hand maids of your choosing. He will have the best education and training - your name will be spoken highly at every meal and at every sleep—”

You sniffled softly, thinking of your boy, “I do not wish for him to forget me.”

Cregan felt his eyes get hot with tears, he pulled you closer into his warmth, “He will not forget you. I will make sure of that.”

Your breathing started to stable and your grip on his arm faltered. As you slept, Cregan could not find any shut-eye, worried about you.

He watched you the whole night. Watching as your chest rose and fell, and how your silver locks were splayed across the feather pillows and across your face.

It was nearly sun-up when your husband woke you. Your eyes fluttered open, you blinked roughly a couple of times to adjust your vision. Cregan paced around the room.

Instead of your handmaiden, Cregan, himself, helped you to dress for battle. You stopped in your son’s chambers, only waking him for a second to say your farewells. You kissed him back to sleep, tucking him in tightly; tears only fell after you closed his chamber doors and headed out to your dragon.

Making your way out of the walls of Winter Town, you found Cannibal in a large field dusted with snow. At your arrival, he huffed out to greet you, trying to rub his head over your chest.

You smiled, brushing over his scales with your hand. Cannibal awaited your mounting as you turned to your husband.

Grabbing his hand, you looked at him solemnly, “My lord husband, if the Gods decide I have served my time and served Westeros well… and I do not return,” you paused to take a breath, “I want you to take another to wed. Do not spend your life grieving over me. Rickon deserves a mother and you deserve more heirs—”

He grabbed both sides of your face, “I do not want to take another to wed. I do not need more heirs. I only need you,” he shakes his head roughly, the morning light hitting his features majestically.

“I will not even look in the direction of another. I will not take another to bed or wed. I will wait at the gates of Winter Town for your arrival. I will pray every sun-up and sun-down for your safe return. You will not be forgotten and there will never be another.”

“Cregan—” he cut you off with a kiss.

“Promise me you will come back,” his brows were furrowed, his face still close to yours.

You nodded to all of your extent, “I promise. I promise.”

He kissed you feverishly once more, finally letting you go, “I will send thousands of greybeards after you. They will meet you at the battle.”

Smiling, you sighed, beginning to mount Cannibal when he called out your name loudly. You turned your head one last time towards his booming voice, “Fight hard. Like a Northerner!”

A single tear ran down your face as you took off. Cannibal screeched, his sounds filling the Northern air. Cregan waited until you were out of site before he turned back to Winterfell.

He kept his promise; that night he began his prayers in the Godswood, dragging Rickon along with him.

After your departure he became cold and distant from his people and his men. He would spend many weeks at a time North of the Wall, trying to distract himself from you, but never forgetting his prayers.

His bastard sister was chosen to care for Rickon, and even as his sister, he could not stand seeing another woman care for him.

After the first year, he began bringing the young lord to Castle Black with him, though he was only about 4 years old.

He would occassionally get ravens from wherever you were in battle, but after a while, the messages lessened, eventually stopping. He did not want to assume the worst, thinking you were too busy to write to him.

After tireless pleas of his advisors telling him to remarry, he had killed nearly all of them for even suggesting such a thing. He had never been tempted to take another to bed; the only thing that kept him going was thoughts of you.

He grew his beard out in those long years you were away, his face seeing many harsh winters.

His eyes were sunken, he had become someone he no longer recognized in the mirror. His son had blossomed into a strong young lad, becoming great in battle at his ripe age of seven.

Rickon and his father were very close, only really having one another. They prayed for you every morn and night together, they prayed for you over every meal, and Cregan told many stories of you to his son.

Your memory never faltered, almost as if you were still in the North.

Nearly 5 years after your departure on that cold, dark morn, whispers in the wind had said the Blacks had succeeded in taking back the throne. The realm had lost the Prince Regent, the Usurper King and his wife, the dowager queen, and the youngest hightower prince.

The Starks were at supper when Winterfell’s guards yelled from every tower and station, “Dragon!”

“Dragon!”

Cregan and Rickon immediately perked up, sharing a look and sprinting to their horses. They raced to the gates of Winter Town, shouting at everyone on the streets in their way.

Almost jumping off their horses, Cregan and Rickon watched you and Cannibal land in front of them.

You looked a lot older, your silver hair was much longer and braided up, you held a stoic and stong look on your face. Cregan could tell you had been changed by the war.

You dismounted, running through the snow to your small family. Cregan grabbed you tightly, breathing into your hair, tears overflowing.

You kissed him hard, crying through it. You held his face and smiled through your tears, “Look at this beard!”

He laughed softly, “Five years and that is the first thing you say to me?”

You notice your son standing not too far away, turning to him, you cried more. He was so grown, standing at almost 8 years of age now. You knelt, holding out your arms, “My boy.”

He ran into your embrace, squeezing you tightly. Cregan knelt with you, taking both of your bodies into his arms. Cries and sniffles surrounded your family as you reunited.

Rickon finally broke the silence, wiping your tears, he held onto your shoulder, “Tell us stories about the war! Father told be the same stories of you for years, now we have more!”

You laughed, looking at your husband, “I will tell you all about my adventures tomorrow, but now I just want to be with my family again.”

———

taglist: @wolvestitches

#cregan stark x you #cregan x reader #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #hotd season 2 #hotd imagine

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malisorn · 3 months

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𖤓 || 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞

Pairing | Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Summary | Aemond has begged for many things in his life and for one last time, he gets down on his knees and begs for you ๋࣭ ⭑

Warnings & Suggestions | Fluff & tiny bit of Angst, soft dark!aemond, heavily inspired by Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want by Deftones (originally The Smiths)

Speak the wrong thing, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

These words have rotted deep inside Aemond's mind ever since he was a child, for he has always been the butt of a joke to his own brother and nephews.

In the beginning, he lets them jest all they wish, enduring their laughter as if it meant nothing. But after times and times of the same old jokes, it is no more fun, it has never been fun.

He started to defend himself, spit back at Aegon's words and try to fight, but still he failed. And in the last resort, he found himself on his knees, crying over and over again.

“Please, please, please, give me the biggest dragon in the world.” Tears streaming down as he begs the gods. He promises to be a changed man if he ever has a dragon.

And the gods seem to have heard him but nothing in the world has ever come without its price. For the very first time in his life, Aemond got his wish as he rode Vhagar through the dark night sky. And for a minute, he felt like he had own the world. After countless nights of practicing High Valyrian, imagining a dragon in front of him as he shouted the word out loud.

“Dohaerās!”

“Lykirī!”

“Sōvēs!”

Now, slowly patting the back of Vhagar, this is real, seeing his tears dropping on Vhagar, this is truly real. He has finally proved himself worthy to be a dragonrider to his father, a perfect son to his mother and a true Targaryen to his brother and his nephews.

His thoughts run short when he notices the Velaryons and the Strongs from below.

“I will not fear them, Vhagar has proved me worthy of her, I will not fear anyone.” He thinks to himself as he comes down to face them.

“It’s him!”

“It’s me.” Aemond feels confidence runs through him like a raging fire, pushing him to all the ways to say things he's always afraid of.

“Vhagar is my mother's dragon!” The girl argued hard with no less confidence than him. “Your mother's dead.” Aemond worries he is too bold but there is no stopping from this moment. “And Vhagar has a new rider now.” He continues with pride on his face.

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena shouts with her twin sister’s comfort from the back. Aemond was silent for a second as he observes everyone around, none of their dragons can compare to his. Arrax is young, Vermax can barely obey and Moondancer is nothing to Vhagar. Smiling at his realization, “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride, it would suit you.” He looks at all of them. Threats shouted with punches exchanged, Aemond has insulted them just as they once did to him but never in his life has he thought something so brutal would happen to him.

“The scar will heal but the eye could never do the same, your grace.” Aemond grips the chair hard, he has lost his eye. He looks at his mother with tears full of pain. “Please, please, please, mother, help me.” He thinks to the mother and his own as the maester stitches his scar.

And his mother tried to help him, with the same pleadings in her eyes as she looked at his father, The King, the one who can truly give him everything but the King didn't return the same look in his eyes, he gave those to only his daughter and bash away Aemond's pain. However, his mother couldn't give up, she stood with duty heavy on her back, running to takes Lucerys’s eye. Everything from that night still haunts him and he couldn't look at the King the same.

Aemond did become a changed man, just as he promised to the gods in exchange for a dragon. Nog the kind of change he has imagined. Instead, he has become a brute, poisoned with hatred and not even an ounce of sympathy left inside of him.

The Sept is no longer his place of comfort and he rarely begs the gods for anything. Aemond believes he has gotten everything he ever wanted, everything he needs to be a Targaryen. But no, it is far from the truth. Deep inside, Aemond feared that if he ever dared uttering a single wish to the gods, they would take something important from him in return. It could be his other eye, his title, his dragon or even his own life-

“Please, please, please, let this woman be the bride of mine for I have endured the pain my whole life. Let her be mine, for this will be my one last wish.”

Aemond feels bitterness twists through his words, he feels like a fool being down on his knees. After all these years of resentment, he broke all his promises and ran all his way back to the gods once more time. He said his prayers sternly, the gods must answer his wish after all they've done to him, he believes himself deserving something as dainty and perfect as you.

All of his thoughts slowly fade as his blurring sight clears into the vision of you standing right in front of him, wearing a pure white gown with wild flowers in your hair.

The gods have answered his prayers, you are now his bride.

With each time he blinks, each breath he takes, every single piece of you has finally revived into a wish he has always yearn to be blessed. The way you talk, the way you smile and how you spin around with that white gown of yours, he has never been allured by a woman's beauty like this.

“I am forever grateful to be your wife, my prince.” The sweet words dropping from your lips. He didn't know whether he wanted to be eternally confined by your love or to be freed from your lure. After nights of endless prayers, thinking that his wish has been torn aside and forgotten. But at this sight with you as his bride and from now on, his wife. Aemond feels seen, listened and answered, not only by the judgment of the gods but also by you.

He turns to look at you once more, “Same as I, to be your husband is truly a gift from gods.”

Feeling all smug with his answered prayers, Aemond seems to forget that nothing in the world has ever come without its price. Now, he can enjoy his days and nights with the love of his life but soon, the gods will find their ways and take anything they could in exchange of his one last wish.

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requests are open! feel free to ask ♡

images' credits

Society Lady With a Spray of Lilac by Hermann Clementz

Dancing Fairies by August Malmström

Peacocks and Delphiniums by Jessie Arms Botke

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen fluff

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aemondapologistfrfr · 2 months

Text

His Princess - Pt6

fancast!bloody ben x targ!fem!reader

Pt 1 Pt2 Pt 3 Pt 4 Pt 5

Summary: Rhaenyra readies her host to take Kings Landing. She dispatches Y/n and Baela to scout the walls of the city to help further their plans. Rhaenyra leads her host to the walls and tells Cole to kneel or die. Cole shares information that could change everything with Daemon in Harrenhal.

Warnings: 18+ swearing, battle planning, p in v but in like a we’re going to war tomorrow and anything could happen way!!, war, blood, blades, a cliffhanger bc i’m a bitch 🫣😏

Authors Note: plot heavy!, cute sibling time bc the battles gunna be messy!, no bc i will be using some quotes from fire and blood but ill change them so no one comes for me 😅 it's like the beginning of the battle so it's not suuuper intense y e t

Word Count: 4k

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We’re sprawled around Rhaenyras war tent waiting for the rest of the Lords to make their way to us. The amount of bodies around Rosby is staggering. Slowly the rest of the council makes their way into the tent and my mother rises and we all follow suit.

“The time has come for us to take the throne. I have word Aemond and Vhagar are going to be moving to Harrenhal on the morrow. I’m sending Y/n and Baela to assess the city walls and see where we can enter through easiest. On their return tonight we will plan further of where everyone’s placement is going to be and the part they play.” Rhaenyra looks on at the nodding Lords.

Ben holds me to him tighter as I feel his anxiety rise. I pat his leg trying to comfort him. Of course I’m nervous but we’re simply scouting and we’ll stick to the clouds. Our dragons are light enough where if we stay high we can avoid being seen. Rhaenyra dismisses the Lords and council members so they can spend the last couple of hours of sunlight with their men before everything changes tomorrow. The dragon riders are the only ones who linger behind in her tent.

“What I’m asking of you all tomorrow will be no small feat. I know that Vhagar will be out of the city but we have to keep watch for scorpions and take them out promptly. They still have Dreamfyre, but I know Helaena will not be riding her. Sunfyre is no longer in the city and Aegon is incapacitated. We should be the only ones flying over the city.” Rhaenyra looks to all of us, nodding her head as she looks down at the map of Kings Landing.

“Baela and I can deal with the scorpions. Moondancer and Vermax are still small which allows them to remain quick and agile.” Jace offers walking over to look over her shoulder at the map.

“I wish to avoid as many civilian casualties as possible. Try to keep the fighting outside of the city walls. I’m hoping that once they see we’ve arrived the city folk will start to fight with us and attack the Greens from behind.” Rhaenyra looks to Jace and Baela who nod at her instructions.

“Y/n and Ben will stay with the host. They’ve been training alongside them and they’ve fought alongside Silverwing so they know what to expect.” her eyes linger on us before they turn to Addam.

“It is my hope that you can stay by my side. Seasmoke is formidable and has seen action so I may very well send you with Jace and Baela to provide them that extra support.” he nods eagerly at her commands.

“At sunset you both will set out.” her eyes glance from me to Baela. “Please stay to the clouds and do not engage. I mean it.” her voice firm but her eyes pleading.

“Of course,” Baela nods and I along with her.

“I will see you all for supper.” she dismisses us to go about the camp.

Ben and I rise and walk through the men until we start seeing familiar faces. Our dragons are nesting near the outskirts of our Riverland host. As we approach I see our tent has already been built. We slip through the opening and sigh as we sit on our bed.

“I do not wish for you to go.” he looks at me with furrowed brows.

“We will stay in the cover of clouds and will be back within a couple hours. There is nothing to worry about.” I turn to him grabbing his hand and rubbing soothing circles with my thumb.

“Vhagar is still in the city.” he looks up to me with wavering eyes.

“I promise I will come back to you.” I place a soft kiss on his brow.

I pull him close to me as I feel his anxiety and worry floating around our tent. We lay back on the bed and stay in each other’s embrace hoping to calm each other down. Every time we seem to settle his anxiety spikes and he pulls me tighter against him.

“If you don’t come back to me I’ll burn this entire fucking realm down.” his words a promise.

“Why can you make declarations like that to me?” I hear Baelas voice from the other side of our tent causing me to pull out of Ben’s arms and storm to the opening.

“What are you two doing?” I scold as I rip the flaps open.

“Listening to make sure it’s safe for us to come see you both.” Jace chuckles pushing me aside and sitting next to Ben on our bed.

“Taking my spot on top of that?” I huff as I follow behind Baela back into our tent as we take seats on the ground.

“You whisk him away every chance you get. I want to get to know him.” Jace pulls Ben over by his shoulders as I look on with raised eyebrows.

“You’re gunna get yourself punched in the face again.” Baela giggles from my side.

“Mm, I’m absolutely terrified.” Jace smirks to me and I can’t help the smile that forms on my face.

“Gods know I’m terrified of her.” Ben chuckles much to Jaces delight.

“At least you’re smart enough to admit it.” a smile spreads across my face.

“Enough about scary Y/n, let’s hear about Vermithor.” Jace and Baela look to Ben expectantly.

“Well they’re both equally as terrifying,” he jokes to me. “I like to think of him as a grumpy old man who wouldn’t mind burning down a village for a midnight snack. He’s surprisingly accommodating and has eagerly taken to the new maneuvers I’ve been working with him on.” I tilt my head curious of what new techniques he’s talking about.

“What are these maneuvers? Making me and Silverwing hunt for you both?” I quip and Baela barks out a laugh.

“You shall see them on the battlefield after we’re sated from a meal you both have sourced for us.” he rubs his belly as him and Jace erupt into a fit of laughter.

“Oh, I like you,” Jace smiles broadly to Ben.

We continue to talk for hours until the sun starts to fall down the horizon. We all make our way back to Rhaenryas tent and join her for supper. After the meal Baela and I excuse ourselves to change into our riding gear and meet each other back at our dragons.

“Are you ready sister?” I look to her biting my lip.

“We’ll stick to the clouds and be back in no time.” she says pulling me into a tight embrace.

“How do we look sending our lovers off while we stay to the tents?” Jace comes from behind us with Ben next to him. Baela makes her way to Jace who pulls her into a hug and I walk to Ben.

“May I have your favor?” I purse my lips with a smirk.

“Of course, my gallant knight,” he bows his head with a smile and pulls out the bone knife. “This seems to always keep you safe when I’m indisposed.” he hums pulling me into a hug and kisses me fiercely.

“Daughters,” Rhaenyra catches our attention and we turn to her. “If anything feels wrong or if you feel like you’re in danger please come back at once. It’s not my desire to send you both but you do a great service to me.” her eyes starting to water.

“We will be fine mother,” Baela offers her comforting words.

“We will be back before you even notice our absence.” I nod to her as we turn to mount our dragons.

I look down at Ben once more before we shoot into the sky. Baela and Moondancer are quick on our heels as we ascend into the clouds. We shoot forward with purpose and intent. The moon begins to rise as we see Kings Landing in the distance. As we start approaching the city we rise higher in the clouds hoping to have more cover. I nod my head to the left and Baela nods her to the right as we start a perimeter around the city walls.

As I fly above the Gods gate my breath catches at the size of the army outside the walls. The host stretches down past the Lions gate all the way to the Kings gate. I shake my head as I continue in the clouds making my way over the Bay. Baela comes into view and nods to me with wide eyes. We pass each other so we can take in each other’s sides and I gape. The entire city is surrounded with a host almost double our size.

We meet just past the Gods gate again and rise above the clouds. We look to each other and breathe out a sigh of relief that no one saw us and begin flying back to Rosby. As we approach the host I can feel the tension in the air. We make our descent and land next to the other dragons. Baela and I slide off and meet each other as our adrenaline pours out of us. Rhaenyra, Jace, and Ben quickly approach us and look us over.

“Come to the war tent.” Rhaenyra nods once she sees we’re all in one piece.

Jace and Ben trail behind us as we enter. Baela and I walk over to the map and start placing pieces on the map trying to put everything down before it flees our minds. We look over each other’s work and then step back and look to Rhaenyra.

“What did you see?” Rhaenyra asks hushed looking at the map.

“The city is surrounded.” I shake my head biting the inside of my lip.

“Their host is massive. Almost double our size.” Baela looks to Rhaenyra.

“We have more dragons.” Jace furrows his brow looking to the map.

“Well the bay has been left unattended, right?” Ben asks.

“From what we could see, yes.” I nod my head to him.

“We could send two dragons to take the city from that end and send the riders to turn the small folk to our cause. We can rush the gates from the inside and begin the attack from within the walls.” Ben bites his lip looking over the map and host.

“Who are you suggesting?” Jace asks.

“Seasmoke and Syrax. The presence of two large dragons should sway them. Especially, if one of them is their Queen. We can send you with spare weapons and armor to hand out.” Ben nods his head.

“A sound idea.” Rhaenyra nods her head thinking.

“Once Baela and I take out the scorpions we can join you both on the ground.” Jace nods as the plans continue to form.

“We will continue this at day break.” Rhaenyra says at once and I can hear the fear and anxiety in her voice. “Please get some rest.” Rhaenyra looks over the map again and exhales.

Ben’s hand slips into mine as he softly tugs me out of the tent. We slowly make our way to our tent and take in the rowdy host around us. The men know that there could be a promise of death tomorrow and refuse to waste their last hours. Once we enter the tent he begins to remove my gear while whispering words of adoration.

“Thank you for coming back to me, my Princess.” he whispers against my neck as he holds me.

“I’ll always come back to you.” I whisper against his lips.

We begin to pull off the rest of our clothes not wanting any boundaries between us. He lays me gently on our bed and climbs over me. He dips down and locks our lips once more. He settles between my thighs and slowly pushes himself in. My legs wrap around him and he pumps into me slow and deep.

Our breaths are deep as we try to get impossibly closer to each other. Soft moans fall from my lips as he grinds into me as I cling to him. He swallows all of my noises as we get lost in each other.

“Ben,” his name falls off of my lips as my hips begin moving with his.

“Shh, you can let go.” he kisses me once more as I whimper into his mouth allowing pleasure to take over.

He continues to slowly push into me as my hands roam all over his back. The feel of him is making my body go taught once more. His hips start to move a little faster as they begin to falter. I pulse around him as he starts to fill me panting into my neck.

“Gods I fucking love you so much.” he rests his forehead on mine.

“I love you.” I bring his lips back down to mine.

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We wake along with the rest of our host. We untangle from each other and slowly rise. Ben helps me braid my hair and then with putting on my armor. I grab his armor and begin placing it on him while he steals kisses from me in between plates. Once we’re ready we walk out of our tent and are greeted by the men rushing around to prepare. We make our way to the war tent and can feel the tension pouring out of the flaps.

“I will not sit idly by while you take the city. If there ever has been a time for me to show my face in battle now is the time.” Rhaenyras voice is raised as she stares down the Lords as we enter.

“Our Queen is right,” Corlys nods. “She will go in from the back and be able to pull the small folk to our cause and they’ll be able to push open the gates for us from the inside.” Corlys stands tall showing off his Hand of the Queen pin.

“I will not be alone. Seasmoke and Addam will be by my side and Corlys’ fleet is slowly entering the Blackwater. I am more formidable than you think.” she rises and looks down to all the Lords.

“We meant no offense, Your Grace.” Ser Alfred lowers his eyes.

“Then ready the host. Vhagar has been spotted leaving Kings Landing and the time for us to march is now.” Rhaenyra looks to them expectantly.

“Where will the other dragons be?” Lord Mooton asks boldly.

“Y/n and Ben will be with the host outside of the gates. Jace and Baela will be inside the city walls taking out scorpions and other weapons that could cause lethal damage to our dragons or host.” She looks to him waiting for him to say something. “Fight valiantly and any one of you who thinks it would be easier to turn cloaks, know that you will die.” she lifts her chin assessing every Lord and Lady in the tent.

“We take the city today and I will sit the throne before days end. I’m not saying it will be easy and I know not all of us will come out of this. You all have stood faithfully by my side and honored my father’s wishes. Know that when I rule you all will be rewarded for your bravery and loyalty.” everyone in the tent, me and my siblings included, fall to our knees and bow to the Queen.

The Lords begin to usher out of the tent to go ready their hosts. Only her Hand and the dragon riders remain. She turns to us with a soft smile and hardness in her eyes.

“I don’t even know how to begin to thank you all for what you’re going to do for me today.” she looks to all us. “I wish it didn’t have to come to this. Dragons should never be used as a weapon of war and yet here I am sending them to battle.” she shakes her head and looks up to stop her unshed tears.

“We will be the only dragons. The only people who should be afraid are the traitors.” Jace says standing tall. “I will fight for you until my last breath.” Jace takes his sword and crosses his chest kneeling.

“I will fight for you until my last breath.” Baela mirrors Jaces movements.

“I will fight for you until my last breath.” I remove my sword from my back and fall to my knees.

“I will fight for you until my last breath.” Ben takes his sword and places it in front of him kneeling.

“I will fight for you until my last breath.” Addam falls to his knees beside us with his sword in hand.

“We await your command, my Queen.” Corlys moves to Rhaenyras side as she wipes her tears away.

“All of you stand.” her voice shaky. “If it ever becomes too much out there fly to the Red Keep. I know I shouldn’t say this but I’d rather have you by my side than in a pyre. So if you need to leave the battle, then leave. Countless lives are going to be lost today for my father’s dream. I won’t lose you all.” she shakes her head steeling herself. “To your dragons and await my signal.” she nods dismissing us.

Ben grabs my hand as we walk out of the tent. Our tensions and anxieties are high flowing between us. I squeeze his hand in support and he offers me a squeeze of my own. As we approach Silverwing and Vermithor they are affectionately rubbing their heads together.

“My beautiful Silverwing and my fearsome Vermithor. We will fly as a unit today. Tight knit and no hesitation. We will all keep each other safe.” I look up to them with Ben at my side.

They curl their tails around us and I’m sure from the outside it looks as if we’re all hugging. Vermithor and Silverwing softly chuff nudging us softly. They both lower their heads to us as we hug their snouts. Vermithor presses his snout into me while Silverwing does the same for Ben. Our dragons uncurl from us and we turn to each other.

“My Ben, my love,” I raise one of my hands to cup his cheek while looking at him with glossy eyes as I pour all of my fear and anxieties out of me.

“We will survive this. You still have to marry me.” he smiles down to me before placing a soft kiss on my lips swallowing my giggles.

“My fearsome Vermithor,” he turns to his dragon. “You and I must protect our loves at all costs today. I care not who dies as long as Y/n and Silverwing live.” Vermithor drops his head and locks his eyes with Ben’s in agreement.

“My beautiful Silverwing, let’s remind everyone why they’re so terrified of us.” I nod my head with a wicked smile as she offers me a deep grumble that vibrates the ground.

“Do not die today.” I turn to Ben. “Or I’ll find a witch to bring you back and kill you again myself.” he grins and pulls me into his arms offering me one more kiss.

“Of course, my Princess.” we separate and begin to climb to our saddles.

We clip in and look around at the readying host. Across the field we can see the other dragon riders clipping in and awaiting my mother. My breath catches as I see my mother shoot into the sky atop Syrax.

“To Kings Landing!” she shouts with a blade in hand as Syrax moves her around the host.

Syrax gives out a shriek and then men begin to march. All of the dragons shoot into the sky and give out loud cries that spurs the men on. My adrenaline spikes as I see our host moving as one with dragons flying above them.

Our pace has been steady and we will be approaching the city within the hour. The host is buzzing and the dragons swoop in and out of each other. We can hear the faint beating of war drums as our host begins to spread out around the city walls.

Syrax lands in front of the host at the Gods gate where it seems the largest amount of men are. Ben and I land at her side as our dragons lick their teeth looking on at the men. Rhaenyra approaches and Cole emerges from the crowd.

“Tell your men to lay down their swords and they may yet live.” she walks to Cole as Syrax is hovering behind her.

“We will never bend the knee to a whore.” Cole spits out at her and Silverwing lets out a low growl.

“You tell my cunt brother I will have my throne or I will take his head myself.” she looks down to Cole who laughs at her words.

“You could never stand against King Aemond.” he shakes his head at her laughing.

“King Aemond?” she says taken aback.

“Aegon is dead. Aemond now rules in his place.” a smirk plays at Cole’s lips.

“Then I shall take his other eye.” she shrugs and goes to mount Syrax once more.

“To battle, to glory!” she shoots into the skies and Seasmoke swirls around her.

They disappear into the clouds and I’m hoping they will have no issue taking the Keep in through the Blackwater. I see Jace and Baela fly up into the sky and slide over the city walls with impressive speed. I hear arrows being loosed and pray to the Gods for their safety. From in the distance I see fire upon rooftops taking out scorpions and other weapons. I look to Ben and nod my head.

“Fight for your Queen.” Ben shouts as Vermithor gives out a roar that causes the Greens host to hesitate.

We shoot to the skies together as our host charges forward. I look down for a moment and watch the two hosts collide. There’s a symphony of metal and death in the air that spurs us into action. Ben and I go in opposite directions to start spreading fire upon their back lines near the wall. For a moment everything seems to be up in flames and once they settle the sounds of the dying fill the air.

I hear a loud groan of wood and look to the ground and see them ready to loose a scorpion at Ben and Vermithor. My breath catches in my throat as I see the metal tipped spear flying at them. Silverwing and I give out a scream at the same time and begin flying in their direction. Ben turns his head at the last minute and they barely dodge it as the metal tip scrapes along Vermithors tail.

Vermithor dips down to where the spear came from and flies low as I see Ben unclip from his saddle. All we can do is sit there and watch as Vermithor dips close to the ground as Ben stands on the saddle and dismounts off of Vermithors wing as he’s still in flight, long sword in hand. I lose him in the fighting and death and Vermithor flies to me and Silverwing as blood drips on the Greens from his tail.

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masterlist 🔌

taglist ✍️ @clarityisnofun @gabriella-aesthetic @callsignwidow @llynx7

I felt like a cliffhanger here would be fun :) - I’m almost done w the next part and will most likely post it on sunday don’t h8 plsss

pls i finished this at farm and fleet as i was getting my brakes fixed

Part 7

#benjicot blackwood x reader #benji blackwood #benjicot blackwood #benjicot x reader #ben blackwood x reader #benjicot blackwood smut #fancast bloody ben #bloody ben hotd #bloody ben smut #bloody ben x reader #hotd smut #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #x reader smut #x reader fic #x reader #got smut #reader smut

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emilykaldwen · 2 months

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Twenty

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

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Author's Note: Happy Anniversary to Maiden! I'm so happy to those of you who've been on the journey from the start and those who have found this story along the way. We are in the final few chapters of this Arc! And to celebrate, I bring you amazing plot twists! All my love and thanks to @vampire-exgirlfriend for holding my hand and being with me every step of the way, and @darkwolf76 who loved this story first.

If you're reading here on tumblr, I'd love to hear from you! My inbox is open and I can't wait to hear your thoughts!

CHAPTER TWENTY - I'm In Over My Head

We finally arrive at Harrenhal, where you cannot escape the ghosts.

It was a fortnight by horseback and only six hours by Sunfyre to Harrenhal, but the royal progress along the Kingsroad took a moon. The people needed to see them, the queen had insisted, refusing to let them stay and ride out on dragonback. Instead, Helaena would stay, Ser Criston at her side, and the sworn sword would fly with the princess in a month’s time. Baela would fly out with them on Moondancer, Jace on Vermax, and Aemond would accompany the royal progress without Vhagar.

Harrenhal could only house so many dragons.

Abby was ready to be done with it all; her body felt like it would never stop jostling even when she was out of the wheelhouse. The days on horseback were better, but even those had left her aching from her inexperience. Aegon had whispered in her ear that it would be good practice for her, and how precious she looked bowlegged. The ribald flirtation had sent a rush of heat and anticipation through her, as well as frustration with him for making light of how uncomfortable she’d been. For his cheek, she’d bundled herself in the wheelhouse with the Crane twins, Merei Thorne, and Floris, the latter of which had her hold her tongue to keep from ranting.

She missed Wylla.

Wylla, she knew, would loop her arm through hers and recount all the wonderful ways they could make Aegon miserable. Jesting, of course, though the pair regularly snipped at one another.

Guilt roiled in Abby’s gut. After the betrothal announcement between Aemond and Floris, Wylla had taken the opportunity to flee to Stone Hedge to witness her brother’s nuptials to Lady Alys Bracken. It had been good that she did, Abby thought. She would be able to see her mother and other brothers, who had come down in order to attend her wedding, and Wylla did not know when she would see them next. Karhold was further north than Winterfell and her friend was giving up a great deal to come live at Harrenhal.

That said little of the other reasons why Wylla had eagerly left for Stone Hedge, and Abby thought of Helaena’s words all those months ago. ‘And I’ll be left alone while you and Aegon are busy making babies together!’ She felt like a poor friend and and even worse sister, unable to deny that as the weeks had passed, her focus had been less on duties she’d taken so seriously, of being there for those she cared for, and more focused on the making of her wedding dress, of the stealing time with Aegon with a desperate heat and wanting, of responding to well wishes and organizing a household… when she had promised to always be there for Helaena. When she had begun to foster a love and friendship with Wylla that had grown into its own sisterhood.

Jace had so easily comforted Helaena during her difficult days when Abby was pulled away or otherwise occupied. And Wylla had not even told her of the budding romance between her and Aemond - now brutally cut short in the wake of politics beyond their control. So consumed she’d been with Aegon, with everything else, things that, selfishly, were for her and her alone, and so easily she’d forgotten those she vowed to care for.

Abby would do all she could to make up for it. She would ensure that Wylla did not feel forgotten, that her and Helaena could indeed visit often. She would write, she would-

“Lady Abrogail?”

Desmera’s voice cut through the swirl of guilty words flitting through Abby’s head and she looked up at the Crane girl. Desma, Abby corrected herself. Desmera preferred Desma. She was holding the wool kirtle in her arms, the shade of green as lush and dark as the fields they passed through with red weirwood embroidery along the arms. The surcoat carefully folded on the table was half red and half blue and edged in silvery rabbit fur, among the other parts of her heraldic dress. She would not be in the wheelhouse as they came into Harrentown, and the parade that announced their arrival would be a large one. Already they had seen an uptick of traffic along the Kingsroad and the tents in the fields, the small inns filled to bursting the closer they were. With only a few hours until they approached the town, it was almost like they were approaching King’s Landing. Merchants were setting up along the way to hawk wares and Abby knew that the crowd would be thicker the closer they crept

The distant call of dragons echoed outside the tent and Abby and Desma poked their heads out the flap to crane their necks to look up.

“I can’t believe Ser Criston is riding dragonback with the princess,” Desma murmured, and Abby laughed. He had stayed behind with Helaena, and Abby knew it was to keep an eye on Jace. What Abby would have given to see the look on the knight’s face when he was told that he would fly with Helaena. Not even Queen Alicent had flown with her children, despite both Aegon and Helaena’s offers.

Abby knew how big dragons were, having been around them her whole life, but this was different. With no expansive sprawl of King’s Landing or the Great Sept to compare, they seemed even larger. Past the many tents of the camps, the moors of the Riverlands was all there was. No buildings, no great mountains or spires or monuments. Just the green, rolling hills surrounding the Kingsroad and the forest beyond.

Dreamfyre’s bulk was impressive, the blue and silver of her scales standing out in the morning light, her call warm and low, melodic in a way that was surprising for a dragon. Two smaller dragons were flying about, answering the calls, scales in shades of jade and bronze and silver as Jace and Baela danced around the great dragon.

There was another familiar call, the trilling echoing across the moor like a song. Abby’s heart swelled, hearing Aegon’s happy shout from somewhere inside the camp as Sunfyre gleamed as bright as the morning sun. How she missed him, how she missed being free in the air where nothing else mattered.

Desma tugged on her elbow, laughing. “Come back here, Abby, you’re still in your nightgown.”

Abby allowed herself to be pulled back in the tent, and was soon joined by Merei Thorne, who came bearing a plate of cold meats and bread and warm cider to break her fast.

“I’m ready to be done with all this mud,” she groused, dark hair loose and free about her shoulders, her swarthy skin flushed from the cool morning air. “Ser Rickard says the crowds up the road will be thick by the time we reach them.” Merei’s uncle was a member of the Kingsguard, and Abby was grateful that she had sought information before arriving.

She let herself be tugged out of her nightgown and a fresh chemise pulled over her head before Desma got her into the green kirtle and Merei shoved a piece of bread with ham into Abby’s open mouth. “Wylla’s sent word this morning with the rider.” Merei waved the scroll around. “Your rooms have been made ready, and Lythene and Sarra are settling in, so all you need to do is arrange things to your liking.”

Abby eagerly reached for the scroll as the girls laced her into the kirtle. It was a short message, but Wylla’s handwriting was comforting and familiar.

“Is Alys another one of your ladies?” Merei asked, moving the surcoat out of the way while Abby sat to eat. Desma opened the box of combs and ribbons and hairpins to get to work on her curls.

Wylla’s letter had mentioned help from Alys Rivers, and Abby shook her head before Desma pinched her to keep still as she carefully worked Abby’s curls.

“No, she’s a member of our household. A healer and sometimes ladies maid. She helped my mother when she was pregnant with me, but declined to come to the capital with us.” Her memories of the woman were fuzzy whenever Abby tried to look at them more closely. Dark haired with large grey eyes, Alys had been a fixture when she had visited Harrenhal over the years. “It’s good that she’s helping Wylla. I know Aunt Mya has her hands full with everything and my cousin, Deidre, is there to help.” Deidre, the future Lady Smallwood of Acorn Hall, had grown up at Harrenhal and would prove helpful in this busy time of preparation. Deidre’s younger sister, Cassana, lived at Runestone and would be arriving with Lord Yorick’s party soon.

Desma’s hands worked quickly to pull Abby’s curls from her face, winding a knot of braids along the back of her head, the rest curling down her back to her waist. It would be hours of riding, but also hours of being seen by the people who looked to Harrenhal, who looked to her family, as their liege lords. Merei pulled a delicate net of silver dotted with rubies, sapphires, and emeralds and pinned it around Desma’s delicate knotwork.

With her mother’s carnelian necklace around her throat, Abby shoved her feet into her riding boots and grabbed a last chunk of bread and ham before ducking out of the tent as her ladies oversaw the packing of her things.

The sea of black and red tents felt like a field of Targaryen poppies as she made her way through the camp. The ground was not as muddy as Merei complained, but Abby was nonetheless grateful for her sturdy boots. Already the grass was churning into a muddy mess in various places and she carefully stepped around them. Servants paused to offer quick bows and curtsies, which Abby felt awkward about. They did not need to pause in their duties to acknowledge her, but at the same time, it was strangely satisfying to be recognized, to be deferred to in some small way.

Abby was not sure how to feel about it, so she pushed the confusing feelings away and shoved the rest of her bread in her mouth.

She found Aegon where the horses were stabled, tethered to temporary posts and being fed their morning grain. The morning light turned Aegon’s curls a soft gold, his gray linen shirt tucked into a pair of high waisted, black riding pants, stripes of red embroidered with gold scales down the sides into a pair of tall, shiny black boots. He was without his own surcoat and she knew that it was just as ostentatious as her own heraldic gown: black and red and scaled as was the Targaryen way. She licked butter from her thumb as she approached, gaze raking over him appreciatively and the opened neck of his shirt, teasing the lightly freckled skin that she longed to kiss.

Kostōba was as brilliant as ever, pawing happily at the ground and rooting his nose against Aegon, clearly looking for more treats. His cream colored coat shone as golden as his master’s hair in the sun, brilliant against the caparison of red and black taffeta for House Targaryen. Aegon was busy stroking the snout of another horse, focused on checking the buckles of the halter and bit. The mare was a brilliant chestnut, so red that it matched her hair, it’s mane only a scant few shades darker. It pawed the ground beside Kostōba, nickering and also looking for treats.

“What’s this?”

Aegon turned, eyes wide as if he’d been caught, a sleepy smile on his face. She was no longer mad at him, of course, but the forced distance over their travels was frustrating, in addition to the misery of frequently having to sleep outdoors, no matter how comfortable the tents were. It made tempers shorter, and the stress of everything that was to come was fraying at her.

Aegon closed the distance between them, cupping her face in his hands, and the touch immediately had her shoulders relaxing and she sighed as he kissed her. Chastely, but it was Aegon and his teeth snuck in a quick nibble before he pulled back. She did her best to hide her pout, tasting the wine he’d had that morning on her mouth. Abby licked her lips, blushing at the look he gave her.

“Happy nameday!” he declared, gesturing to the mare. Abby blinked at him, owlish and momentarily confused.

“Nameday?” What day was it? Time had become an endless blur of bumpy roads and the creaking wheelhouse. He raised an eyebrow at her, taking her chin in hand and tilting her head to look up at him.

“It’s your nameday,” he repeated slowly as if she hadn’t heard him the first time.

Oh! It was, wasn’t it? She sputtered softly and he chuckled, pressing another brief kiss to her parted mouth.

“Happy nameday,” he repeated more slowly this time, snickering at her lapse of memory and dropping her chin to caress her shoulder and turn her towards the mare. “She’s from the same stock as Kostōba. Six years old and well trained. She’ll be gentle with you and give a hoof to the face of any who should try to pull you from her.” His grin brightened as he went on, lilac eyes crinkled in excitement as he glanced back at her. Abby could see the hope in Aegon’s face, the nerves and question of if he’d done well with the gift.

Kostōba snorted at Aegon’s shoulder, nudging at him more insistently. Aegon huffed and pulled another piece of carrot from the pocket of his black riding coat. Abby reached up to gently stroke the velvet soft nose of the mare and took the second carrot that Aegon offered. She eagerly took it with greedy teeth, and Abby giggled as the velvet nose tickled her palm.

“She’s beautiful,” Abby said, giddiness bubbling through her belly, swooping at the thoughtfulness of the gesture, and surprise at how exciting it was to be given a horse of her very own. “And she won’t buck me off?”

“Well you’ve proven to be a good rider already, on dragonback no less, though it’s different with a horse, obviously. And I think as long as you keep petting her and speaking to her sweetly as you do, provide plenty of carrots, maybe even some apples? Oh, I think you’ll be just fine.”

Abby scoffed, but her smile was bright. “Endless supply of carrots and apples and oats. Understood, my prince. I will endeavor to bond her to me.” The mare huffed softly as Kostōba’s head came near hers to bump it.

“They look good together, don’t they?” Aegon asked softly, casually.

“They do,” Abby agreed with a soft laugh. “She matches my hair.”

“Exactly. That’s why I picked her.”

“And your horse matches your hair.”

Aegon shrugged, cheeks flushed pink as he scratched around his stallion’s nose. “I have good taste. Do you like her?” There was a furrow now between his brows as he pointedly asked her, her words not doing enough to convey her thanks. It was a guileless thing - Aegon wasn’t trying to tease a deeper showing of affection from her in his usual, playful way. Abby handed him her gathered skirts and he took them, confused, and she reached up to cup his face with both hands, his skin warm against her perpetually chilled fingers.

“I love this gift, Aegon. No one else has wished me happy nameday, but you did, and provided me a thoughtful gift that I love very much,” she reassured him, teeth catching on her lower lip as the words visibly washed over him. She could feel the tension vibrating through him, as if he couldn’t quite believe she enjoyed the gift, or was waiting for something to drop, or a dozen other things. She felt him shudder and relax into her and Abby hummed, thumbs stroking along the apples of his cheeks. The furrow eased, the tension in his shoulders relaxed, his gaze grew softer as he turned his head slightly to nuzzle against her touch. Her belly was warm, fingers toying with the softness of his silver hair, affection surging through her. Abby pressed up on her toes to press a soft, innocent peck to his plush mouth. “I love you, Aegon.”

“I love you,” he whispered shyly as his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. Satisfaction and ease seemed to fill him as she pulled away and took her skirts back from his hold. He cleared his throat, tossing his hair back from his face and reached up to stroke the little white star on the mare’s forehead. “Now we can go riding together - properly have a good race.”

“You want to race? Well then, we’ll have to come up with some good wagers then, won’t we?” The prospect excited her, the planning for things they’d do once the wedding was over and they could just get on with the rest of their lives; away from the Red Keep, away from the politics and the eyes that constantly watched them, away from everything that chased them in waking and in sleep.

Another bright call sounded above them and they both looked up to see Sunfyre circling, his chirps and clicks echoing down to them. The mare snorted and backed away, shaking her head at the closeness of the predator. Two of the stableboys came hurrying over to help calm her. Abby backed away, not wanting to be too close should she rear up, feeling foolish that she was unable to calm her horse, let alone understand how.

“He missed you,” she said, and Aegon laughed, bright and happy as he always was when it came to his golden boy.

“He’s a smart one, isn’t he?” Aegon grinned. “I was…” He trailed off, uncertain, and Abby pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“He would not abandon you. That menace broke out of the dragon pit to get to you, remember?” Not that Sunfyre had caused any damage outside of freeing himself from his chains, and would not return until Aegon had gone to retrieve him before they were dragged back to the Red Keep all those months ago.

“He would most certainly not.” Confidence returned to Aegon’s voice and he cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting words of Valyrian and gesturing north.

Abby’s gaze drifted from the sight to look out past the horses to the rolling moors past them. The mist still hung heavy along the ground, slowly burning away as the morning grew, lending a murky sight of the forest that obscured the sight of the God’s Eye.

A twisting sensation spooled through her chest as she watched the trees. There were oaks abundant along the road, and as they drew north, there were pines dotting the landscape as well. But the great, dark forest beside them was different. The oaks here were giant things. Once, as a little girl, she’d ridden out with Harwin into the Red Wood. There were a few red oaks in the Harrenhal godswood - massive things that shot past the great height of the walls. Here in the forest surrounded by them, it felt like another world. The trunks of the trees were as big as the family dining hall in the Kingspyre. Uncle Simon said that the great round table had been cut from such a trunk.

Ancient trees that had survived the great heart wound of Harren the Black. Spirits lived in the weirwoods; she remembered those stories, and the ancient sentinels remembered too. They were here long before and would be there long after -

“Hey!”

Strong, warm hands gripped her arms and shook her. Abby blinked slowly, feeling tired and confused. Aegon was looking down at her; face pale, confused, annoyed. “What’s gotten into you? I was calling for you, Abby.”

“But…” As she meant to say she had not moved, Abby realized that she could not hear nor smell the horses, and that the sounds of camp were softer than they had been before.

“You kept walking and I thought you were going to show me something but then you stopped speaking,” Aegon went on, but his voice sounded odd - strangely muffled and then clear. She reached for him but her hand missed his arm and he reached for it, tugging her to him. “Abby, you’re freezing.”

She was always freezing.

The crowd was deafening and the drum beats of the parade only added to the din. The chestnut mare, now named Stranger, trotted smoothly beside Aegon’s stallion as the royal procession made its way through Harrentown. The scouts and messengers had not lied.

The crowd was large, not only the townsfolk but filled with those who had traveled far and wide to witness the festivities and hawk their wares. As they approached her family’s castle, the fields field with colored tents sporting the banners of the noble houses that had made their way to the God’s Eye.

Harrenton was not an exceptionally large town although little was when compared to King’s Landing. It was a trading post, a crossroads at the mouth of the Riverlands. Trade and travel that came south from Darry would stop here, as well as the trade from the south at the capital. The buildings were white stucco and plaster with the red oak timbers from the Red Wood, tiered three stories tall with steeply pitched, clay shingled roofs. Many of the ground floors were made from red bricks. Mud was in abundance here, and pottery and bricks were their foundations of trade.

Abby tilted her head up to the banners hung across the thoroughfare, the tri color streamers of House Strong interspersed with the black and red ribbons of House Targaryen. Those who could not find space along the red brick road hung out from the leaded windows, waving flags and banners, throwing out handfuls of flower petals from the winter flowers in swirling dances of pinks and purples, whites and yellows. Young children on their parents shoulders, too disinterested in whatever people were on display, giggled and reached to try to catch the petals. The people yelled for House Strong, they yelled for the name of her father, they yelled…

They yelled her name.

‘Lady Abrogail! Lady Strong! Princess Abrogail!’

Her cheeks flamed, her grin both shy and beaming, unused to the attention being paid to her. Abby glanced over at Aegon, who preened beneath his own attention, the petals that were thrown about the air catching in his silver curls.

‘Prince Aegon! House Targaryen! Lady Abrogail! House Strong!’

His lilac gaze found her, his grin broadening, all teeth and bright eyes, dimples creased in his cheeks. The breeze caught in her curls, fluttering the delicate silver veil around her face. The flower petals drifted and swirled between them, caught in his hair, in the silver and red manes of their horses, and everything felt like a dream.

Now they left the main thoroughfare and made their way up the switchback to where the castle loomed, and as they made the turn, the world dropped out as the vast, glittering expanse of the God’s Eye filled the horizon. Abby’s breath caught in her throat and beside her, Aegon audibly exhaled, momentarily halting his horse beside her to take a look. Behind them, Abby could hear Daeron’s exclamation of wonder.

The God’s Eye ate the entire horizon, glittering like an aquamarine gem beneath the cloudless blue of the sky. The only thing that interrupted the site was the distant, hazy sight of the Isle of Faces, obscured by the haze and distance.

“It’s bigger than the Whispering Sound,” Daeron breathed. “Uncle Gwayne-”

“Aye,” the elder sounded just as surprised, just as awed. “Large enough for the eye of a god, isn’t it?”

Seagulls called along with other birds along the banks and Abby could just make out a few fishing boats tiny on the water. She rose up in her saddle to take a better look, vowing that she would never tire of the spectacular sight.

“I didn’t realize how I missed this sight.” She laughed, unsure if she might cry from grief or joy.

“It’s the color of your eyes,” Aegon said softly, his gaze firmly affixed to the sight before them. He wasn’t even looking at her, just caught in wonder. It was a new expression for Aegon, and Abby was loath to draw him from it. She reached over and he must have seen her, or maybe he’d been reaching for her hand at the same time. “It’s endless, like the sky.”

He squeezed her hand and with a gentle command, their party continued.

Harrenhal was a scar against the landscape, the black stone stark against the green and blue of the landscape. With towers shooting up higher than the tallest of Maegor’s Holdfast, Harrenhal loomed as its maker always intended: Ominous and impossible to ignore. The twisted, melted stone that capped the towers were vicious reminders of the violence in the past, but life bloomed amidst the ruins. Sentinels and oaks, vibrant and lush, shot past the tops of the stone walls from the large godswood that butted up against the shore. Harrenhal held a small household guard and several called out from the gatehouse.

Making the final turn, their party was greeted by the half shattered statue of Harren the Black, only his legs and rearing mount left above the bridge. It started with stone and then switched to thick ironwood that spanned the dry moat beneath, and, as if to welcome them home, Sunfyre of all things perched above the gates like an enormous, golden hawk, calling out and declaring that this was now his domain. Stranger whickered nervously, hesitating in approach until Abby urged her on with a gentle hand against her neck.

“Seven hells,” Aegon muttered, barely caught over the sounds of the hooves on the wooden bridge and the creaking of the carriages behind them. Whatever else Aegon said was drowned out beneath the sound of Sunfyre’s trilling. The golden dragon was singing and it was a haunting tune that echoed along the stone like water over river rocks. The sound of it sent dozens, maybe even a hundred or more, bats bursting from the ruined tops of the tower. Distracted by the creatures that took to the sky, he pushed off the gatehouse, the horses rearing as stone debris fell in their path.

Abby looked at Aegon, eyebrows raised. “He can’t keep doing that.”

He frowned, half-offended and mildly concerned. “It’s not his fault the stone is crumbling,” he said, but the defense was half-hearted as he eyed the broken stone being pushed out of the way.

Aemond and Daeron, Ser Gwayne and a few of the Kingsguard followed them, the guards taking a station at the gate until the king passed through. The rest of the party in their wheelhouses were held back until the stone was removed.

The gatehouse was a great thing cut through the thick, black curtain walls. The way was lit with torches, the echo of the horses’ hoof beats giving an uncertain cacophony as the sound bounced around the tunnel. Abby’s gaze drifted up, the ceiling of the tunnel shadowed but she remembered Larys telling her the frightening tale of the dozen murder holes where they would drop oil and poisonous spiders and venomous snakes down onto those who tried to breach the castle. She’d had nightmares for weeks.

Aegon said nothing beside her, and the look on his face was one of bewildered interest. She bit her lip, a smile playing. He had only ever known King’s Landing, after all.

Tears pricked her eyes as the strange longing sensation that had harbored for so long in her chest eased. It didn’t go away, but she could feel the hooked edges of yearning, the grief, the feeling that she did not belong, that something was missing, smoothing out into something bittersweet. Beyond the great walls of the castle, Harrenhal was full of life. Beneath the great shadow of the ruined towers, a reclaiming had taken place over the years, and the notion soothed that bramble within her.

As the party passed through the gatehouse into the outer bailey, Abby’s eyes darted over the crowd that had begun to gather. Over the years, some of the ruins had been dismantled and turned into proper staff quarters. A new granary, the stables,meant to house a thousand horses, had partially been converted to a barn. Before them, the Hall of a Hundred Hearths loomed, rebuilt through the reclaiming of the ruined Tower of Ghosts, now only a few stories tall.

The focal point of the hall was the ornate, stained glass window above the colossal entrance. Along the top half of the circle, a weirwood tree was carefully placed, the red leaves a border around the top, the cream colored branches reaching wide, and the sun behind it sported the tri-color stripes of her family’s sigil. Below the roots was a mound with seven circles - each portraying the sigil of each aspect of the Seven.

The Andals had spread their faith when they had conquered, but here in the halls of her family’s seat, and through the Riverlands, folk noble and small alike found a faith made their own - to mourn the loss of the weirwoods in their subjugation, and the comfort found in faces old and new alike. Especially here, on the shores of the God’s Eye, where the last of the southron weirwoods still thrived, where whispers and tales of the Children of the Forest outside the North clung like moss to the stilts of the houses along the riverbanks.

Fluttering fabric caught her eye and Abby looked up to see the banners of their house strung between the towers, interspersed every two with the black and red House Targaryen, and every ten with the blue and red fish of House Tully, their immediate overlords. In the front of the hall, where the crowd was thickest, the short, white hair and broad frame of Uncle Simon stood out; he was clad in a rich, black coat, Aunt Mya beside him, her dark curls thickly streaked with silver, her gown red. Her cousins were there too; Garret, with his strawberry blonde curls, not much older than herself, holding his three-year-old daughter, Gwenys, just as ruddy gold as her papa. His father, Ser Edric, leaned heavily on a cane on the other side of Uncle Simon. As she went down the line, she caught sight of Wylla, clad in Abby’s colors in a gown of deep blue with a sash of green and red, beaming brightly beside Alyn Hull, who looked dashing in a jerkin of deep, blood red and black pants tucked into shiny, polished boots.

“Welcome to Harrenhal, Your Grace,” Uncle Simon greeted Aegon before his warm gaze found hers. “Welcome home, Lady Abrogail.” The title address to her felt odd, but this was a formal occasion. Two stableboys glad in House Strong livery reached for the bridles of the horses, Aegon dismounting easily as Abby frowned in slight annoyance at the yards of fabric of her surcoat. She’d shifted to side-saddle before they’d entered the town in preparation for an easier dismount but it was still daunting.

“Allow me, my lady.” Alyn was there, grinning at her, his green eyes soft and Abby returned his bright expression with a relieved one of her own.

“Thank you, Mister Hull,” she said, grateful, and let Alyn help her from the horse and set her safely on the ground. She caught Aegon’s brief annoyance at being denied his gallant moment and she patted Alyn on the shoulder. “We have some things your mother and a Miss Bri had sent up to the castle.” Alyn’s friendly expression moved to a grateful surprise, and she could see the red coloring his tanned cheeks.

“And I thank you, my lady. I am most appreciative.” Abby felt a giddiness at making a good impression with Aegon’s friend, and she left Alyn to embrace her great-aunt and uncle, uncaring if it was improper. This was her family, and even though she’d only seen a few of them not long ago, this was different.

This was a homecoming.

The warmth of her Uncle’s hug made her chest ache further, and Abby tucked her head beneath his chin, squeezing him tightly, eyes shut and for a moment, allowed herself to pretend that there was no pomp and circumstance and that it was her father who embraced her. Uncle Simon would never replace him, but he reminded her so much of him that she would not feel guilty for clinging to the memory. He seemed to understand, for she felt him squeeze her extra hard before releasing her with a paternal kiss to her forehead and then allowed Aunt Mya, who exclaimed, “A chroí! Tá cuma álainn ort,” before she was wrapped in a cloud of softness and the smell of lilies from her aunt’s perfume. Her hands, shaking slightly with her arthritis, carefully touched the veil she wore and the carnelian necklace around her throat. “You’ve got that Westerland poise to you,” she observed, and though the words might have been taken as a slight, there was a fondness there. “Like your mother and that Lefford blood, but oh, you’ve got the wild river in you, don’t you.” Her hands gently cupped her face, and Aunt Mya’s dark eyes shone with tears. “They haven’t taken that from you. Good.”

“It’s good to finally be home,” Abby said, her voice thick with emotion. Joy, sadness, grief, relief, and a swirl of other things she could not identify. She cleared her throat, turning in her Aunt’s embrace to gesture to Aemond, Daeron, and Gwayne who had dismounted. “May I present Prince Aemond and Prince Daeron, as well as the queen’s brother, Ser Gwayne.”

“Ser Simon,” Gwayne said, sketching a bow. “I hope you do not mind my squire and I joining the household.” His grin was bright and disarming, his hand coming to clasp Daeron’s shoulder. “My sister hopes for us to keep an eye on my nephew, but I think it will be a good opportunity for my squire to also learn from a renowned knight such as yourself, Ser.” Abby bit her lip to hold in her laugh, appreciating the look of surprise and pride on her uncle’s face. “And Lady Mya, these are for you.” He produced from his green leather riding jacket a carefully wrapped package. “Your lovely niece shared with me how you once loved lacemaking. While this could not compare what you’ve made, I do hope you find use for this.”

“From the lacemaker who made my wedding dress,” Abby chimed in as her blushing aunt took the carefully wrapped package of lace. Aunt Mya’s features shifted into amusement.

“Oh, I like this one, Simon. You can sit by me at dinner, Ser Gwayne.” Uncle Simon rolled his eyes while Daeron stepped forward, sending a look at his uncle.

“And I brought this for Lady Gwenys,” Daeron said, not to be outdone by Gwayne’s flirtation. He produced a doll from his own coat, made from soft linen with carefully made brown yarn hair, and painted blue eyes with a felt crown on her head.

“Thank you very much, my prince,” Garret said, shifting Gwenys in his arms. “Can you say thank you to Prince Daeron?” Gwenys’ eyes were large in her face, gnawing shyly on her lip as she snuggled into her father, unsure of what to make of all the strange people. Daeron held the doll up higher, taking the little hand to wave at the child.

“Hello, Lady Gwenys,” Daeron said in a silly voice, blonde hair falling into his blue eyes, his own cheeks pink at all the attention. “Will you be my new friend?”

That drew the little girl out of her shyness, bubbling with giggles and reached for the toy with grabby little fingers. “Fank you!” she shouted, squealing as she clutched at the toy. Abby felt Aegon at her back and shivered as he leaned down to brush his lips against her ear.

“Was I meant to bring a gift?” he asked, his whisper harsh with anxiety. Abby pressed her lips firmly together to hold back her giggle and turned into his hold, a kiss brushed to his cheek.

“You’re fine. There’s plenty of time. I think it’ll have more meaning after the wedding.”

Abby’s gaze briefly took in the arrival of the carriages that held the king and queen, and the small council absent Ser Tyland. He’d left court with her grandfather to Castamere where his wife, Elayna, was ready to give birth to their children. Twins had been born, according to the raven that Abby had received from her cousin, and Elayna was sorry she could not bring them, but it would be nice to see her. Lady Elayna preferred the freedom of Castamere, and Abby could not blame her, not when being here among the half ruin of Harrenhal had revitalized her in a way she could not describe.

The crowd all lowered themselves in deference as the king was helped from the wheelhouse. Travelling had been difficult for him, and the progress had taken as much time as it could in order to keep him comfortable. He clutched his cane, squinting in the afternoon sun, the light catching upon his golden crown. The expression on his pale, mottled face was difficult for Abby to read, and she wondered if he was thinking about the last time he was here, when the lords of the realm declared him king over Princess Rhaenys and her son.

Larys appeared from the next carriage with Lord Jasper Wylde and the Grand Maester, a placid smile on his own features. “Uncle, you’ve outdone yourself,” he complimented. Abby noticed then that her uncle’s smile tightened, no longer meeting his eyes as he regarded Larys.

“It has been some time since our house has something so wonderful to celebrate. Not since Abrogail’s birth, I think. After so much tragedy, these halls benefit from the festivities.”

“We are looking forward to them, Ser Simon,” the queen smiled, her hand fluttering to the king’s arm. “It has been a long journey, and the king needs rest and recuperation. We shall reconvene for supper?” It was not a request. Alicent Hightower could command with a smile, and all the authority afforded to her as the mother of the realm.

“Of course, your graces,” Aunt Mya said with a smile. She clapped her hands and there was a flurry of activity, the king’s wheeled chair being brought out while Uncle Simon explained they had easily accessible rooms for the king so his time here would be comfortable.

Then there was a flurry of raven hair and blue wool as Wylla’s decorum barely kept her from completely barrelling into Abby and she clutched her friend, embracing her tightly and burying her face into her shoulder. She smelled of cinnamon and spice, familiar and comforting.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she cried, Wylla giving her a tight squeeze.

“I’ve missed you too! You look beautiful.” Abby pulled back and Wylla pinched her chin with a playful look on her fox features, the little scar along her mouth pulling at the smile on her face. She pushed her hand away with a shake of her head, hooking their arms together.

“As do you! Is this a new dress?” Wylla hummed in the affirmative and led the way across the tightly packed gravel. Aegon and Alyn fell in behind them, and behind them, the rest of her ladies followed. The king and queen and the rest of their immediate party were being led into the closest tower - what was ominously referred to as the Tower of Dread.

It was where Athair and Harwin had died.

As she watched the king and queen enter the tower, something ugly curled in her chest. ‘Good’, she thought savagely, though altogether unlike her. She hoped the ghosts that slept there would haunt them. The queen would not treat her so unkindly if her father were still here. The king? Well, he deserved a good haunting. Let the ghost of Lord Maegor Towers terrorize him during his stay.

The main hall at the foot of the Kingspyre Tower was a bustle of activity. Servants in the House Strong livery hurried to and fro from the small kitchens beneath the tower, sending out refreshment to the new arrivals.

“As soon as we had word of your arrival, I had a bath readied,” Wylla said. “There’s the bathhouses, of course, but I thought you’d like some private time.”

“That does sound nice,” she sighed, heading up the staircase. The next floor above the hall held the galleries and the library. Precious things that her father had loved, and his father before him.

‘What if fire seeks to claim me here? As it had them?’

The fear was ugly and painful and squeezed the breath from her lungs with its sudden onset. Wylla’s voice was muffled in her ears as she stood frozen in the stairwell.

“In the black of night, the dragon did rise.”

“What?” she choked out, turning to look through the open doors of the gallery. It was not Wylla’s voice. Abby could not even be sure it was a woman’s voice. She tugged away from Wylla’s hold to the open archway but a firm grip on her arm tugged her back. Aegon stroked her cheek, drawing her attention back to him. Abby’s cheeks colored. “I heard… I thought…”

“It’s just the wind,” he told her.

“Unfamiliar sounds,” Wylla chimed in, coming to her other side, although her eyes narrowed at her friend’s discomfort. “Come, we’ll get you settled into the bath and you can lay down. A lazy lie in.”

Abby nodded, mouth shut as everyone stared at her with worry and confusion. Catching the brief look Wylla and Aegon exchanged, Abby tugged away. She felt judged, as she had felt that morning when Aegon had shaken her out of whatever haze had taken hold of her. It was one thing to have such a lapse in front of him, but now here she was in front of their household, so many eyes on her, confused and curious. Gathering her heavy skirts in her arms, she soldiered forward, desperate to get out of her gown. If she could, she would have stripped from the surcoat in the stairway itself, but she would have gotten tangled in the fabric and likely tumbled down the stairs.

What an auspicious start to the festivities; a tragic bride felled by a broken neck.

She ignored the call of her name behind her, climbing past Uncle Simon’s apartments and office to the landing of what had once been her mother’s rooms. They were rooms that might have belonged to Rhaenyra Targaryen in another life, or Sabitha Frey or Alysanne Blackwood, or any dozens of young women in the Riverlands her brother could have taken to wife.

None of this should be hers. This castle, these lands, were not her birthright.

They were drenched in ash and screams and the knowledge of this was grasping her tighter with every step she took before she burst through the doors of her apartments. Afternoon light streaked through the large doors that opened out onto the multilevel balcony that went from her rooms up to Aegon’s chambers. Beyond would be the beautiful sight of the God’s Eye, but for now, it was the brilliant blue sky and the roses that crept along the stone and woodwork. Low couches littered the space, plush rugs faded with age, and before the fireplace and its merry flame, was the large tub draped in linens and ready and waiting.

The shadows beside the fireplace moved and Abby stilled, fear freezing her limbs until the face of the shadow appeared. The woman was older, older than the queen, mayhaps, with inky black hair that hung to her waist, a square face and storm gray eyes. In her hands, she held a woven circle of twigs, and Abby looked at the stick figure coming to shape in the center of it.

“Lady Abrogail,” she greeted, her accent like Wylla’s, like her Aunt Mya’s. “Did you leave the rest of your chattering ducklings behind?”

Buzzing filled her ears and Abby pressed her hands to her chest, fingers knotting into the fabric. “I… I… I can’t breathe.”

“If you could not breathe, you could not speak,” the woman pointed out, discarding her wood weaving on the chair. She closed the distance and grabbed Abby’s hands. “You speak, therefore you breathe. I hear your gasping. So keep doing that.”

Hands joined the woman’s to help her out of the surcoat and work the laces on her kirtle. Her vision was dark and hazy around the edges and she continued to heave and gulp for air. She swooned and arms caught her.

“What did she say, Alys?” she heard Wylla ask.

“A tincture from my chest,” was the answer. “The one in the blue bottle. And the smelling salts.” Alys River tsked and her face shimmered before her as she backed Abby to the low couch. “If we shove you in that bath now, you’ll faint and are liable to drown. A bride felled by her bathwater. What a tragic end.”

Abby blinked, her mouth dry. “What did you…”

“Alys likes to be cryptic,” Wylla’s voice drifted to her through the buzzing in her ears. She let herself be shuffled around and moved as if she were no more than a ragdoll onto the chaise, her legs propped up higher than her head on a pile of cushions. Time passed in a haze as the dizziness and the rushing passed. Alys sat on the couch beside her, holding a goblet to her mouth and Abby grimaced at the strangely sweet and medicinal taste of the thin, red liquid. Her limbs tingled and the drunken feeling gave way to a more relaxed sensation. Alys’ large, slate-gray eyes filled her vision and the elder woman tilted her head, appraising her.

“I cannot call you Little Lady anymore, can I?” she asked, but Abby didn’t think it was much of a question. “Although, you are still littler than me, wee beast.”

“Oh, so she calls you that as well?” Wylla’s voice drifted from somewhere behind the couch. “Do you feel like you can get in the bath now?”

Alys helped her up and held the goblet to her mouth once more, feeding her the strange liquid. “Someone should tell the princeling that his lady is all right, I can hear him pacing.”

“Hear him?” Sarra Frey’s voice chimed in, confused. Abby smiled wanly at Wylla as the elder girl helped her out of her chemise and into the tub. The water was still plenty warm, but not the scalding, steaming heat that it had been from when she first came into the room. “But he’s so far away.”

“You’re just not listening close enough,” Alys said and passed her the goblet. “Make sure the coinín beag drinks all of this.” The door shut behind the woman and Abby settled against the back of the tub, Wylla’ pinning her hair up.

“Doesn’t Aegon call you little rabbit as well?” she murmured against her ear.

Abby did not answer.

The confused look the servant gave Jace when he asked where the family crypts were was not something that would normally bother him, but there was no reason that Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should be asking where the family crypts of his host were.

The look in Ser Simon Strong and his wife’s eyes upon seeing him still stuck with Jace, and he tried not to keep looking over his shoulder as he strode down the gravel pathway through the family gardens. Torches were lit along the pathway, servants and guests still milling about, and the gardens were beginning to bloom as the seasons shifted. Lady Celeste’s mountain roses crept like a great, dark beast, along the outside of the Kingspyre tower, up to balconies above. Jace stole a glance up there, at the distant, flickering light behind the windows.

Abby should be here. She should be with him. This was more her family than his. Did he even have a right?

Jace straightened.

He did. He did have a right. Ser Harwin was someone in his life he cared for, who cared for him and his brothers. He had been gentle and kind - to them, to their mother.

Ser Simon looked at him as if he’d seen a ghost.

Goosebumps bloomed beneath Jace’s black tunic. Perhaps he was one.

The Sepulcher of House Strong was largely underground, but the entrance to it was a stone gazebo, just over a story tall, with seven stone pillars carved to mimic the twisting boughs of the weirwood trees. The branches held up the circular roof, the torchlight casting long shadows over the carvings of strange creatures. There was no door, simply smooth stone stairs leading into the torch lit crypts beneath.

At the foot of the stairs were a pair of doors, heavy ironwood etched with more of the weirwood motifs and little creatures that Jace realized from this close distance were meant to be the Children of the Forest. They were different from the drawings he’d seen in his books. These were spindly things, some with fins in place of ears, with large eyes and sharp little teeth. He reached to undo the latch but the door was partially ajar. Had Abrogail come down to pay her respects? Should he leave and return another day?

His mother would be here on the morrow, and as soon as Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen set foot in this place, Jace’s chance to come here would be lost.

The door made no sound as he pushed it open to slip inside and he blinked as his eyes tried to adjust to the deeper gloom. Braziers affixed to the pillars were spaced out every few dozen feet or so and as he quietly walked the path his ears could just make out the distant sound of rushing water, though he had no idea where it was coming from. Stone tombs were erected every few archways, and he paused in front of the tomb of Maegor Towers before he caught sight of the dragon relief nearby.

Targaryens were not entombed, they were burned on pyres, back to flame and ash from whence they came. But Harrenhal’s last lady was honored here.

In the stone alcove, a beautiful carved relief of Dreamfyre stood, raised on her legs, wings spread and her neck arched to call out to the sky. At her feet was a pedestal with an urn in the shape of a dragon egg.

Rhaena Targaryen, Queen of the Rising and Setting Sun. Mother of her beloved Aerea and Rhaella. Beloved by Prince Aegon, where their souls meet once more.

To always Chase the Sun.

The crack of a cane hitting the stone echoed violently along the walls and Jace choked on dusty air, panic taking over. The next tomb was that of Lord Osmund. There was just enough room to duck behind it and Jace crouched behind, his heart pounding in his ears.

“You are kind to accompany this night, Your Grace. I confess, when I extended the invitation, I was not sure you would accept.” The low voice of Lord Larys drifted through the quiet ghosts, otherworldly beneath the earth himself. Your grace… was grandfather also down here?

“Lord Lyonel was a good man,” the king rasped, his voice shaky with emotion. “The best of us, I think. No better servant to the realm than he.”

“Surely you yourself are the realm’s greatest servant, my king.”

“Mmmm, Lyonel offered good counsel. I did not listen to him as much as I should have.”

“My father served the realm with all the wise counsel of a Grand Maester and the knowledge of one of your vassals, my king. In the end, however… Even beneath his great wisdom, matters of succession were well out of hand.”

Heat burned along Jace’s neck and rushed into his cheeks. He pressed his face against the cold, stone tomb but it did little to calm him.

Driftmark. It always came back to Driftmark. It came back to screaming and blood. It came back to his words. Yes, the words of a child, but his words that he knew, without question, would prevent punishment.

‘He called us bastards.’

With such a simple sentence, Jace watched, clutched in his mother’s arms, as the king’s ire went from Aemond’s wound to the accusations that had chased Jace and his siblings all their lives. Words that he knew were cruel, that upset his mother, yet words that spoke true. Lord Lyonel had stood, struck and silent beside the Driftwood throne, and Ser Harwin had lingered by the door, unarmored and disheveled given the late hour it had been. As old as he was now, Jace knew. He knew. He knew.

Ser Simon had looked at him as if Jace were a ghost.

Jace reached up and gripped the edge of the tomb of his blood, feeling the burn of Vermax inside of him with every beat of his heart, loudly thumping in his ears.

“I did not want it to happen that way, Larys,” King Viserys finally spoke, his voice mournful and heavy.

“I know, my king. Only a Targaryen can truly master the dangers of flame. Mere mortals such as those who strove to follow your wishes could only wish to wield such understanding.” The sound of scraping metal grated on Jace’s nerves. He hit his head against the tomb and had to shove his fist in his mouth to keep from crying out.

“Only Ser Harwin-” the king began and then stopped. Jace could see the long throw of their shadows along the stone floor. They weren’t moving.

“Whatever tragedies befell, they have brought us here, my king. Have the wounds not healed as you had hoped? Your daughter and brother arrive here with their children after their long absence. Our houses will be joined in only a few days. The match you and my father discussed so many years ago is now far more advantageous, as is right, for the King’s first born son, given the unusual circumstances.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Lord Larys.” The scrape of two canes now. Jace pressed himself as far into the shadows as he could, straining to listen as the two men made their way back up the corridor beneath the eyes of the dead. He dared not breathe, he dared not make a single sound for fear of what might happen were he discovered. It felt like an eternity before the door shutting reverberated through the quiet.

Jace sat on the cold ground, frozen and still as Dreamfyre’s statue. His heart continued to pound in his ears as he tried to process exactly what he had just heard. King Viserys, a peaceful man, so afraid of any confrontation that his mother fled to Dragonstone to hide than maintain her presence at court. She’d sent him to do it for her.

He couldn’t escape the catacombs fast enough. His feet slipped along the damp stone as he raced towards the entrance. Ser Harwin would forgive him, he was certain. Now? Now, he needed to get away as fast as possible. He tripped hard up the stone stairs, his left knee and shin screaming in agony before he made it up and forced himself to slow down so as not to attract attention. What would it say to see the king’s heir racing through the gardens of Harrenhal? Jace’s lungs ached and he kept trying to remember to breathe. All he knew was that he had to get away.

How could he hold this? Should he tell his mother? What would she do? Nothing. She’d do nothing, forbidding them - forbidding him from speaking of Ser Harwin. Did he tell Abby?

It would destroy her.

Should he - Jace slammed into a figure, sending the two of them sprawling to the gravel.

“What the fuck, Jace!” Aegon snapped, aggressively shoving him off. He too was dressed for night in his own gray linen and breaches, dark circles beneath his eyes. It struck Jace, hard between his ribs, how much Aegon looked like Jace’s own mother in that moment. How much he sounded like his own mother. Jace’s palms scraped against the gravel and he heaved a breath. “What?” Aegon repeated.

Another breath and Jace felt the words strangling him, and could feel the tension in his face as he looked at his uncle, his childhood playmate, with wide, lavender eyes. Aegon stared at him and whatever annoyances were on his tongue fell. His brow furrowed. “What is it?” he asked again, less sharply this time.

Jace gulped once more for air and heard Aegon mutter something about panic attacks before the elder manhandled him up to his feet and towards one of the benches. “Get your head between your knees before you pass out,” he snapped, hand on his back to push him forward. In spite of Aegon’s annoyance, his touch was gentle, if firm.

Also like his mother.

“Breathe, you idiot,” Aegon said and sat down beside him, hand between his shoulder blades. Jace did as he was told, falling into the way things once were, where Aegon led and Jace happily followed. They could never return to those days, and Jace did not wish for it, but Seven Hells, it had been easier.

He did not know how long they sat there, listening to the lowing of dragon calls outside the walls and the shrieking of bats, the distant sound of water fowl amid the rushes outside the castle walls. He breathed in the cold air, let it ebb at the fire in his blood. He spat on the ground and finally sat up, aware that Aegon’s hand did not leave him until Jace settled against the bench.

“You said something but I couldn’t understand,” Aegon ventured with his brows raised in exaggerated curiosity. The quiet of the night filled the space between them, the gaps left when things had reached such a breaking point.

It always came back to Driftmark.

“The king…” Jace whispered, heat burning in his eyes. “T-the king, he… ordered the deaths of Lord Lyonel and… Ser Harwin.”

So... that was an ending. As always, I love that you're here, but the only way I know you're reading is if you comment! Comments let me know people are reading and are actively interested! So I'd love to hear what your favorite part of the chapter was, what your theories are, OR If you have no idea what to say, drop a tree emoji to let me know you were here <3 I promise, I'm glad you are. ALSO! I would LOVE to hear how you found this story! Was it through the AO3 search? Tumblr? Did someone recommend it? (if so, where?) (we might end at 24 chapters. I'm not quite sure yet, I'll have to see how the next few chapters go for pacing as I don't want to inundate y'all) Shoutout to @queen--kenobi for allowing me to borrow the lovely Elayna Reyne! Baby girl is here!

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endless-ineffabilities · 2 years

Text

the aftermath

Aemond Targaryen x f!Reader

part four of the prūmia va perzys (heart on fire) series

part one: don't you love me? - part two: and what of your love? - part three: the flames that divide -- part five: never tear us apart

themes: injury, violence (choking/assault), language, dragonrider!reader (her house is not stated)

word count: 3.7k ▪︎ masterlist

The reader is left comatose after the curse inflicted by Alys Rivers. Daemon and the rest of the Blacks are determined to set things right. Aemond finally learns of what happened, and makes sure that the guilty pays the price.

The gillyflower lies on the round desk in the middle of your chambers.

It has been three days since its arrival, and devoid of the solace of its earth, it has inevitably began to wilt.

Rhaenyra had been the one to pull it from the box in which it arrived, for its intended recipient lies unconscious on the bed. She comes back to check on you each day, opening the windows to let the morning air in. The ladies-in-waiting tend to you, running warm cloth over your face and body, cleaning and replacing the healing ointment on your injuries.

It has been nearly a week since the tragic incident, which still remains unexplained by everyone. You had sustained treatable injuries, including a broken leg and wrist, but you were also left comatose, after hitting your head in the fall. Thankfully, in a desperate effort by your dragon Fyraxes, the blow was softened as she did her best to minimize the impact in her final moments. She is afflicted with a similar condition, yet to wake again, just like you.

The door to your chambers flies open, and in enters Daemon followed by the maester. He has also been a steady visitor, making sure that all measures are taken toward your recovery. He had been the one to take you back to Dragonstone on Caraxes. Jace stayed behind with Vermax in Horn Hill to watch over Fyraxes, awaiting Baela on Moondancer to help carry her back on makeshift mesh netting.

Daemon’s rough hands carry an ebony box, and he need not open it to determine its contents. It’s the usual one, sent by your lover. He sets it down on the desk. It is left adjacent to the one previously sent, the contents of which have already grown much fainter in vibrance.

Gillyflower. Yet again. In its usual shades of red and violet. A secret call, another attempt to coax you back into his arms.

He knew nothing of what happened. If he did, it would only be reasonable to assume that Alys Rivers would take the brunt of his wrath.

If Aemond only knew, then there is nothing in this world that he wouldn’t burn to reach you.

Daemon’s low spirits intensify as he observes you, lying supine and unmoving in the room. He hates not understanding your affliction. This never should have happened; something clearly isn’t right. Both you and Fyraxes showed no sign of any ailment prior to the incident, and nothing could have overtaken you that quickly. You were laughing one second, and gone to the world the next.

He is determined to see this right. Daemon needed you to be well, as he’s grown to see you as a kind of younger sister, someone he would protect at all costs. And he couldn’t. He couldn’t even fucking fly his dragon fast enough to save you from the fall.

“Well?” Daemon irately questions the maester who looks over you, yet again, “you wanted to say something? Speak it plainly, then. If you have any idea at all as to how we can help her, hold nothing back or I will make sure you regret it.”

“My prince, it is hard to say-”

“Say it.”

“It is only a matter of possibility. A mere assumption. I, myself, do not claim to have any determinate method to confirm this, but the lady y/n may have been targeted with dark magic.”

Daemon pauses, not expecting those words from the maester. Dark magic? “Do make it clear how exactly you arrived at this assumption.”

“Well, if I may show you,” the master lifts your hand, palm upwards, beckoning to Daemon, “if one has been targeted by a spell or an incantation of sorts, it tends to leave a mark.” He traces the lines on your palm, “As you can see, the creases on her palm have been tinged with a shade of maroon. It is almost hard to distinguish, unless studied closely.”

Daemon lowers his head to detect the traces of this on your palm, as the maester continues, “There are records of similar traces from victims of such witchcraft in our histories. One being a lord who was seemingly branded with a murky red contusion on his back, and another lady whose iris morphed into a similar colour. A telltale sign of the work of someone who practices the religion of R’hllor. A disgrace to the one, true religion of the Seven, if I do say so mys-”

Daemon straightens, a fit of rage starting to resurface, "This must be the work of someone from the fucking Greens. It has to be. We must question any known priest or priestess from this Red religion. Anyone who might have any idea about the doings of these bloody witches," his lips curl in distaste, "Immediately."

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Aemond sits at the edge of the bed. The very same one that you shared nearly a fortnight ago. In this familiar cabin, in your secret field, he waits. He has been waiting for several hours, as he had waited several days ago.

And yet, you are nowhere to be seen.

The gillyflower must have reached you. He made sure that it would not be intercepted on its way to Dragonstone. It must have arrived in your chambers, for your immediate notice.

So where are you? When you did not arrive several days prior, Aemond tried to let it pass. You must have been preoccupied with other pressing matters. You are a trusted ally in the Black Council, after all, with your own duties to fulfill.

But again, you have yet to make your presence known. You have yet to come home to Aemond’s arms, where you belong. He tries not to worry, not to let it get to his head. Perhaps, it’s the same case. You must be occupied, or sent on an envoy to one of your allies. There must be a reason that would justify your absence. Surely, you would not choose to simply ignore him, ignore the constant arrival of gillyflower to your chambers.

He lets his fingers drift across the sheets, going over the memory of the both of you entangled in them. It’s been too long, and he’s just gotten you back. There is no way in seven hells that he would let another separation linger between you and him.

Perhaps it’s time to leave. His entire being pulls him toward staying in the cabin, perhaps just a little while longer. Just another minute, or another hour even. Maybe then, maybe you…

Out in the hills, Vhagar huffs impatiently. She feels distraught, struggling to maintain a sense of calm, mirroring her rider’s exact sentiments. Vhagar and Aemond have always been attuned to each other in this way, which has also led to the largest dragon’s affinity for you. She watches Aemond walking back to her, stone-faced and looking downcast. He certainly did not get what he came for. Silently, he clambers up onto Vhagar, and sits back, assessing the field and the skies. Trying to catch a glimpse of your arrival. Anything at all. Even a raven that holds a letter to explain your absence.

He's not certain how much more time passes, as he sits atop Vhagar. The dragon shuffles slightly, pulling him out of his thoughts. In a huff, he makes a split decision, voice sounding agitated, “Ivestragī's jikagon. Sōvegon.” Let’s go. Fly.

The field is enveloped in a massive gust of wind, grass and gillyflower whipped about in a flourish. Gravel and dirt are spread out from where Vhagar took off. Back in the cabin, candles are left lit around the room, casting a warm glow in the emptiness. The entire place - the field, the cabin, the skies above – seems to have lost its wonder, its defining spark, without the star-crossed lovers who have made it their home.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Rhaenyra Targaryen’s sworn knights escort a woman into the great, looming hall in Dragonstone. The elderly woman walks with dignity, her head held high, her modest red dress billowing slightly as she strides. The queen and Prince Daemon finally take notice of her, as the maester walks forward to announce her arrival.

“My Queen, my Prince, might I present the Lady Cerrah. She hails from Essos, but she currently resides in the Riverlands, in the employ of our ally, House Tully.”

“They have a fucking witch in their employ?” Daemon doesn’t mince his words, as always, eager to get on with the interrogation.

“My queen,” she bows her head in obeisance, before adding in response, “I am a respected healer in House Tully, Prince Daemon, and I do not appreciate your tone.”

Rhaenyra gives her consort a sideward look, advising him to take caution, “We welcome you to Dragonstone, Lady Cerrah. I suppose you have been informed of why you have been summoned?”

“Summoned?” The lady’s voice is shrill, disbelieving, “I was plucked out of my chambers in the middle of the night and dragged out here in a pathetic carriage-”

“You should consider yourself fortunate that you weren’t put in chains, witch.” Daemon snaps, “This is a matter of urgency, so the sooner you answer our questions, the sooner we can be rid of each other’s presence.”

Lady Cerrah doesn’t recoil at Daemon’s tone, already accustomed to men approaching her in a brutish manner, without any effort made to hide their prejudice. “The maester has already informed me of the Lady Y/n’s condition, and I’m afraid he is not mistaken. This is the work of a priestess, and quite the powerful one, might I add.”

Rhaenyra proceeds in a practiced, diplomatic manner, “We have reason to suspect that this might be the work of someone from the Greens. Perhaps they too, have a priestess such as you, my lady, in their company.”

The priestess does not appreciate having to be a mere tool, her religion clearly viewed as lesser by these nobles, “And? What do you require of me? The name of everyone who might potentially be a priestess who sided with the Greens?”

“Just one name would suffice. The name of the cunt who put a curse of Lady Y/n and her dragon,” Daemon fiercely says, matching Lady Cerrah’s derision, “Whoever they are, they’re likely to be under the command of the Hightowers, or any of the traitors in King’s Landing.”

Rhaenyra interjects, “Daemon, we can’t be certain-” but her husband does not cease his tirade.

“It must be. Do you know of any priest or priestess who may currently be in King’s Landing?”

“We followers of the Lord of Light know better than to be under the direct control of any of you Targaryens,” Lady Cerrah sneers, “You only seek to bring about the downfall of the Seven Kingdoms, simply because you wage war amongst yourselves.”

Just before Daemon angrily speaks up, Rhaenyra is quick to implore, in a comparably calmer tone, “I do not wish to antagonize you, my lady, and if you felt as if you were not properly treated as you were brought here, then I offer my apology. But the Lady Y/n is quite dear to me, and to all of us. She is more than just an ally; she is my family.” At that, Daemon can’t help but sullenly nod in agreement. Rhaenyra continues, “If you know of anyone who might be rightfully suspected of harming her, then speak their name.”

Despite Lady Cerrah’s resistance, the queen’s genuine sincerity was something she could not ignore. She speaks again, her voice softer, “In King’s Landing, you say? Well, I suppose there is someone who is close enough to the royals, that it is likely her faith is being utilized to their advantage,” she pauses, making up her mind, “You must have heard of Alys Rivers. The consort…well, former consort of Prince Aemond Targaryen. She is the daughter of a devout follower of the Lord of Light, a true priestess who devoted her life to the faith. I came across her mother several times in our youth, before she was impregnated by the late Lord Strong.”

Daemon’s blood runs cold. He mouths slowly, “Alys Rivers is a fucking witch.” If she had anything to do with this, then it must only be at the behest of his nephew, and Daemon knowingly let you go to him. I let her go to him, to that fucking traitor, and now she lies unconscious, her fate uncertain.

Rhaenyra and Daemon share a knowing look, both aware of your history with Prince Aemond.

“Thank you, my lady,” Rhaenyra says, “That will be all for now. You will be given your own chambers during your stay here. Clear the room,” she hurriedly commands her loyal knights.

Before she is ushered away, the priestess adds, moved by the queen’s grace, “My queen, I wish to express my regret for what happened to the Lady Y/n. I shall look over my texts, and see if there is anything I can do.”

The room has just been emptied, before Daemon angrily speaks, "That one-eyed cunt shall pay for what he's done to her. He clearly has not learned his lesson after-"

Rhaenyra stops him with a single look, and Daemon knows better than to bring up the subject of her second son.

"If this is all Prince Aemond's doing, then why does he persist in sending gillyflower to her, in hopes that she might meet him? It does not seem like he's aware of her condition."

"It must be a trap," Daemon asserts, "or a diversion. To make it look like he's innocent in all this-"

"Daemon, you said so yourself that you believe them to truly care for one another. This is why you let her go to him. If that is true, then Aemond would not have done this."

"Well, perhaps I thought wrong," Daemon hissed, "If Alys Rivers is a priestess, then her connection with Aemond would deem her most likely guilty of the fucking curse our Y/n was put under."

Rhaenyra reaches for Daemon's hand, attempting to ease his agitation, "She will make it through this, Daemon. She's a fighter, always has been."

"I know she will," Daemon mutters, "but Alys Rivers must be dealt with, and I know just the way to see this done."

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Aemond absentmindedly plays with the sapphire-blue stone ball in the symbolic round dish set before him. His mind is elsewhere, fixated on you. The other members of the Green Council drawl on, and his mother Alicent’s expression grows dimmer as she sits at the head of the table. The proclaimed King himself is once again absent from the council meeting, no longer a surprise to anyone, for it was always clear that the Hightowers have been the ones to maneuver the plans of war. Figureheads in the shadows who are actually running the Seven Kingdoms.

Ser Tyland Lannister drawls on about the need for more resources in some battle, which of course, Casterly Rock would be more than happy to provide. Not unusual of their House which constantly leeches off of the power of the Iron Throne, through favours and self-serving flattery. Tyland poorly hides his annoyance when Jasper Wylde interrupts, who claims to have good news from the Greens’ network of spies.

“Word has reached us that a very important player in this game for the Blacks has suffered a grave injury. As luck would have it, her dragon is in the same condition. The Lady Y/n is rumoured to be lying unconscious, and it is uncertain whether she will ever wake.”

Aemond freezes completely. His stomach twists and a sense of nausea threatens him, his eyes widening in shock. Rage quickly follows, when he replays what Jasper has just reported, his increasingly grating voice a mere echo in the background.

… suffered a grave injury… rumoured to be lying unconscious… It is uncertain whether she will ever wake.

“Wonderful news, dare I say!” the bumbling Lannister exclaims, unaware of the inner turmoil about to be unleashed from the Targaryen prince across the table, “And she rides one of their largest dragons, doesn’t she? A true loss for the Blacks, so this should…”

Alicent grows aware of her son’s distress, of his fist turning bone-white, tightening around the blue stone ball, “Aemond,” she implores, “Aemond, don’t-”

Tyland Lannister drones on, “…be a cause for celebration. But we should also make haste in considering our next-”

Gasps erupt around the table. Silence falls. Tyland Lannister’s speech was effectively halted by the same symbolic sphere, that shining blue implement, hurled from Aemond’s fist to his mouth.

The council members look from their prince to the Lannister, who stands in shock. His quivering hand covers his mouth, but blood has already begun to seep through his fingers. He makes a gurgling noise, and keels over, spitting a heavy clod of blood and several of his teeth on the stone floor.

“Fuck!” Tyland yells, muffled by the damage done, “You…you utter cunt…”

“Careful how you address your prince, Ser,” Ser Criston threatens from the side of the room.

Aemond stands tall, dominating the room with his silent, burning wrath. Lips tightened, jaw tense, fists curled at his sides. The very image of a dragon prepared to bring about destruction with his fire. He makes no move to excuse his action, and does not offer any semblance of an apology, both in word and in his expression.

Alicent is quick to act, fearing further escalation into violence, especially due to her son. “My lords, I must declare this council meeting over. We shall discuss any proceedings on the morrow.”

“What of… of what’s been done to me?” Tyland wheezes, blood still spilling from his lips, “I demand justice!”

Aemond’s head whips to him in a fury, “Justice would warrant that I have your head mounted on a spike, for levying insults against my-” He pauses. My love? My consort? My... my life.

The air is thick with anticipation and intrigue. The intrusive thought of Prince Aemond and Lady Y/n settle uncomfortably within their minds.

“Ser Criston, see everyone out,” Alicent instructs, “and have the maester see to Ser Tyland straight away.” Everyone shuffles out of the room, apart from Alicent and her son. She takes one of his fists, squeezing it gently between her palms, beseeching him to meet her gaze.

“Speak to me, Aemond,” Alicent pleads, “Why have you acted in such a way? You swore to me that you would never let your anger take over you again. Do you still care for the Lady Y/n?”

“Mother, I-” Aemond whispers, words failing him, “I…” He sits back down, leaning forward on one arm to steady himself. His hand is still curled tight, fingernails digging into his palm. Alicent sits beside him, pulling his fist close. Prying it open, she is saddened to see familiar, bloody crescent marks on his palm, from where his nails dug too deep. A memory flashes across her eyes, a sensation from her long lost girlhood, her hands defaced in a similar way. Of her own doing. And now her son has to suffer the same, and whatever pains have led him to this, she only wishes to take it away.

“Was this our doing?” Aemond says lowly, “Was this an attack orchestrated by our allies? I must know who dared harm Y/n.”

“I am not certain of this at present, Aemond. However, I will have Ser Criston report every detail he can collect about this incident. Rest assured, you will have your answers.”

Aemond envisions you, hurt, and he feels powerless to do anything to remedy it. His chest tightens with a pain he is sure he has not felt in a long time, not since he lost you the first time. Now, he could lose you for good. He refuses to entertain that possibility; he fears the monster he will become if that ever came to be.

He forces himself to nod to his mother in acknowledgement, before striding out of the council room, every step he takes bearing heavy. He was never a devout man, only playing the part of the dutiful son who upholds his mother’s beliefs. But a prayer repeatedly races through his mind. By the old gods and the new, let her be well. Let her recover completely. Let her return to me.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Aemond walks the halls determinedly in apparent calm. His face does not betray what simmers within. After Ser Criston Cole left his chambers, having reported everything he had gathered about your condition, Aemond sat transfixed by the flames. The amber flickers drew him back to one dark-haired bastard girl. The one who worships these flames. That witch.

It had been her. She was the one whom the Blacks have apparently determined as the likely cause. Aemond can’t help but concur. You had been allegedly been afflicted with a curse, the doing of someone who practices the religion of R’hllor. And who else would have reason to target you? Who better to suspect that his scorned former consort.

The door to Alys Rivers’ meagre chambers flies open. She had been sitting in front her mirror, running a comb over her long tresses, when she felt a cold gust of air from behind. She turns, finding the object of her fixation. The one-eyed prince, the love that had been promised to her by the Lord of Light. She was sure, he was meant to be hers.

She stands, excitedly at first, until she manages to observe him entirely. His entire demeanour is dark and menacing, his regal, austere face taking on a cruel edge.

“My Aemond,” she tentatively whispers, her hands reaching out to touch him. She lightly grips the sleeves of his tunic, but he remains unmoving. A long, torturous moment passes.

Then Aemond snaps, springing into movement, too quick for Alys to comprehend. His fingers tighten around her neck, cutting off any air in her windpipe. His fingernails dig into her skin, and her eyes widen alarmingly, begging him to cease his assault.

His seemingly dead eyes look right through her, numb to her pain. For once, the witch’s heart is stricken with fear caused by her true love. She can barely recognize the man in front of her.

“Ae..mond,” a desperate croak, her slender hands scrambling and failing to urge him to release her neck.

Aemond finally speaks, voice dripping with menace, “What the fuck have you done?”

-----------

Sorry that you did not make an appearance in this chapter, dear reader. 🙃 I wanted to emphasize the gravity of the situation, and we simply can't have you just gallivanting around right away, if you're meant to have suffered a great blow from your nemesis, now can we?

I hoped yous understand the reference to the symbolic stone balls used during council meetings. No, Aemond does not have a blue ball he just brings around and plays with. (Lol)

And that's right, no smut in this one. This is kind of a filler chapter + you're in a bloody coma so simmer down for a while 😂

What to expect in the next chapter: you'll finally wake, Aemond will attempt to come see you (risking his head because Daemon will surely be out for blood the moment his nephew sets foot on Dragonstone), you might see Aemond in a new light (you'll be more distrusting, because it was his fooling around with that witch that led to your affliction after all) ...

the taglist continues in the comments, I sincerely apologize if I missed anyone. There must be nearly 200 of you that asked to be tagged so it's been insane! (in the best way) thank you all for reading!!! 🖤

taglist: @schniiipsel @thelastcitysposts @angel6776 @huntycola @sanguinalia @just-a-harmless-potato-05 @outundertheocean @dazecrea @ladystardvsts @afro-hispwriter @dudfahsn @poohkie90 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @lilostif16 @deeeeexx @nephitis @minicikasworld @livimulati @the-orions-belt @stillinracooncity @lawlerek @missusnora @wickedbutlovely @umavvitch @claudie-080102 @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @puredicks @crazylokonugget @lj127 @icarusignite @mandyki @darylandbethfanforever9 @highexpectationsgurl @whitejuliana1204 @caught-in-the-afterglow @witchmoon @meilikki @carlottalhn @xcinnamonmalfoyx @writer-lee5 @solacestyles @noneedtosearch @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @vensidia @xinyourdreamsx @mikariell95 @cryztalline @fairaardirascenarios @aemondswh0re

#aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen fanfiction #ewan mitchell

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optimizche · 2 years

Text

Missing (Part 11) [Aemond Targaryen x Reader x Jacaerys Velaryon]

Warnings: Smut, angst, mentions of s*icide

"Tighter, Nyla," you told your handmaiden under the watchful eye of the seamstress, biting down on your lip while she dutifully laced the bodice of your ivory wedding dress. While this was just an initial trial, you were certainly impressed with the skills of the woman who had been commissioned by Queen Rhaenyra to create your wedding gown.

Composed mostly of Myrish lace, its intricate detailing was complimented by thread of gold running throughout the fabric. It hugged your figure gorgeously, curving along your waist and hips while emphasizing the slight swell of your breasts without looking inappropriate.

"I'll be rather surprised if Jacaerys manages to make his way through the entirety of the wedding feast without tearing this dress off of you," Baela commented, a sly grin on her face.

"Baela!" her twin, Rhaena, exclaimed, shocked by the bawdy remark. She turned to you then. "You're going to be the most beautiful bride in all of Westeros."

You smiled at the twins as convincingly as you possibly could, trying your hardest not to show the sinking feeling in your heart at the words.

It was the right thing, you told yourself, agreeing to marry Jacaerys.

You did love him.

Although not in the way as you loved him…

The words of his last letter, that had arrived that very morning swam before your eyes, your mind having memorized it to perfection:

Ñuha dōna rūklon,

I wish to congratulate you on the joyous news of your betrothal. It gives me hope, knowing that you will find your happiness in this marriage, knowing that you will be cared for and well looked after by your lord husband.

Although I must admit, a part of me felt rather relieved upon hearing that you are not carrying his child just yet, it won't be long before you do. And I know that you will take to motherhood as naturally as you have taken on every role in your life.

Do not spend a moment worrying about me, I implore you. In two days time, I am to board a ship to the Free Cities to start my life anew. It will be difficult without you and without the comforts of home, but such is the consequence of my actions and I must live on with the pain of losing you in my heart. I will continue to write to you as long as you want me to. Just knowing that you are happy and reading my words is my only solace in this misery.

Take care of my heart, it belongs to you.

Love,

Aedrean Tarbor.

The choice of Aemond's pseudonym made your lips twitch. He was always so dramatic, ever since your childhood days-

It was Baela's voice that pulled you out of your mulling thoughts.

"Where are you lost?" she asked, chuckling.

"I'm sorry," you shook your head, thinking of the piece of parchment hidden in your chambers. "What were you saying, Baela?"

Rhaena spoke instead. "We've been requested in the Chamber of the Painted Table for council."

"Of course, just give me a moment," you said, giving Nyla the go-ahead to help you get changed back into your usual day gown.

By the time the three of you had hurried to the Painted Table, the meeting had already commenced, with Prince Daemon speaking.

"Princess Rhaenys sends us the news of a resurgence of the Triarchy in the Gullet," Prince Daemon said. "This time, they are in alliance with Otto Hightower and his Greens. Aegon the Usurper plans to exact revenge for the humiliation he suffered at Winterfell with Cregan Stark's refusal to ally with his cause."

You frowned, as Rhaena gasped beside you. It was no doubt that the Triarchy was going to target the Velaryon fleet that was blockading the Gullet.

"We must send our dragons to supplement the Velaryon fleet," Queen Rhaenyra said. "Meleys alone will be insufficient against Aegon's Sunfyre."

"Send us, Mother," Jacaerys spoke up confidently from across the table. "I shall fly on Vermax, Lucerys on Arrax and Baela on Moondancer."

"I shall join you on Aquerion," you spoke suddenly, but Jace held up his hand, a soft smile on his face.

"You've just been returned to us after being abducted, dearest," he said.

Queen Rhaenyra nodded in agreement. "You must stay here and rest, dear one."

"But-"

The Queen gave you a look and you silenced yourself, not wishing to upset her by speaking against her as you had done while she sent Lucerys to Storm's End.

"It is decided, then," Queen Rhaenyra said. "Lucerys, Baela and Jacaerys shall fly to the Gullet on dragonback to strategize with the Princess Rhaenys. That should sufficiently outnumber the dragons of the Greens."

Prince Daemon noticed the distressed look on your face. "Don't fret, little one," he said, giving you a fond smile. "If needed, Rhaena, you and I shall fly to meet the Greens."

You nodded uncertainly, looking over at Jacaerys with worry. He gave you a calm and reassuring grin.

"And now for some happy news," Queen Rhaenyra smiled proudly. "Once our dragonriders have secured victory for us on the Gullet, we shall celebrate with the wedding feast of my son, Prince Jacaerys and his betrothed."

Applause and cheers rang throughout the hall and you looked at Jacaerys, a slightly hesitant smile forming on your own lips seeing the delight on his face.

You swallowed thickly, trying to calm yourself. Trying to internally cope with this sudden and almost overwhelming turn of events. Was it all too much, too soon?

It will be alright, you told yourself. Everything will be alright.

You had just finished reading the letter 'Aedrean' had sent you for the umpteenth time, shoving it under the mattress quickly when there came a quiet knock on your door.

At this hour of the night, you were certain that it was Jacaerys seeking out your company, your suspicion confirmed almost as instantly as you opened the door. Locking it shut behind him, he had pinned you against it, his lips finding yours with a crazed hunger.

"We both need to be quiet," he warned you, deathly serious, even as his fingers found their way underneath your skirts and into you.

You obeyed perfectly, biting down on your lip almost until you drew blood to keep yourself from crying out and awakening every resident of the castle, while Jace's fingers plunged and curled inside you.

He'd made you come, shuddering against the door until your knees felt weak, before falling into his arms. Guiding you into bed, he lay you down and undressed you, before following suit.

"Fuck, I missed you so much, my darling," he breathed, crawling into the space between your legs. Mind still addled on the remnants of your previous climax, you wrapped your legs around him.

The look in his eyes was wild, almost feral and it would've scared you if you didn't know that this was Jacaerys.

The stretch seared through you, as he pushed the entirety of his length into you at once, drawing out a keen from you. He groaned into the curve of your breast at the way your walls immediately tightened around him.

His thrusts had an uncharacteristic roughness in them, his usual care and gentleness missing as he plunged so deep into you that you were seeing stars.

Your hands flew to grasp at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you tried to process this sudden desperation in him.

"I'm right here-"

"I thought I had lost you," Jace gasped, bottoming out until your toes curled into your sheets. "I thought of taking Vermax and burning all of Lys to the ground for having taken you away from me."

"Jacaerys…" your voice turned into a moan that you muffled against his shoulder. "I'm here now…"

The words sounded empty to your own ears but the dark haired Prince seized your hips in a firm hold. "I'm never letting you go."

Pleasure bloomed and swelled inside you, your mind so far gone that you could only hold on to him and take what he gave you.

It was then that it happened, as your eyes fluttered closed, that you began to think that it was Aemond who was making love to you.

It felt so real, that you wanted to scream. You remembered the calloused roughness of his fingers, the warmth of his lips and the spiced musk of his scent. Instead of crying out, you pressed your lips into the pillow beside you, moaning into it while Jacaerys chased his pleasure.

Your mind fed into the illusion that it was Aemond suckling at your breasts and your body reacted almost instantly, the arch of your back steepening as a fresh gush of arousal pooled around his cock.

"Oh, my… I'm going to-" you moaned.

"Not yet, my darling," Jacaerys withdrew from you and before you could even open your mouth to protest he was laying you on your front and pushing right back into you. "Stay with me."

You purred into the pillow you had buried your face into, the sheer force of his thrusts making the bed creak.

Knuckles paling with the grip you had on the silk sheets, you allowed the curtain of your tousled hair to obscure your vision.

It was so much easier to pretend that the man above you, sucking a mark into your shoulder was Aemond, that the man who had his fingers rubbing into your sensitive bundle of nerves was Aemond.

Of course you felt guilt for letting your imagination get carried away, but the overwhelming roar of ecstasy swept everything away. Moaning into the pillow, you moved your hips in time with his, tuning out his groans and gasps of your name. If simply imagining that it was Aemond making love to you felt like this, how much better would it feel if you were actually with-

It crashed upon you without warning, drowning you in pure euphoria, until you felt lightheaded and incapacitated. Dimly aware of the large wet spot you had soaked into the sheets, you whimpered quietly into the silk when Jacaerys spilled inside you, painting your walls with his thick, pearly seed.

"Gods," he groaned, an arm encircling your waist, lips pressing a trail along your spine. "It has never been this intense for us, has it?"

"No, Ae-Jace," you quickly corrected your slurred words, eyelids heavy from exhaustion.

His hands coaxed you to lie down upon your back once more, encouraging you to spread your legs for him.

Cheeks flushing at the intensity of his gaze, you sighed. He eyed you lustfully, watching a glob of his seed dribble from your reddened folds.

You ran a trembling hand across your face, watching through lidded eyes as the dark haired Prince rose from your bed to fetch something.

When he returned, you saw that it was a velvet box he carried with him.

"What's this?" you asked, puzzled. He clasped your wrist in his palm and helped you rise into a seating position.

"I had this commissioned when you were abducted," he said, opening the box.

You gasped.

Inside the box, resting on a bed of velvet, was a delicate tiara. It flowed in a halo of intricately crafted golden flowers, encrusted in rubies that twinkled with the amber candlelight.

"I hoped that the Gods would be merciful enough to return you to me so that I could finally make you my princess," he said, taking the tiara and carefully placing it upon your head.

"Jacaerys…" tears flooded into your eyes suddenly, feeling utterly unworthy of the love he was giving you and at the same time, remembering Aemond's name for you.

Ñuha dōna rūklon.

My sweet flower.

Like the flowers on the tiara resting on your head.

"Hush," Jace leaned in to kiss you, his fingers running through your hair. "Let me pleasure you, my princess."

His hands slowly spread your legs apart, his lips drawing away from yours to kiss a fiery path along your neck. There was a darkness in his eyes as he made his way to your heaving breasts, guiding you to lie upon a mound of pillows.

"Jace, I need to say something," you stuttered, his mouth drawing the soft flesh of your inner thigh between his lips. Sucking a bruise.

"It can wait. I want to taste you. I want to taste us."

Fingers carefully peeling apart your sticky folds, Jacaerys licked a bold stripe, groaning appreciatively before diving in.

Instinctively, your legs opened up to him, the words you had wanted to speak dying on your lips. Arms snaking around your thighs, he held them open, his tongue sinking deeply into you.

Choking on your suppressed cries, your eyes rolled back, head falling back against the pillows. The vision immediately returned, even more vividly this time, of a silver haired, one-eyed man kneeling between your legs instead of a dark haired one.

"Let me… L-let me fly with you to the Gullet…" you moaned, fighting against the pleasure that licked at the base of your spine. "Please, A-Jacaerys…"

Your trembling fingers clutched at his hair, gently pulling him away from your aching cunt. He complied with a reluctant whine, rising to his knees until his lips were upon yours.

It was heady, the sweetness of your arousal mixed into the tartness of his seed. You sighed as his tongue danced with your own.

"My princess, you need to rest. I will lead us to victory in this battle, I swear to you," Jacaerys spoke in between kisses.

"But what if you need me to heal you?" you asked, your hands cupping his jaw. "What if anyone else requires my assistance?"

He grinned wickedly, a glint in his eyes. "All I need at this very moment is to get my fill of your delectable arousal. The world can wait."

Crawling his way down your body, he latched on to you once more, the sight of Aemond between your legs flashing before your eyes.

"I will return to you, my princess. And I will return victorious," Jacaerys reassured you, noting the worry on your face, taking your hands in his just as you fell back against the bed. "I swear it…"

The taste of the strongwine felt bitter in Aemond's throat, his lips turning into a grimace as he managed to down another cup.

As a young boy, he never quite understood his older brother Aegon's inclination to remain drunk for as much time as he possibly could, choosing to chase women in his remaining time.

But the ache in his heart prompted Aemond to try his brother's favoured remedy of trying to numb the pain. Strongwine, not women.

While the searing agony that threatened to burst through his chest had somewhat dulled, his thoughts remained fixed on you.

Loathing himself for turning into a version of his own brother, Aemond signalled for the tavern wench to fill his cup with more wine.

Arriving at Gulltown after a tedious journey on horseback and using what little gold remained on him that had been bestowed upon him by his mother, Queen Mother Alicent, Aemond had managed to secure a cabin in one of the ships that were departing for the Free Cities.

Within two days, at the first break of dawn, the exiled Prince would well be on his way far far away from all the war and tragedies of his own life to start afresh in Essos. But deep down in his soul, Aemond felt empty. Pulling the hood of his cloak over his head to carefully conceal his hair, he drank another healthy swig of the strongwine. Trying to drown his memories felt futile, his bloodshot, sleepless eye welling up with the realisation of how much he had mucked up his life with a slew of foolish mistakes.

His first and biggest mistake, was letting you go. For letting you feel that your love for him had been worthless, Aemond would never forgive himself. He should've fought harder for you, urged his father, the King to help bring you back to safety. He should have apologized to you, then and there and told him the truth of how much you truly meant to him, instead of chasing after Vhagar.

His second mistake was finding comfort in Helaena once it has been presumed that you were dead or worse. Aemond did not know what possessed him to betray you and your love for him so ruthlessly by fathering the twins. But he had done it and the guilt of it would plague him for the rest of his life. As wonderful as the children themselves were and as much joy they managed to bring him, a small voice in Aemond's mind would forever taunt him and tell him that the children were symbols of his unfaithfulness.

His third mistake was, upon finding that you were alive and well when you had returned to King's Landing, instead of taking you into his arms and kissing you until you were breathless, he'd blamed you indirectly for the loss of his eye. It was his ego and pride that had gotten the worst of him in that moment, leading you to believe that he had only cared about you for your abilities. But it was wrong. He had always cared for you. Only he had failed to show it.

His fourth mistake was agreeing to the Baratheon betrothal, knowing now that you were alive, in full knowledge of how much the news would hurt you.

His fifth mistake was attacking Lucerys, a boy you were close to, in a maddened state of mind, trying to incite a war, to prove his worth to the Greens who had so easily discarded him.

His sixth mistake was hurting you that day near Storm's End, allowing his blade to cut into your precious and delicate flesh. How could he have done that to the woman he had always loved even if it was in self-defense?

His seventh mistake was abducting you, taking you away from Jacaerys, the man who cherished you like he should have. Despite his absolute hatred for his bastard nephew, Aemond held a sense of grudging admiration for Jacaerys. He knew how to show you how you were meant to be loved.

As much as Aemond yearned for just one, one last chance to show you how desperately he still ached for you, he wasn't sure he'd ever be absolved for all the times he had wronged you.

And he was now paying dearly for all of his follies.

Jealousy was an ugly emotion, something that sickened Aemond. But it was all that he felt when he thought of you becoming Jacaerys' lady wife, the mother of his children and a Princess. What wouldn't have he given to have you become his lover, his wife. Every time he imagined you walking down the aisle in the sept, Aemond had thought you would be walking towards him and not his nephew.

If there was anything, anything at all that Aemond could do to go back in time and stop you from running away from him on that night in Driftmark, he would do it in a heartbeat. He'd gladly give up his own life for it, if it meant that you knew that you were always his first love.

While he had told you the same thing when he had taken you away from Winterfell, he wasn't quite sure that you truly believed him. The way you had kissed him back that night gave him a sign that you still felt love for him. But just as determined as he was to try and find a way to prove that his heart had always belonged to you, you were steadfast in your belief of doing the right thing. And the right thing, in your mind, was marrying Jacaerys.

Having known you better than he knew himself, Aemond knew that even if you did marry Jacaerys, your heart would not entirely be with him. Somewhere, deep down, despite your best denials and efforts to suppress it, you'd still feel something for Aemond, because as you had said, he was your home.

And you were his peace.

"Fuck," he muttered, wiping furiously under his red rimmed eye, swallowing the painful lump in his throat with a long sip of the thick wine.

No one would even notice, the once renowned Targaryen Prince, sitting weeping in a decrepit tavern in a port city.

The despair and heartbreak of losing everything and everyone he ever held dear consumed him, viciously and steadily clawing away at his years discipline and self-restraint. Without you, knowing that now you were moving on to marry Jacaerys, Aemond felt hopeless.

He had always known that life was never going to be fair, but he had always imagined you by his side, no matter what. And without you, he was a ship lost at sea. So lost, in fact, that for a moment, the one-eyed Prince looked at the stretch of the ocean out the window before him, imagining the crisp saltwater filling up his lungs if only he decided to walk into the water with his pockets full of stones…

The thought had a startling clarity and a sense of relief enveloped him. Of course he had never dreamt of dying a lonely, miserable death. He had once longed to spend a long and fulfilling life with you, surrounded by your children and grandchildren with him.

But it was all for nothing. All because of a series of impossibly stupid mistakes on his part.

"Did you hear?" came the sudden voice of a burly, bearded man sitting at the table nearby.

"Aegon the Usurper has brought out his dragons to the Gullet."

Dragons.

Plural.

The word captured Aemond's attention all of a sudden, realization coming at an instant that there was to be a clash between the Greens and the Velaryon fleet at the Gullet.

And Aegon had decided to bring out dragons.

Of course Sunfyre would be there. But the others? Dreamfyre and…. Vhagar?

While Dreamfyre was a docile dragon and could be well controlled by the keepers of King's Landing's Dragonpit, Vhagar was a different story altogether.

An old, war-hardened beast like her did not easily heed the commands of just about anyone. She barely listened to Aemond himself.

If Aegon had decided to bring Vhagar out into the skies, it was a foolishness that would only cost him.

Within a moment, a much more unsettling thought came to him. What if you were to be flying out on your own dragon to join the battle? You wouldn't survive Vhagar's unpredictability and Aegon would surely show you no mercy after Winterfell.

Bile rose in Aemond's throat, fear accompanied it. He had to warn you.

He simply had to warn you at any cost he thought, his feet taking on a mind of their own, taking him straight to the nearest rookery.

Perhaps a raven would fly to you faster than he could reach Dragonstone himself.

This time, Aemond wouldn't choose a dragon.

This time, he would choose you.

Part 12

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