#otto hightower x ofc

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Fire on the Mountain - Chapter One

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Canon typical death and mild angst. Word count: ~8.4k

Chapter summary: Lia suffers bitter disappointment at the king's tourney, and finds herself uncertain of her future in the wake of an unexpected shift in dynamic.

Series masterlist

Author's note: Header by @vampire-exgirlfriend who also beta read this for me - this story would be nothing without you. Thank you for the care and attention you have put in both myself and my writing. I love you.

The wheels of the carriage squeaked and rattled over the bumpy roads of King’s Landing, accompanied by the thumping of the horses’ hooves that pulled them towards their destination. Lia shifted uncomfortably, repositioning against the plush cushions that she sat upon. It was not the instability of their short journey towards the Dragonpit that irked her, however.

Click. Click. Click.

She cast her gaze down towards Alicent’s fingers, the sound of her nails moving against her skin was audible even over the din of the wheelhouse. The flesh was red, raw and bloodied, and Lia had to force herself to suppress the way her lips attempted to curl in disgust, instead leaning forward to place her own hand over top of Alicent’s, squeezing gently, a comforting gesture that halted her friend’s nervous habit.

Alicent smiled softly at her, but Lia could tell from the way she lowered her eyes that she was embarrassed at having been caught outwardly expressing her anxiety. Lia could not help but pity her, she had plenty to feel worried about herself, but had never allowed it to manifest itself in such an unseemly manner.  House Costayne was sworn to the Hightowers, and so it was no question that Lia, youngest daughter of Lord Owen Costyane, would serve as a companion to Lady Alicent, the young daughter of the Hand of the King. Whisked away from the Whispering Sound at the age of six, the two years in Oldtown had been extraordinary—the largest port in the Reach, full of bustling excitement and things to see, all temptations to a precocious and formerly sheltered little girl. When King Viserys took the throne, Lord Otto called his daughter to the capital to be a companion to the young princess and of course, Lia joined as part of Alicent's household.

At the age of fourteen, she had spent more of her life away from her family than with them. They were leagues away, and the memory of the castle in which she was born was but a distant memory. The silver chalice and black rose that adorned the Costayne House sigil felt more tangible to her than the faces of either her mother or father.

She could not pretend that she had suffered in their absence though; she had had every luxury she could ever desire at her disposal, and though her family were far away, at least they still lived. Alicent had suffered through the loss of her mother, and had to keep her composure through all of it. The royal court was no place for the weeping and wailing of a young girl. Lia supposed that if she had been forced to endure that, then she would likely have taken to picking her nails bloody too.

The death of Alyrie Florent had brought Lia and Alicent closer together, and with it their shared bond with Princess Rhaenyra had blossomed too. Lia helped to bring Alicent out of her shell, allowing her an outlet for behaviours that were otherwise considered unseemly for a young lady at court; they gossiped, laughed loudly, and did so with the unspoken bond of secrecy that runs like an invisible thread through the fabric of friendship. Alicent had a calming influence on both Lia and Rhaenyra, serving as the voice of reason that helped to keep them out of trouble–most of the time. Oftentimes, it would take but a look from Alicent for both girls to know they had gone too far, a trait she had doubtless inherited from her father. It had taken just a simple widening of those big brown eyes to halt Lia and Rhaenyra’s ascent up through the branches of the Heart Tree in the Godswood; a foolish attempt to gain a vantage point in order to spy through the higher windows of the Red Keep, that would likely have resulted in broken limbs. Rhaenyra shared Alicent’s knowledge of propriety, though not her love of it, and the wild, adventurous side of her played well with Lia’s, her status as The Realm’s Delight allowing them a margin more leniency than most would be afforded. 

The three girls were inseparable, yet in the unwavering foundations of their bond, Lia had never felt more uncertain about her own future. Otto clearly had plans for Alicent, and Rhaenyra’s comfort was secured in her position as the King’s daughter, however, no such fate awaited Lia. She was every bit the spare part, aware of the fact that her destiny is one she will have to build on her own. As such, she delights in being Otto’s confidant, sharing news of the movements of Rhaenyra and Alicent in exchange for his favour. It had begun innocently enough, a fatherly figure taking an interest where the patriarch of her own family was unable to. She had taken pride in recounting her lessons to him, beaming up at him with girlish exuberance as he had listened carefully, amusement glittering in his eyes. It had never occurred to her that he had any ulterior motive, and so the unspoken vow of secrecy she afforded Alicent slipped in front of her father, allowing him to be privy to the gossip they indulged in and the adventures that they embarked upon with Rhaenyra within the walls of the Red Keep. As Lia had grown older, she had started to suspect that Otto’s questions served a deeper purpose than simple interest, however, it did not deter her; acting as a confidant to the King’s Hand would not be without its advantages. She hoped that when the time was right, the loyalty of both her and her family would not be forgotten.

The wheelhouse pulled to a shuddering stop just outside of the Dragonpit, and Lia moved to push the door open, stopping as they were plunged into sudden darkness. A forceful gust of air shook the carriage. They had arrived just in time for Rhaenyra’s return on Syrax. Lia and Alicent hovered apprehensively by the door, waiting until they heard their friend’s dragon thump heavily against the earth, before tentatively peeking out. Lia was brave enough to descend the small set of wooden steps to the ground below, while Alicent opted to remain in the safety of the wheelhouse, standing in its doorway.

She could not help but feel envious of Rhaenyra, watching as she slid gracefully from the back of her golden dragon, pulling her riding gloves off with her teeth, staring up at the great beast in admiration as it was coaxed back to the pit by the dragon keepers. Lia longed for the sense of adventure and freedom that the princess experienced high above the clouds of King’s Landing, the walls of the Red Keep felt as much a cage as they were an extravagance at times.

Though as Rhaenyra drew closer, the sulfurous stench of dragon radiating from her leathers, Lia wrinkled her nose in repulsion, deciding that if she were to experience freedom then she certainly had no desire for it to be atop the back of a dragon.

“Syrax is growing quickly,” Alicent commented, nodding towards the dragon’s retreating form. “She will soon be as large as Caraxes.”

“That’s almost large enough to saddle two,” Rhaenyra replied with a grin.

“I believe I am quite content as a spectator, thank you,” Alicent quipped, the gentle smile reserved only for Rhaenyra spreading across her mouth.

“And you?” Rhaenyra regarded Lia with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I prefer to keep both my feet firmly on the ground, I am afraid.”

Rhaenyra tutted. “Cowards, both of you,” she jested, stomping up the carriage steps.

The three of them huddled together on the same seat on the way back to the castle, talking excitedly about which knights they expected to be in attendance for the tourney being hosted by King Viserys in honour of the impending birth of Queen Aemma’s second child.

Their laughter carried through the Keep’s corridors as the three of them walked back towards Rhaenyra’s chambers, linked arm in arm, Rhaenyra sandwiched between Alicent and Lia.

While Alicent and Lia reclined comfortably on couches, nibbling on candied lemon slices, Rhaenyra went to change out of her riding gear. The two exchanged a surprised glance as she reappeared in a yellow gown, much too quickly to have bathed. Lia could not imagine being allowed to conduct herself at court smelling quite so pungent; it was a privilege only afforded to royalty. Her and Alicent had to always present themselves as clean and well groomed, a necessity that Lia did not mind at all. She was well aware of her own beauty, and took a level of care with her appearance that bordered upon outright vanity. She would never dream of being seen outside of her chambers without her long, dark curls having been meticulously brushed and styled. Whereas Rhaenyra, Lia often thought, could have been mistaken for one of the scullery maids were it not for the finery she dressed it. She was lucky she was pretty.

Rhaenyra swept into the Queen’s apartments, leaving her friends to stand awkwardly in the doorway, looking in on the queen and her ladies. They both greeted Aemma courteously, and she responded with a polite hello and a strained smile. 

A sense of unease crept over Lia’s flesh at the sight of Aemma, fanning herself as she lay on the settee by the open balcony windows. She looked more uncomfortable every time she saw her. It was not a state she wished for herself, though it was an inevitability. Such was the role of a woman, though Lia hoped her fate would be one more fortunate; she was all too aware of the fruitless pregnancies that Aemma had endured prior to this one.

“Take a bath, you stink of dragon,” Aemma gently scolded her daughter.

Lia bowed her head, concealing the way her lips curved upwards in amusement, suddenly pretending that the golden stitching of her ivory coloured gown was the most interesting thing in the world. She kept her blue eyes fixed upon the cuff of her sleeve, her fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the delicate golden rings upon the fingers of her left hand. At last, someone was saying it aloud. A statement only a queen could get away with saying to a princess.

Rhaenyra ignored her mother, settling beside her. “Did you sleep?”

“I slept.”

The princess huffed. “How long?”

“I don’t need mothering, Rhaenyra.”

“Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you.”

“You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm.” The queen’s voice was tired, though of the pregnancy or of this oft repeated conversation, Lia could not tell.

“I’d rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory.”

“We have royal wombs, you and I. The child bed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip.”

Lia lost herself in her thoughts as Rhaenyra conversed with her mother, continuing to twist the rings upon her fingers and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, as her mind conjured scenarios she would prefer not to dwell upon. She wished for a secure position in life, but did not want to be confined to the birthing bed. She longed for power, to have authority, over herself, surely, and perhaps over others, yet did not share the princess’ desire to fight in battle. Her days of climbing trees and skinned knees were well behind her.

She was roused from her thoughts as Rhaenyra hurried past her.

“Where are you going?” Alicent called after her.

“I am late!” She replied over her shoulder, running in the direction of the Small Council chamber.

Lia propped herself up on her elbow, lying on her side as she watched Alicent carefully stitch delicate powder blue flowers into the fabric suspended within her embroidery hoop. Her own lay discarded beside her, she had given up when the thread had become knotted, in no mood to attempt to fix it.

“Alicent…” she began slowly, “do you ever think about why your father wanted to bring you to King’s Landing?”

Alicent kept her eyes upon her needlepoint, her tone matter of fact as she continued her work. “To instruct me in what is expected of a highborn lady.”

Lia huffed, leaning across and tugging Alicent’s sleeve to get her full attention. “Yes, but why?”

The other girl sighed, lowering her embroidery hoop into her lap and fixing Lia with an exasperated stare. “To give me the best possible opportunities in life, so that an appropriate match may be made for me.”

“And that is enough for you, is it? To simply be married off to a man who is not of your choosing?”

She lowered her gaze, her voice soft. “My mother did not choose my father, and yet they were very happy.”

“But is that what you want?”

“What is it that you are trying to get at?”

Lia hummed, flopping down onto her back against the plush rug that they sat upon in the solar, clasping her hands across her front as she stared up at the vaulted ceiling. “I am unsure of my own purpose, what it is that I want.”

Alicent nodded in understanding. “Well, there will be plenty of eligible knights at the upcoming tourney. Gwayne is going to be there,; he is competing in the jousting.”

She scoffed, recalling the gangly boy of ten, a mop of hair the colour of rust, that they had left behind in Oldtown all those years ago. “Ah, yes, how fares your older brother?” she asked, turning her head to the side to look at her friend.

“He is a knight now,” Alicent said proudly, “and quite handsome too.”

“Handsome?! How would you know?”

“He tells me so in his letters.”

The pair burst into peals of laughter, stopping abruptly as Otto stalked into the room, casting a disapproving glance at both of them. “Do the pair of you not have lessons to attend this afternoon?”

“We were waiting for Rhaenyra, so that we might all go together,” Alicent said apologetically, scrambling to her feet and smoothing the skirts of her dress down.

Lia rolled her eyes, knowing their fun was over, and rose to her feet too, running her fingers through her dark curls, rumpled from having laid upon the floor.

“Well, the Small Council has concluded its business for the day, and with it Rhaenyra’s duties as cupbearer, so run along. Do not keep your septa waiting.”

“Yes, Father,” Alicent said quietly, making her way out of the solar. The skirts of her pale blue gown swished behind her, the cascade of her auburn hair down back appearing as Autumnal leaves against a cloudless sky.

Lia readied to follow suit when Otto reached out, gently grasping her forearm and halting her movements. “I trust you are behaving yourselves?”

“Always,” she said with a saccharine smile, moving to pull away from him.

He tightened his grasp, and Lia lifted her eyes to meet The Hand’s, his gaze steely and unblinking, apparently unaffected by the mischief that glittered within her own. “The Princess is…spirited. Do not allow her to lead you or Alicent astray.”

She slipped away from him, pausing once in the corridor to look back over her shoulder at him. “You have raised a well mannered young woman, Ser Otto. She will heed your wishes, though I cannot say the same for myself.”

Lia did not know why, but she had always enjoyed testing how far she could push Otto Hightower. He seemed to have more patience for her misdeeds than that of Alicent’s, and there was a certain thrill to watching his features pinch into annoyance. Perhaps it was because she allowed him to be privy to the secrets of her and her two friends, and he did not wish to sever that connection with too harsh a scolding for misbehaviour. She still remembered when he had taken it upon himself to instruct her in the art of handwriting, claiming that hers looked as though “a spider had fallen into the inkwell and then scurried across the page.” She had taken her quill and flicked the end at him, watching as spots of black had splattered across his doublet. He had scowled, snatching up her wrist, but then she giggled. His grip on her had loosened and his expression had softened. If she did not know him better, she would have sworn she saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Rhaenyra did not turn up for lessons, leaving Lia and Alicent to endure the presence of the stern Septa Marlow without her. Lia would not have minded, except for the fact that that day’s lesson was history, her least favourite subject. She endured a scolding for not remembering that Princess Nymeria departed Rhoyne for Dorne, and by the time the hour was over she felt tired and irritable.

Alicent had always been more studious than she was, her ability to focus surpassing Lia’s, who was far too easily distracted by the world around her. The comings and goings of the Red Keep’s staff was far more interesting to her than what was contained within any book. She preferred to focus on the whisperings found within darkened alcoves of the castle, than the monotonous drone of Septa Marlow.

“Come,” Alicent said, pulling a thick historical tome from the library shelf. “We shall study in the Godswood, the fresh air will help you to remember.” There was no heat in the subtly pointed look she directed at Lia, so she followed without complaint, merely returning a glare of her own.

They had been seated beneath the heart tree in the Godswood not five minutes when Rhaenyra arrived, quickly settling herself between them, as was her customary place within the confines of their group. She placed her head in Alicent’s lap, and her legs across Lia’s, letting out a sigh as she gazed up at the clear blue sky through the branches of the tree.

“You did not attend lessons today,” Alicent said to her, hefting the book onto the grass beside her.

“I did not,” Rhaenyra replied simply.

Lia spied the Valyrian steel and ruby necklace that now rested around Rhaenyra’s neck. It had not been there earlier. She leant over, lifting the pendant delicately between two fingers.

“A gift from your father?”

Rhaenyra furrowed her brow, as though she found the idea ridiculous. “A gift from Daemon.”

“He’s back then?” Lia’s interest is piqued. Daemon had never paid her much attention. As a ward of House Hightower, she was of no consequence to him. However, he was endlessly fascinating to her; his volatility and reckless behaviour served an endless supply of gossip.

“Mmmm,” she hummed, “to take up his position as Lord Commander of the City Watch, and compete in the tourney.”

“And give you gifts,” Lia teased with a smirk, letting the pendant drop softly back against Rhaenyra’s clavicle before settling back against her palms upon the grass.

A look of worry flickered across Rhaenyra’s face, her mouth turning downwards as her gaze grew distant. She studied her fingers for a moment, then asked “So what did I miss today?”

“History,” Lia said bitterly, “Princess Nymeria’s escape from Rhoyne.”

“Have you read it?” Alicent asked her.

“Of course I have read it,” Rhaenyra said, “there was no need for me to be there.”

“Then when Princess Nymeria arrived in Dorne, who did she take to husband?” Alicent silenced Lia as she opened her mouth to answer. “Not you, you actually turned up today,” 

Rhaenyra groused, shrugging her shoulders as she continued to lay across their laps. “A man.”

Alicent scowled, her tone clipped with annoyance. “And what was his name?”

“Lord something,” Rhaenyra replied petulantly.

“Gods, if only you had been there today,” Lia giggled, “you would have made me look good. Septa Marlow was furious.”

Rhaenyra smirked, playing with the rings upon her fingers. “She is funny when she is furious.”

“You are always like this when you are worried,” Alicent commented softly.

“Like what?” snapped Rhaenyra.

Alicent did not hedge her words, the only one to speak to their princess in this way. “Disagreeable. You are worried your father is about to overshadow you with a son.”

“I only worry for my mother. I hope for my father that he gets a son. As long as I can recall, it is all he has wanted.”

“You want him to have a son?” Lia asked.

“I want to fly with you both on dragonback, see the great wonders across the Narrow Sea, and eat only cake.”

Lia snorted as Alicent clicked her tongue. Lia did not mind the idea of seeing the great wonders, or existing solely on cake, however, the notion of taking flight on Syrax made the prospect seem far less exciting.

“We are trying to be serious,” Alicent protested, glancing warily at Lia, “well, at least I am.”

“I never jest about cake,” Rhaenyra said with a smirk.

“You are not worried about your position?” Lia asked, her curiosity piqued, masking the envy she felt that Rhaenyra possessed a position that could be threatened in the first place.

“I like this position,” she told Lia, wiggling her feet in her lap, making her laugh aloud, “it is quite comfortable.”

“Rhaenyra! Lia! It is impossible to have a serious conversation with either of you!”

The princess groaned, moving out of their laps and sitting cross legged in front of them. “Princess Nymeria led her Rhoynar across the Narrow Sea on ten thousand ships to flee their Valyrian pursuers. She took Lord Mors Martell of Dorne to husband and burned her own fleet off Sunspear to show her people that they were finished running.”

Lia raised her eyebrows, impressed by her knowledge, glancing over at Alicent to gauge her reaction. Before Alicent could respond, Rhaenyra leaned across and tore the page free from the book, letting it flutter into Alicent’s lap.

“So you remember.”

Alicent chewed her lip nervously. “If Septa Marlow sees this book–”

“Fuck the septa!” Rhaenyra interrupted.

Not for the first time, Lia felt envy burn acrid in her chest. Only a princess could get away with defacing a book from the Crown library and not have to suffer the consequences. She wondered if Rhaenyra had any awareness of the power she yielded over both her and Alicent. And if she was aware, would she even care?

Lia meandered through the halls, slippered feet quiet on the stone floor as she made her way to the library the next da She looked up, her attention stolen by Otto walking in the direction of the Small Council chambers. Changing course, she fell into step beside him, taking in the way his features were furrowed into annoyance. There could be only one explanation for it.

“So, you have heard that Prince Daemon has returned to the Capital?” she asked with a wry smile.

Otto paused, eyeing her carefully before ushering her into a nearby alcove. “What do you know?”

Lia shrugged. “Little and less. He gifted Rhaenyra a necklace, Valyrian steel.”

“An empty gesture,” he remarked bitterly, an exasperated sigh escaping him as he adjusted the collar of his forest green doublet. He cast a cursory glance over his shoulder to ensure they were not being watched, before fixing her with a heated stare.

“Oh, I am not so sure, you would be surprised at what people are willing to share if one is generous.” She reached up, tapping the bronzed hand that was pinned to his breast, as if to punctuate her point.

Otto’s much larger hand clutched hers, enveloping it, though it did not pull hers away. Her eyes shifted to where their hands now rested upon his chest, the gesture stirring something within her that she could not quite identify, filling her with both warmth and unease.

“I know a girl as clever as you cannot be swayed by trinkets,” he said softly, the low timbre of his voice vibrating through their connected hands.

Lia swallowed thickly, slowly pulling her hand back and letting it drop to her side, though still able to feel the place where his palm had rested. She felt an overwhelming need to push back against whatever had transpired, and so doubled her efforts to be cheeky. “If you are not feeling generous, perhaps Prince Daemon may have additional trinkets to spare.”

Otto straightened, his expression turning stony.

There it was, the annoyance that she felt much more at home with.

“You should not covet the actions of that brute of a man. Keep away from him.” He glared down at her, a silent warning before leaving her alone in the alcove, as he continued on his way.

Lia smiled to herself. Provoking Otto suddenly seemed much more appealing to her. If she could capture the interest of Daemon, then perhaps the Hand of the King would be more forthcoming in furthering her position at court, and making clear his plans for her.

“My dearest Lia, 

It is with deep regret that I must inform you that your mother and I will be unable to attend the King’s tourney. Your mother is suffering a fever and we did not wish to risk the journey to King’s Landing when our efforts must be spent upon ensuring her recovery. Your mother has requested that your brothers stay here at the Whispering Sound, as she fears her worry over them both competing will worsen her condition.

We have passed along our apologies to the Lord Hand, however, please send him my regards. I hope that life in the capital is treating you well and that you are behaving as befits the royal company that you keep.

Warmest wishes,

Your loving father, Lord Owen Costayne”

Lia gripped the parchment tightly between her fingers, having lost count of the number of times she had read it since it was brought to her by the maester two days prior. She lost herself in the words, the din of hoofbeats and roar of spectators fading to nothing as her eyes flitted between the letter and the lists, as though if she concentrated hard enough she could will her brothers into attendance.

Rhaenyra sat beside her, equally morose, her brow pinched in worry. Shortly after the tourney began, King Viserys had announced to all in attendance that Queen Aemma had begun her labours. It was obvious that Rhaenyra would rather be at her mother’s side than watching this display. However, it had not been allowed.

Sitting on the other side of Rhaenyra, Alicent had picked her nails bloody once more. A combination of worry for both the Queen and her older brother, Gwayne, who would be competing in the tourney.

Lia crumpled the parchment between her fingers, stowing it up her sleeve as she leaned forward, looking out across their elevated position on the stands, eager for a distraction.

“Who is that?” she asked, nodding towards a young man she did not recognise.

“The Tarly squire?” Rhaenyra responded, clearly as keen to focus on something else as she was.

“Mmhmm,” Lia affirmed, glancing back at her.

“Lord Massey’s son, I think. He is promised to Elinor Stokeworth, they are to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.”

“Best get on with it,” Alicent chimed in, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.”

Lia and Rhaenyra gasped, the three of them quickly falling into fits of giggles, though she was pulled out of her mirth when she felt a firm hand upon her shoulder. Looking back, she saw Otto seated directly behind her. He leaned in close enough that both his breath and his beard tickled softly at the shell of her ear as he spoke quietly, isolating her from the huddle of her two friends.

“I thought you might offer your favour to Gwayne.”

She pulled back, regarding him impassively, before speaking much louder than he had to her. “Actually, I intend to offer my favour to Prince Daemon,” she said with an amused smirk, “I have not yet had the pleasure to welcome him back to the capital.”

Otto’s nostrils flared in obvious annoyance, his gaze unblinking as he exhaled heavily, sitting back against his seat beside the King, though his focus remained upon her. His eyes raked carefully over the delicate manner in which she had pinned up her ringlets, revealing the slender slope of her neck. Lia suppressed a laugh as she turned back towards Rhaenyra and Alicent, pleased with her efforts, and the three of them continued to share gossip about those participating in the lists.

She eyed the knights carefully, wondering to herself if any of them would be a suitable match for her. There was no denying that Daemon cut every bit the imposing and extravagant figure, the plume of his dragon shaped helmet blood red and striking against the grey of the stone walls. It was a pity he was already wed, albeit unhappily, to Lady Rhea Royce. Daemon’s presence within King’s Landing had always been so sporadic, coupled with Lia’s being too young to appreciate what a handsome man he was, that she supposed he was never destined to be a suitor for her anyway. A pity, but it would not stop her from expressing interest, if only to incite the look of irritation on Otto’s face that she had grown to enjoy so much.

So engrossed in what was going on, she did not notice when King Viserys slipped away from his seat. Daemon rode towards the stands, a cocky grin upon his face as her, Rhaenyra and Alicent rushed to the railing to greet him.

“Lady Lia,” he drawled with a courteous nod, “a fine young woman you are growing into.”

She felt her skin flush at the compliment, glad of the fact she had opted to wear her house colours for the occasion; she knew that the gold and black of the gown complimented her complexion. It was an effort to resist the urge to both giggle and look behind her for Otto’s reaction.

“You flatter me, my prince,” she responded sweetly, “I wish you luck, though I am not sure you will need it.”

“I am confident that I can best my opponent, but I would ask for the favour of the Lady Alicent Hightower to ensure my victory.”

Lia’s face fell, her heart sinking in disappointment. She watched Alicent move sheepishly back towards their seats, meeting her father’s eye as she took the intricately woven band of flowers and ribbon. She knew from Otto’s sour expression that it was merely a ploy from Daemon to further upset the King’s Hand, having already beaten his son spectacularly in the lists. However, the rejection stung all the same. She wanted it to be her favour that Daemon had asked for.

As she took her seat again, she grasped her own hoop of feathers and twine, half turning to toss it haphazardly into Otto’s lap. “Here, you might as well have it,” she muttered sullenly, “I have no one else to give it to.”

Misery clung to Lia like a black shroud as she leaned back in her seat, visibly sulking and crossing her arms, as she watched the tourney, but did not really see it. She had hoped that the day would prosper a potential match for her, though, with Alicent’s favour already given away, Rhaenyra was her only rival. There was no way she could compete with a princess.

Her lips twitched with smug satisfaction when the mystery knight with the red and black spotted shield bested Daemon; a small retribution in Lia’s eyes for having snubbed her favour for Alicent’s. She did not bother to join her friends when they rushed back to the railing, both eager to greet the man who managed to unhorse The Rogue Prince, not even swayed by Alicent’s gasp of “he’s Dornish.” What was the point? She saw the way his dark eyes glittered with interest, but it was not interest directed at her; no, they glittered only for Rhaenyra. 

Lia knew that she could be the most comely of maidens in all of the Seven Kingdoms and it would do little to sway a suitor when presented with a Targaryen Princess. She could not help the jealousy that swirled like a maelstrom inside of her as she watched Rhaenyra throw her favour down towards him.

The smile that graced the princess’ fair features as she returned to her seat only faltered as Otto touched her delicately on the shoulder, the colour draining from her face as he whispered to her. As the news spread throughout the royal box, Lia’s eyes remained fixated upon the floor of the stands where her favour now lay, trampled under foot as people rushed back towards the Red Keep. It was crushed, and with it her hopes for the day.

Queen Aemma was dead.

The wind whipped Lia’s dark curls around her face as she stood upon the clifftop, the bite of the icy sea breeze nipping at her cheeks. The wrapped bodies of both Aemma and her short lived son, Baelon, laid prone upon the pyre that stood before the modest crowd gathered for the funeral. Syrax looked over them from her perch, awaiting Rhaenyra’s command, her neck undulating with discomfort under the feeling of her rider’s grief.

She could not imagine a more brutal death; cut open like livestock in the birthing bed, and for naught. The babe that had been tugged from the Queen’s womb had lived but for a few hours after her passing. Her heart ached for Rhaenyra, who choked on the command of “drakarys!”, the word faltering with unshed tears as she ordered her dragon to engulf her deceased mother and brother in flames.

Lia knew she felt pity for Rhaenyra, but was she truly sad that Aemma was dead? She did not know. She knew it was proper to express condolences, but she did not think she was experiencing grief. Would she feel sadness at her own mother’s passing? She was as much an acquaintance to her as the Queen had been, considering how many years had passed since she had last seen home. It was a disquieting thought, and one she was eager to push from her mind.

She desperately wished she had a hand to hold, to squeeze for comfort, and could not help but notice the way that Alicent gripped her father’s with such intensity that her knuckles were white. Stood to the other side of him, Otto had ensured that Lia’s arm linked through his, a gesture which she found oddly mature in comparison to the childlike manner in which Alicent’s fingers entwined with his. Perhaps it is just because she is not family, she pondered, though memories of the intimacy with which he had held her hand to his chest just a few days prior linger at the back of her mind. She was being treated as though she was a lady, when she had never craved more to be comforted as though she was a little girl.

A cavernous void opened between Lia, Alicent, and Rhaenyra in the weeks that followed, filled only by loss. Lia spent much of her time alone, not knowing how to comfort Rhaenyra in her grief, for it had made her angry. Her tone was curt whenever Lia attempted to engage her in conversation and she had withdrawn so far into herself that she did not know how to coax her back out. Deep down she knew that her friend was justified in her bitterness towards her father, for he had killed her mother in his desperate attempt for an heir, an heir that barely lived long enough to draw his first breath.

Lia wondered what her own expression of such grief would look like, had the circumstances befallen her.

Otto had become more protective of Alicent. He sought Lia’s company less often, instead looming over his only daughter like a shadow, summoning her to his quarters to speak to her of things that Alicent would not allow Lia to be privy to. In all of her years in King’s Landing, despite missing her family, she had never felt lonely. Now it was a feeling that overwhelmed her with such potency that she had picked up a quill more than a dozen times, hurriedly scrawling a plea to her father to allow her to return home. Each time she had thought better of it and tossed the balled up parchment into the fireplace. She had yet to find her purpose within King’s Landing, but she knew in her heart that her fate was not to run away like a mewling child, simply because her friends were preoccupied.

Deciding she could bear her own company no longer, Lia emerged from her quarters, seeking the comfort of a familiar face. She found it in Alicent, but as she was about to call out to her, she faltered, thinking better of it. There was something strange about the way her friend carried herself, her gaze downcast, trepidation in her step. Lia slipped into an alcove, peering out discreetly from behind the wall. Alicent was not dressed as she usually was, the royal blue gown she now wore was much too grown up. She narrowed her eyes as she studied the fabric. It was a dress that had belonged to Alyrie.

Curious to see why Alicent had suddenly taken to wearing her late mother’s clothes, Lia quietly followed behind her, mindful to keep her steps light and maintain her distance, so as not to get caught. She froze as she saw Alicent slip through the door of the king’s apartments, a feeling of dread forming a pit in her stomach. Rhaenyra had not spoken to her father properly since the passing of the queen, so what possible reason could Alicent have for keeping such close company with him?

It was with this question in mind that she stormed into Otto’s quarters the next day, a seething and lingering anger bolstering her. She did not knock, though her intrusion was met with only the slightest raise of an eyebrow by the king’s Hand as he looked up from his writing desk.

“Lia, to what do I owe the interruption?” he asked, his tone friendlier than she had been anticipating, causing her courage to waiver as her outrage quelled slightly.

She opened her mouth to speak, stammering over her words as she struggled to get them out. Why on earth was he not annoyed by her just bursting in? She had been prepared to be met with resistance, and it completely unraveled what she had planned to say. Closing her eyes and exhaling heavily, she shook her head as if to clear her mind and tried again.

“Alicent has been visiting the king.”

Otto pursed his lips, carefully placing his quill back into the ink pot, before he leaned back against his chair. “She has,” he said matter of factly, “the king is alone in his grief. Alicent has been of great comfort to him.”

Lia blinked rapidly, a wave of nausea churning her stomach, as she realised that this was not only information that the king’s Hand was already privy to, and he did not have an issue with it, but he was also the one that has arranged these visits in the first place. She narrowed her eyes as her shock and disgust turned to sudden anger, simmering hot beneath the surface of her skin.

“So it would not be an issue were I to offer him comfort also?” Lia asked, her jaw jutting out defiantly.

Finally, a flicker of annoyance passed across Otto’s face, his brow furrowing as he clasped his hands upon the desk. “You shall do no such thing. And you will speak of Alicent’s visits to no one.”

“Or what?”

“Or,” he began, rising from his seat, suddenly towering over her, “the pleas to return to the Whispering Sound that you crumple into the fireplace may just find their way to your father.”

Her blood ran icy cold as, simultaneously, her cheeks blazed with heat. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came to her. Tears of humiliation pricked her eyes. He knew. Of course he knew; the Hand had spies everywhere, she had acted as one herself on many occasions.

Otto’s expression softened as he took in her look of upset, and he sat heavily back in his seat with a sigh. “There is no need for tears, you—”

“Why am I even here? You may as well return me home,” she interrupted, her voice thick with emotion.

His features remained gentle and impassive as he regarded her silently for a moment. He then reached into a drawer of his writing desk, pulling out her favour and holding it out for her to take. Each feather and intricate loop of twine was undamaged, in seemingly pristine condition. She examined it in wide eyed wonder as she accepted it from him. It was as good as the day she had made it, no longer crushed as it had been when she had last laid her eyes upon it.

“How? Why?” She whispered, disbelief and confusion causing her brow to furrow.

“You may have need of it yet. Your time here is far from over. Now run along, I have important matters to attend to.”

She wanted to protest, to press him for further answers, but instead the authority in his tone had her obediently turning and leaving with more questions than she had initially arrived with.

The late afternoon sunshine beat down upon Lia as she sat on a stone bench in the gardens, the soft rays warming her skin, casting the last of its amber brilliance in the hours before dusk. She held her favour delicately, fearful that too tight a touch might cause it to break apart again, as she studied it for imperfections, wondering how it could have been so expertly mended, and why.

“I would have thought you would have given that away at the tourney.”

Lia startled slightly, lifting her head at the sudden sound of Rhaenyra’s voice. A playful smile graced the princess’ lips as Lia watched as she came to sit beside her. Rhaenyra reached out a delicate finger to stroke across one of the favour’s feathers.

Lia returned her smile, though it did not meet her eyes. “I found no one I liked enough to give it to.” It was a half truth, but admitting that Otto had it repaired and returned to her would have raised questions that she is unable to answer.

Rhaenyra hummed in acknowledgement, before facing forwards, her eyes fixed upon the row of rose bushes planted into the flower beds in front of them. The two girls sat in uncomfortable silence, until Lia could bear it no longer.

“I am sorry I have not been there for you, it is not an easy thing to lose your mother,” she said softly, glancing sideways at Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra shook her head, turning to face Lia, gripping her hand in one of hers. “It is me that should be sorry. I have not made it easy for you, for anyone, to comfort me. I was just so, so…”

“...angry?” Lia offered, intertwining their fingers. The warmth was soothing, and she had not realised until this moment just how dearly she had missed her.

“Hmmm. Did you know that Father sent Daemon away?”

Lia’s eyes widened, though it was no surprise that Daemon, prone to coming and going as he pleased, was no longer in the capital. Tt was a shock to her, however, that this time his absence was at the command of his own brother. “What for?”

Rhaenyra swallowed thickly, averting her gaze. “My father would not say, but I have heard whispers. He made a jest about my brother to a crowd in a pleasure house, apparently.”

“And your father banished him?”

“I am sure there is more to it than that, especially considering that Daemon has been removed as my father’s heir.”

Lia raised her eyebrows, her lips parting slightly as she struggled to take in the information. It appeared she had missed an awful lot in the weeks that she and Rhaenyra had not spoken. “So, who will be his heir now?”

“He has asked me to be.” Rhaenyra appeared less sure of herself than usual as she said this, her voice quiet and uncertain, as though she felt simultaneously crushed by the weight of the responsibility, but also terrified it would be taken away from her again.

Lia smiled at that, a gesture of both gentle comfort and genuine happiness, though she could not help the pang of envy she felt at both her friends having secured their futures. Alicent’s own advancement under the watchful eye of Otto, and now Rhaenyra’s succession to the Iron Throne.

“You will make a fine queen.”

Rhaenyra gave Lia’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “So, where is Alicent?”

‘With your father, most likely.’

Lia knew she should not say; it would have devastating consequences for their friendship, and Otto would be furious. Yet she could not help the pang of guilt she felt at withholding such information from Rhaenyra.

“I am unsure. Does she not know yet?”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “I had hoped to find the two of you together. I will need you both to help ready me for my proclamation. I feel too nervous to allow my lady’s maids to do it.” She paused, her fingers tightening once more, twisting their hands together further. “Lia, I need you, I need my friends.”

Lia’s heart ached for her, and she leaned in, resting her forehead softly against Rhaenyra’s in silent assent. The two girls remained like that, the void between them bridged by a desperate need to cling to the other for support.

Lia stood on a wooden step stool to the side of Rhaenyra, the tips of her fingers sore from the sheer number of pins she had had to press into the princess’ intricately braided hair, simply to keep her headdress in place. She pulled back to admire her work, a small smile pulling at her mouth. The intricate gold and black halo was positioned perfectly upon Rhaenyra’s head. Satisfied, she stepped down to move towards the bureau to fetch the jewelry.

Alicent stood behind her, helping to drape the heavy black cloak around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, beaded gold and red dragons adorning the lapels. It was not until Lia moved back towards them that she noticed Rhaenyra’s sombre expression in the looking glass.

She stood rooted in place, running her fingers over the smooth gold of the earrings, not quite knowing what to do.

‘We could run away from all of this.’

‘Let us cross the narrow sea on dragonback and eat only cake.’

It appeared that Alicent had also noticed Rhaenyra’s sadness, as her hands had stilled upon her shoulders, her gaze soft and sympathetic as it met the rincess’ in the reflective surface.

Wordlessly, Rhaenyra tugged Lia towards her and the three girls embraced, as much a gesture of comfort for them as it was for her. A silent reassurance of ‘I am okay. I must do this.’

Lia clung tighter, part of her wanting to reassure her friend, another simply wanting to smother the voice in her mind that raged in jealousy over the fact that Rhaenyra would one day rule the Seven Kingdoms, yet somehow had the audacity to feel sad about it.

As Lia entered her own chambers to ready herself for the ceremony, her eye was immediately drawn to the emerald green fabric that lay across her bedspread. As she drew nearer, she saw that it was a gown, long sleeved with a plunging neckline, and intricate golden thread in the seams. She ran her fingers over the material. The brocade felt expensive to the touch, far grander than anything she had worn before. There was a note sealed with wax resting atop it.

“A trinket, and a gesture of generosity - O.H”

Lia did not need to peer into a looking glass to know her cheeks had turned scarlet. A gift from Otto, and with the timing of when it was delivered to her, she knew he would be expecting her to wear it to the proclamation. 

She felt far too grown up, the dress accentuating dips and curves upon her body she was unaware she even had until she had put it on. Yet another step away from girlhood, but towards what she had no idea.

Lia had never felt self conscious before, but she was certain that, as she walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, she shone like a beacon, a lurid invitation for all that she passed to stare at her. She longed to run back to her quarters, to tear off the dress and change into something more unassuming, but knew that a refusal of such an extravagant gift from Otto was a line that even she dared not cross.

As the lords of the Seven Kingdoms gathered in the Great Hall of the Red Keep to swear fealty to Rhaenyra as the heir to the Iron Throne, she looked every bit the future queen in her Targaryen finery, and it was not until Lia saw this that she understood the significance of Otto’s gift.

Her friends were ascending towards womanhood, and she must too.

Lia watched on, with Otto stood between her and Alicent. She wanted to feel pride for her friend.However, it was hopelessness and uncertainty over her own future that held her firmly in their grasp. She stood in the presence of two future monarchs, but what was to become of her? 

“You look lovely,” Otto leaned down to murmur in her ear, his breath ghosting across her neck.

And as she felt the warmth and weight of his hand come to rest upon the small of her back, it seemed as though the walls of the castle closed in around her as tightly as the bodice of her gown.

[bellofthemeadow]

Dawn Ends the Night | Chapter 4

Aemond Targaryen x FemReader (Dayne)

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Rating: M for Mature (18 + no minors allowed)

Word Count: 5.5k

Warning: All warnings on the Series Masterlist, will update if necessary (Re-iterating, no minors allowed! Thank you)

Chapter Summary: After Aemond saved you, you are presented to court.

Notes: New character unlocked! Hello you guys, I am so happy to be back with a new chapter, its not necessarily a filler chapter, but it is definitely a "move the plot along" chapter. Can you believe that we are still on the same day the Lady Dayne arrive to King's Landing?! Sorry for the snail's pace. but I really like to dig deep into the psyche of the characters. It should start moving a bit faster now.

ALSO, omg you guys were so kind with all the love you gave me, and I am so happy that you are enjoying this story 🥰 Your comments and reblogs are fueling this story, so thank you so much xxx

Unto the story, LMK what you all thinks and if there are some things you would like to see, feel free to tell me 💜💜💜

Love you all

Taglist: @duds31 , @snh96, @lol-im-done, @heavenly1927, @whimsywilde , @queen-123s-posts , @httyd-marauders , @singhfae ,

The Iron Throne

Perros despised King’s Landing he hated everything about it from its oppressive heat to the humidity that was always thick with a constant, putrid stench that reeked of death and desperation. Having lived most of his youth on the streets of Sunspear, he had thought himself familiar with poverty and misery of those of lesser means. Yet, after just a day navigating the Captial’s streets, he realized how mistaken he had been; even the most destitute street urchin in Dorne seemed to live like a king compared to those in Flea Bottom. 

As the evening sky started to fall and dim on their first day in the city, Perros was dumbstruck that his lord would still consent to leave his only daughter to languish in such a dismal place.  Perros had always felt a close connection to his young lady. He had after all, witnessed the young lady’s youth and had watched her grow from a little sapling to an elegant and beautiful cherry tree. He had even been present at her birth, and Perros was certain he was the first outside the immediate family to cradle you after you entered the world –screaming and crying face scrunched up and as red as a little tomato. Perros still vividly remembered how small and fragile you had looked in his large, scarred hands. The future Lady of Starfall, your father had declared. Perros had also been there for your first steps, the first time you went in the Dornish Desert, the first time you had swum in the Torrentine. Perros had seen all of the work and expectations placed on your young shoulders as the future ruling lady of Starfall – and he had seen it all snatched away after the birth of Gerris.  

Perros could still remember when life was simpler, in those days he would follow you around Starfall, ensuring your safety – running after you as you would try to evade your tutors, twirling on your small pudgy legs. Perros may not have been your father by blood, but his love for you was no less than that of a true parent and he had always taken immense pride in your achievements and when your birthright was passed over in favor of your younger brother, Perros had felt such a deep outrage. So much so that he had been willing to take arms in your name. Despite his respect for your father, he could never fully reconcile with the decision to favor Westerosi customs over the Dornish practice of absolute primogeniture, which held no bias against gender in inheritance and would have seen you on the starry seat. This injustice had always kindled a flame of discontent in his heart, and he had vowed that if your father would not, he would always do right by you.  

And today he failed you.  

When your party had just arrived in the city, like when you were a child, you had managed to elude Perros' vigilant watch. He had been so preoccupied with surveying potential threats around the carriage that he hadn't noticed your discreet departure. The mere thought of what could have happened had the one-eyed prince not intervened sent shivers down his spine. He shuddered at the possibilities and although he could not help but find the boy an arrogant sniveling prince that was unworthy of even licking the ground you walked on; he was nonetheless grateful for the boy’s intervention.  

Only a few hours had passed since the turmoil at the market, and following the Queen and the Hand's directive, The Dayne retinue had taken some time to recuperate and prepare for the formal introduction at court. Much to Perros’s amusement, you had taken much of that brief respite to caring for the scruffy young boy you had rescued from the market. You diligently scrubbed him clean, his skin eventually taking on a healthy glow. Later, after Prince Aemond had insisted on being led to your chambers, you even spent part of the afternoon in his company, a fact that Perros found utterly unbecoming of royal decorum. 

He stood guard, silently observing as the prince awkwardly assisted in managing the boy. Aemond held Davos firmly, yet his stiffness and apparent disconnection from the warmth of your smile struck Perros as wholly unsuitable for someone of your worth. In the guard’s eyes, the prince's rigid demeanor and aloofness did not befit someone worthy of your affection or regard. 

After an hour, Perros had gruffly shuffle the dragon prince outside of the room, refusing to listen to his backward grumbling or your insistence that he could stay. While you were changing? Absolutely not. Perros had remained firm, you needed time to prepare before meeting the rest of the dragons and their Hightower kin. Snakes. Snakes wearing dragon skins, but snakes nonetheless, Perros thought.  

Following Prince Aemond's departure, you entrusted Davos and your brother Gerris to the capable hands of your trusted maid, the same one who had taken care of you alongside Perros’ watchful eyes. Athna, with her years of experience and her motherly touch, gently herded the two boys, softly silencing their childish protests, away for a much-needed nap. Gerris, though the young heir to Starfall, was still too tender in years to be formally introduced at court and the bond he had swiftly formed with Davos, it seemed already impossible to separate them – the boys had become friends since their introduction earlier in the day and Davos’ presence in the throne room would be deemed inappropriate. For common born lads do not belong at court with well-bred folk, Perros thought, yet he was welcome and regardless of his birth he was the captain of the guard for House Dayne, had been for the past 15 years. Birth mattered less so in Dorne, perhaps the lad could come with them and leave this putrid city behind, Perros pondered, and Lady Dayne could come back with them and they could all forget about this business.  

Upon his return to escort, you to the throne room, Perros was met with a vision that nearly brought tears to his eyes. There you were, no longer the little girl who hung unto his legs and begged for stories of the desert, but a captivating beauty with wisdom in her eyes. Your dress, a delicate lilac silk intricately embroidered with stars, hugged your form in a way that highlighted your softness and elegance. It was a sight that filled Perros with immense pride, yet also a twinge of sadness. The young charge he had watched over for so many years had blossomed before his eyes into a dignified lady, ready to step into the world. 

"You are a sight for these old eyes, my lady," Perros uttered, his voice quivering with emotions.  

You faced Perros with a gentle, self-effacing smile. "You know, after the day's events, you'd think I'd feel more prepared for this. I mean, I barely escaped having my head chopped off in the street," you said with a light, self-deprecating laugh. "And I have even met my betrothed. And surprisingly, I think we might get along well. But I am still so nervous.”  

Perros let out a snort at your observation. "That boy should count himself fortunate just to breathe the same air as you, my lady," he remarked. 

You playfully rolled your eyes at his comment. "Oh, please, Ser. Le us not speak ill of him. After all, Aemond is a prince – and a most gracious one at that." You teased.  

"A prince of a realm that holds no sway in Dorne," Perros countered dryly. 

Your laughter rang out, light and carefree. "You have quite the knack for diplomacy, Ser," you teased. 

Perros responded with a half-smile. "My sword is the only diplomat I need." 

Your eyes sparkled with mirth. "Perhaps it's best to keep that sort of diplomacy sheathed when we enter the throne room," you suggested with a wink. 

Perros let out a soft snort and watched you attentively as you stood before the mirror, expertly arranging your hair under the elegant hairnet your mother had given you, the shiny strands of your hair framing your face with grace. 

The room fell into a heavy silence, filled only by the soft rustling of your gown. Perros's gaze remained fixed on you, his expression a mix of fondness and concern. His voice, when he finally spoke, was thick with emotion. "My Lady, just give me the word, and I'll whisk you away on the next ship. We can escape to somewhere far from here, away from dragons, from politics. I could take you back to Dorne – to Princess Aliandra. The Martell would look after you!" 

You offered him a melancholic smile, "Your loyalty has always been unwavering, ser Perros," you replied gently. "But we both know fleeing is not an option. It never was an option. I love my family too deeply to abandon them. And as for Prince Aemond..." You paused, your gaze lingering on your reflection as you blushed slightly. "He saved my life. Perhaps being his wife won't be the dreadful fate I once imagined." 

"A cocky dragonling, that's all he is," Perros grumbled under his breath. 

"You have always been overly protective, dear Ser," you said with a soft chuckle. Hugging yourself, you looked thoughtful. "Do you think I can handle it? This life at court?" 

Perros met your soft gaze in the mirror, "There's no one more gracious or better prepared for such a task than you, my lady." His voice betrayed a hint of sadness. "Even if it pains me to say it as it means acknowledging how much you've grown." 

Your smile was bittersweet, as you let out a breathy laugh. "I remember when you'd carry me back to bed after I'd sneak out to watch the stars on the ramparts." 

"I've earned many gray hairs because of you," Perros snorted warmly, "You were a handful, my lady, but you touched my heart. I'd do anything to see you happy." 

"I might not find happiness," you mused, "but perhaps I can find contentment." 

"That's not enough," Perros insisted softly. 

 You looked at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "You know what would truly make me happy, Perros?" 

He straightened, ready for your command. "Just say the word, my lady." 

"I would like you to take care of Davos. Teach him everything you know. I want more for him than the life he's had so far. I do not want him to be alone anymore.” 

Perros snorted gruffly "That little Davos, eh? He's a scrawny thing, but with the right care, I suppose he could grow strong. He's got spirit, that one." 

You nodded. "He is a fighter; he just needs a chance. And with Gerris already taking a liking to him, I'm sure he shall fit right in with the rest of the family." 

Perros raised an eyebrow, skepticism clear in his voice. "And you think the royal family will just accept a Flea Bottom urchin in their midst?" 

You smiled, a hint of mischief in your expression. "Maybe they will have to. I've already spoken to Prince Aemond about it, and he has agreed to discuss it with his mother." 

Perros huffed, "And you trust him?" 

"He's given me no reason not to trust him," you replied steadily. "He saved my life, Perros. And he seemed genuine about helping Davos." 

Perros sighed, the lines on his face deepening with worry. "My lady, your heart is too open, too trusting. It worries me, what others might do with such kindness. You wear this cloak of a ghost, trying to shield yourself, but I see through it.” Perros took a small breath, before softly continuing “Your heart is too large, too exposed. Be cautious, my lady. Don't let them take advantage of your goodness.” 

Approaching Perros, you reached out and wrapped your arms around the seasoned guard, holding him tight. "You've always been my rock, Perros. Believe in me a little, will you? You have taught me everything I know after all. " You softly admitted.  

Perros returned the hug, his tone laced with a hint of regret. "I only wish I had more time to teach you... But you remember, don't you? How to defend yourself if necessary?" 

Your laughter was light at his words, "I don't anticipate the need, Perros, but yes, I remember. Between the ribs to make it hurt, straight to the heart to make it quick.”  

He nodded sagely. "And subtly, to leave no trace?" 

"I'm not planning on poisoning my betrothed, Perros!" you chuckled, shaking your head. 

"Just ensuring you're prepared, my lady," Perros replied protectively.  

You smiled warmly. "Thank you, Perros. But let us keep discussions of poison out of these walls, please." 

"I'll do my best, my lady," he promised, his expression softening.  

The sound of knocking interrupted the moment. "My lady, it's time. The court awaits," called a voice from outside.  

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself. "No backing down now,” you took a deep breath “Time dance with some dragons.”  

The grandeur of the Targaryen (or perhaps Hightower?) court was a striking blend of both everything you expected and the unimaginable. Its vastness and opulence were just as you had envisioned – expansive windows casting brilliant light across the room, the pervasive symbols of the Seven adorning the walls, and the hall itself, immense in its scale. Dominating the space was the Iron Throne, a chilling emblem of Aegon the Conqueror's might, forged from the molten swords of a thousand defeated foes.  

Yet, as you beheld the throne, a surge of Dornish pride swelled within you. Dorne, after all, had never yielded to the dragonlords. The words of House Martell, "Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," resonated with a deeper meaning, but it was your own house, House Dayne, that had historically been the shield of the Torrentine. You remembered the tales of your ancestors, steadfastly repelling invaders, or in times of desperation, slowing their advance to buy precious time for the other houses of Dorne to prepare. 

House Dayne had endured much at the hands of the dragons and the Hightowers, but in this moment, amidst the intimidating splendor of the Iron Throne, you felt a sense of covert triumph. Today, it was your family that held a pivotal position of influence, and this knoweldge filled you with quiet confidence as you stood before the throne, the legacy of your house a silent yet potent force at your back. 

Upon nearing the foot of the Iron Throne, your attention was inexorably drawn to Prince Aemond. Positioned regally to the right, he presented a stark contrast to the man you had encountered earlier. His silver hair, which had previously hung loosely, now was arranged in an elegant half-updo, lending him an air of refined sophistication. Dressed in what appeared to be the finest black leather, he exuded an aura of princely dignity, enhanced by the presence of a longsword at his hip. With his hands neatly clasped behind his back, he observed your approach with a piercing blue eye, sharp and discerning. Almost predatory. 

This frigid version of your intended seemed worlds apart from the one who had awkwardly, yet warmly, helped you with Davos. The raw protectiveness he had displayed in the market was now cloaked behind a facade of cool detachment. Standing there, he seemed carved from marble, exuding an air of untouchable, statuesque grandeur, he appeared as a figure from the legends, the embodiment of a Dragon Lord. Observing him in the shadow of the Targaryen throne, standing tall and imperious, it was easy to believe the tales told by the smallfolk – that the Targaryens were more akin to gods than men. Yet, as you stood there, a small smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. This fearsome Dragon lord, Aemond One-Eyed, was the same man who had been struck by a soapy sponge just hours before. The memory of Aemond, momentarily caught off guard and spluttering with indignation, as Davos and Gerris were cackling with glee had somewhat shattered the formidable image he now presented. 

Your gaze swiftly swept past Prince Aemond, landing on the figure seated next to him – from the dark green doublet with the golden pin on his breast, the man could only be Otto Hightower, the hand of the king. Notably absent was the King himself, rumors of the King's failing health had reached Dorne, but to see the throne unoccupied during such a crucial introduction – your presentation as his son’s betrothed and as the first Dornish retinue on Westerosi soil since the Conquest – hinted at a deeper malaise within the realm. 

You pondered whether the King's absence played into the Hightowers' favor. With no monarch to potentially disrupt their schemes, Otto Hightower's influence was unmistakably clear – no number of dragons or wildfire would change that fact; the Hightowers ruled here. Otto’s eyes, sharp and calculating, met yours. There was an almost tangible weight to his gaze, as if he were measuring your worth, gauging whether you would be an asset to his plans or an unforeseen hindrance. 

Next to the throne, your gaze settled on a woman of sophisticated poise with a cascade of dark auburn hair. She was clad in an exquisite gown of deep green samite, the high neckline accentuating her stately bearing. Her attire was accentuated by ruffles of a darker shade at her wrists, and her neck was adorned with a striking necklace of emeralds and onyx, shaped into the symbol of the Seven-pointed star. This must be Queen Alicent, you reasoned. 

Yet, for all her poised appearance, you could discern a subtle undercurrent of anxiety that seemed to ripple beneath her calm facade. It was as if each of her measured movements and serene expressions were carefully orchestrated to mask an inner turmoil that screamed to be released. What mask would you need to wear after your marriage? A face of practiced contentment? Or would you need to seem as cold and lethal as the blades forming the throne, and keep your Dornish warmth to the confine of your husband’s arms? Would he even welcome your warmth, a traitorous voice murmured in your head.  

The Hand of the King's voice broke the silence of the court. "It is my privilege to welcome House Dayne to our court. We greet our Dornish brothers and sisters, and the realm rejoices in embracing them back into its fold." The words, spoken with a calculated warmth, hung in the air, but their reception among the courtiers was mixed. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and you could feel the undercurrent of barely veiled disdain for your kin. 

As you stood there, your mother's firm grip on your bicep served as a silent reminder of the facade you needed to maintain, while your father's smile, a practiced mask that barely concealed the distaste in his eyes, echoed the sentiments of your own heart. 

“Dorne has long sought friendship between our two noble and valiant kingdoms," your father began, his voice smooth and measured. "As lord of house Daynes, whose lineage traces back to the Dawn Age, it is my honor to mend the rifts that have long divided our kin. And given today’s events, perhaps a touch of Dornish wisdom is precisely what this city needs.” 

��Otto visibly bristled at your father's veiled critique. “Indeed, an unfortunate incident," he conceded, his words tinged with a forced calmness. "Though, it must be said, had your daughter adhered to the expected bearing of a lady—safely ensconced within her carriage—such an unpleasantness might have been averted.” 

Your father opened his mouth to respond, but you swiftly interjected, your tone honeyed yet edged with steel. “Or perhaps the crown should offer a timely reminder for the city watch that an overzealous exercise of power is not always necessary or justified." 

A collective intake of breath echoed through the room; Otto's face contorted like someone who had sucked on a sour lemon. He quickly masked his reaction, regaining his poise. "Indeed, my lady. A most astute observation. Perhaps you would grace one of our small council meetings with your insights. We would be most delighted to benefit from your wisdom." 

The throne room buzzed with suppressed snickers and whispers. Mocking. Mocking you. Mocking your ideas and your lineage, bastards you thought. Meanwhile, you noticed Aemond, his fists clenched in barely contained anger seething next to his grandfather.  

With a poised smile that belied the storm brewing within, you replied, "I would welcome such an opportunity, Your Grace. I am heartened by your gracious invitation." 

Otto's brow furrowed, readying a sharp retort, but before the words could leave his lips, Queen Alicent smoothly stepped in. "We are indeed relieved that you emerged from the ordeal unharmed, my lady," she began, her voice calm yet carrying across the room. The murmur of courtiers filled the air as she continued. "My son Aemond has spoken highly of your courage, particularly your selfless act in defending a young boy at great risk to yourself." Her gaze swept across the assembly, her expression one of sincere admiration. "Such gallantry is truly commendable and speaks volumes of your character. It has always been my belief that the woman who would marry my son must possess a resilience of spirit. I am glad that it turned out to be the case, my lady." 

Trust. This was the unspoken question that hung heavy in the air. Are you with us or against us? Her gaze seemed to demand. What role will you play in this game of thrones, and how will you influence my son? The queen’s warm gaze seemed to demand. 

What was your endgame? Even you could not definitively say. Your heart pulsed with your love for your homeland, the desire to serve your family, to protect those you cherished. But could you extend that loyalty to this new, intertwined Hightower-Targaryen lineage? Could they become your family too? 

Your eyes flicked towards Aemond, whose demeanor was a volatile mix of restraint and simmering anger. A wrong word and he looked like he might explode. The words of his grandfather seemed to have struck a nerve, yet there was something more beneath that tempestuous surface. In the brief hours since your paths had crossed, he had shattered the rumors of his cold-hearted nature, showing glimpses of kindness and vulnerability. Could you learn to understand... nay to love this enigmatic prince who had saved your life? To become his partner, a bridge between Dayne and Targaryen, nurturing future heirs who would one day soar the skies on dragonback? Your mind wandered, envisioning a child with silver hair and laughing eyes, astride a majestic purple dragon, Dawn gleaming in their small hand. 

"I too am relieved, Your Grace," you replied respectfully. "Prince Aemond's actions were both brave and just. His courage in defending not only me but also the ideals of his house was commendable. You have every reason to be proud of him." 

Alicent's expression softened at your words, you had said the right thing apparently. She stepped forward, her movement graceful and composed, and gently took your hands in hers. She smiled, and there was warmth in her eyes, trying to get a read on you, on your intention. She seemed satisfied with what she saw because she slowly tugged you with her toward the dais. Your parents' expressions briefly registered surprise and a touch of apprehension at this unexpected development as you were drawn away from them. 

With your hands still clasped in the queen's, she led you closer to the throne, positioning you beside Prince Aemond. A flicker of panic crossed his features as you stood there, a mere breath away from him, you could feel the twitches of his fingers next to your hands- his presence was so overwhelming it was almost crushing.  You could hear Queen Alicent (or was it the Hand?) drone on in front of the court, but all you could feel, hear and see was Aemond.  

"Prince Aemond," you whispered playfully. 

Aemond, his voice equally low replied, "Lady Dayne." 

"It is a pleasure to see you again, my prince," you continued, the corners of your mouth curving into a subtle smile. 

"We saw each other merely two hours ago, my lady." he pointed out. 

"A lifetime for some prince Aemond," you quipped lightly. "I would have thought my absence might weigh heavily on my betrothed's heart." 

Aemond appeared momentarily lost for words, his usual composure faltering. While Queen Alicent continued her discourse on duty and loyalty, you maintained a facade of rapt attention, though a sly smile played on your lips.  

"Surely, you have missed me in these past few hours, my prince?" you murmured under your breath, the hint of a tease in your tone. "A betrothed left unmissed is a grievous oversight, would you not you agree?" Aemond, caught off guard, struggled to respond. 

Reproachfully, Aemond looked at you with a glower of distrust "You find amusement in mocking me, my lady?" 

"No, only in the delightful shade of pink you turn when lightly ribbed," you teased, observing as his ears flushed a deeper shade. 

Aemond cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "It has been some time since anyone dared to make such jests with me. To tease a dragonrider takes a certain fearlessness. Some would say stupidity even." 

"Is the great Vhagar present in this room, then?" you inquired with mock seriousness. "I see no mighty she-dragon poised to devour me." 

A soft chuckle escaped Aemond's lips, but it was cut short by a stern glance from his grandfather. The Hand's disapproval was evident and was seeping through his every pore, which you could see even from his position on the throne. Was Otto Hightower regretting the alliance already? How quickly to make an antagonist of one of the most powerful men in the realm, this calls for an award, you thought morosely. 

“I pray that Davos has recuperated from the ordeal?” 

You smile, “It depends; the attack in the market or the forced bath? If it's the former, I believe he has bounced back quite resiliently. As for the bath, well, I fear the poor boy might carry that trauma for some time, given the intensity of his protests. 

You glanced at Aemond's hair playfully, "I must say, your hair seems to have weathered the soapy siege remarkably well. I'm relieved, really. It would have been a tragedy to see such fine, silken locks come to any harm." 

Aemond's response was a tad unimpressed "You do me too much honour with your flattery, my lady," he sarcastically uttered. Then, in a softer voice, he added, "I'm relieved to hear the boy has not been too deeply affected by today's ordeal." 

You nodded, "Davos is a resilient child. For now, I have entrusted him to the care of my knight, Ser Perros. He is to teach Davos everything he once taught me. I have every hope that he will grow to be strong and fearless, never again to be a victim of brutality." 

"Is it a customary practice in Dorne for a knight to oversee a young lady's upbringing?" Aemond inquired. 

You offered a light shrug, "Ser Perros was not responsible for my formal education, but he ensured I would never be defenseless. Despite what transpired in the market, I assure you, I am far from helpless." 

Aemond's voice was soft, his gaze still fixed ahead as Queen Alicent continued her discourse. "I would not dare to think otherwise, my lady," he said. "Your courage outshines that of many men of greater size and strength. I myself know of a young boy who would have wished for nothing more than to have a guardian as valiant as you when the time called for it." 

Twice now, Aemond had mentioned this young boy - once at the market and again just moments ago. Curiosity bubbled within you. Who was this boy? Did Aemond genuinely know him, or was this some sort of strategy to charm you? To humanize himself to you? Your gaze discreetly swept over his striking profile: the pronounced aquiline nose, the defined jawline, and the sharp cheekbones – you feared you could cut yourself on him if you got too close. By the Gods, it was so unfair – this man was such a beautiful specimen, a perfect blend of sharp angles and elegance. You could almost feel homely when standing next to him. Almost. You had seen the hungry looks from some of the male courtiers when you had first entered the throne room, Perros had almost taken some heads before the formal introduction had begun.  

As you stood beside Aemond, carefully positioned by Queen Alicent on his unscarred side, your eyes couldn't help but drift to his face. The sight of his lone, good eye, clear and intense, pulled at something deep within you. A curious urge overtook you, a desire to reach out and gently touch the leather patch that covered his other eye, to silently convey that his imperfections held no sway over your perception of him. The loneliness and hurt that lingered in his gaze were palpable, almost tangible in their intensity. You knew little about the prince beside you, but perhaps, in time, you and Aemond would find the words to share your stories, to reveal the journeys that had shaped you both into who you were today. 

The commanding voice of the Hand resonated through the hall, snapping you back to reality and away from the small bubble you had created with Aemond. 

"With the formalities now concluded, we can finally rejoice in the joyous celebration to mark the betrothal of my grandson, Prince Aemond, to a noble daughter of House Dayne. May their union be enduring and bountiful, heralding a new era of prosperity and unity for both our houses. This wedding, under the watchful eyes of gods and men, shall be a beacon of hope and unity, shining brightly against the backdrop of our bloody histories.” Otto Hightower paused, his eyes sweeping over the assembled courtiers with deliberate calculation. "In four moon’s time," he began, his voice laden with nuanced implications, "the Seven Kingdoms will welcome a new princess into its fold. This auspicious union will not only fortify the bonds between our houses but will also herald a new epoch of strength and unity for House Targaryen and all its true and devoted allies. It is a time where loyalty shall be rewarded, and the true power of allegiances will be unveiled. Now comes the time when we must take care to distinguish friends from foes, and I am grateful to call House Dayne, and the whole of Dorne, true friends of the crown." 

 The weight of Otto's words hung in the air, its sinister undertones sending a shiver down your spine. You felt a wave of apprehension washed over you. You knew why you were here, your father and Prince Quoren had warned you of the green’s plot and yet, your heart raced nonetheless. You had not thought that Otto Hightower would be so... blatant in his desire for power and the weight of the situation pressing down on you like a physical force. 

 It was then you felt a gentle but firm pressure on your hand. Glancing sideways, you saw Aemond, his expression inscrutable, not even looking at you, but his warm, large hand enveloped your smaller shaking one in a soft grip. It was as if he, too, sensed the burgeoning unease within you, and offered a silent reassurance. His touch, surprisingly warm and grounding, was a small comfort amidst the rising tide of fear and uncertainty. In that moment, the prince, spoken of in whispers of terrors, felt less like a stranger and more like a friend.  

Leaning closer, his presence a comforting shadow, Aemond's lips hovered near your ear, his breath a warm caress against your skin. His whisper was barely audible, yet clear, "Might I have the pleasure of your company tomorrow to break our fast, my lady?"  

The soft intimacy of the moment caused a warm blush to rise on your cheeks. "It would be my joy," you responded with surprised. You did mean it truly; you would be delighted to eat with Aemond tomorrow.  

"Shall we say at dawn?" he suggested, “Or is that too early, my Lady?”  

"Dawn is quite perfect, my prince– any later and I would feel robbed of your presence” you ribbed.  

"Is this to be our fate? For you to tease me until the end of days?" Aemond’s good eye slides over to you, inscrutable yet vulnerable.  

Biting your lip in a moment of contemplation, "If it displeases you, I can refrain, my lord." you offered shyly trying to tug your hand back – but Aemond refused to let go.  

His reply was swift, his tone soft yet earnest. "No, please... never stop," he murmured with a naked vulnerability that touched you. "My lady." 

You gently squeezed his hand, offering a silent gesture of comfort and understanding, "Dawn it is then," you affirmed softly. 

Next Chapter - Interlude

[reignof-fyre]

Rhaenys Velaryon Targaryen - The Heir's Heir, The Realm's Pearl, The Seadragon, Future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms

Rhaenyra and Laenor are successful in having trueborn children. Their firstborn, a daughter, is named her mothers heir and embodies everything that makes one a true seadragon and will not allow anyone to take what is rightfully hers and her mother's before her.

[bandulin]

I love the idea of Daemon x Alicent

Imagine this...

Alicent and Daemon get engaged in an attempt to settle the feud between Otto and Daemon. Viserys marries Laena instead. (Rhaenyra still marries Laenor and still has bastards with Ser Harwin. The Velaryons will try to get Laena's firstborn son on the throne instead of Rheanyra. Thus Team Blue is born. )

Otto keeps his position as hand (because Viserys is not falling over himself to get Rhaenyra to forgive him for marrying his best friend). In his eyes it's all the better because this way his daughter won't be corrupted by his brother anymore, so she can complain all she likes his mind is made up.

Because of this, the newlyweds stay in King's Landing, and as a boot this way Viserys and Otto can keep an eye on them, Alicent is not so isolated this time.

Daemon can't hurt Alicent physically at all and the one time he humiliates her in public (by calling her his green broodmare) Viserys tells him that one more stunt like this and their kids will get the Hightower name. (Otto was also seen leaving a conversation with Daemon but there were no witnesses in the room. No one is sure what Otto threatened him with but Daemon was visibly shaken after it. (He will deny it 'till his dying breath that he was ever afraid of Otto but the truth stands))

The point is that he can't hurt Alicent in an overt way, so he keeps needling her to cause enough distress for her to find a way out of the marriage. He is sure that if she bats her eyelashes and asks nicely enough, Viserys will annul the marriage. (He could never resist a pretty face after all)

At first Alicent is walking on eggshells afraid of his husband. She is still young and Daemon's insults cut deep, making her insecurities so much worse. She still refuses to ask for an annulment though because of her faith. Duty is more important than her feelings after all.

They have to lay together every week to make heirs, but it's a very miserable experience for both of them. Daemon can't help noticing how beautiful Alicent is, and he hates it.

Otto encourages Alicent to 'kill him with kindness' so she starts to be super nice to Daemon. Trying to have bonding time, showing interest in Daemons hobbies (mostly dragons and swords, but after about a month she finds out that he has a love for theatre (the dramatic cunt) and she is gleefully dragging him to their favourite plays) . She even let's him take her for a fly on Caraxes. (Daemon ofc knows she is afraid of it that's why he offers (as the sad excuse for a semen sack that he is)) She is trembling the whole time and she clutches Daemon so tight it leaves bruises, but afterwards Daemon respects her a lot more so it's worth it.

She even tries to resolve the past conflicts between them. She opens up about why he disliked Daemon (she refuses to use the word 'hate' even if it would be an adequate expression) and Daemon seems to be understanding and even apologetic about it. Ofc she doesn't get an actual apology but the next day there is a beautiful hightower green dress in her room with a necklace with the symbol of the seven incorporated in it. It's everything Daemon claims to hate and Alicent is so moved she cries.

Daemon is softer a bit but still not trying to make an effort to make the marriage work. So after her mooncycle is late, and a master affirms her that she is pregnant, she gives up and adapts the tactic of not bothering his husband at all if it's not necessary. She is still kind and polite when they are together but she doesn't make the effort anymore.

And Daemon... Misses her. He is too proud to reach out to her, but he can't stop himself from thinking about her every day. He keeps an ear on court gossips and tries to watch her from a distance, and he swears if Ser Criston touches her shoulder one more time he will break something. (all the while Alicent and Criston bond over their thoughts on duty and their shared ideas on cleaning up Flea Bottom. Alicent thinks the white cloaks could close the child fighting rings, while Criston believes the prostitutes wouldn't feel safe asking the guards for help even if they needed it. They also share cherry tarts sometimes as a treat)

Since getting married Alicent slowly but surely starts to get more confident in herself. Laena reaches out to her and they become fast friends. They bond over complaining about their husbands (in a polite way), and they find out they have a lot in common. They take a stroll in the gardens almost daily, and it's as much sweet as it aches for Alicent to have this friendship with someone other than Rhaenyra. But Rhaenyra is not here and even if she was Alicent is not sure they would get along again.

Alicent tries to help the common folk whenever she can, and she is loved by them in return. Otto notices (with glee) that Alicent has an affinity for politics and tries to cultivate it. He asks her opinion on resolving court matters and after a while it turns out that Alicent can be ruthless and cunning and in the end she still always comes out smelling like roses. Daemon sees this from afar and for the first time he thinks he is in love.

Parenthood brings them even closer together. Their love for their child turns out to be a wonderful base for their relationship. Daemon for the first time actually tries to woo Alicent. He is rusty but it's the effort that counts. He tells her his favourite tales of Valeria and in turn she shares the sauciest parts of Hightower history.

Aegon is a delight to them both, and spending time with him is the highlight of their day. He loves flying on Caraxes especially if his mother is with them as well, so Alicent has to get used to flying on the Blood Wyrm every second Tuesday. (She brings him a fat goat beforehand every time. They have an understanding.)

Daemon and Otto declare truce after Alicent, pregnant with Helaena, yells at them so hard they are afraid she will go into labour. (They have to make peace with each other or so help her...) Daemon tells her he loves her the very next day.

The dance still happens. Alicent leans towards team blue because of her friendship with Laena and because of the morals of the faith. Daemon still holds fond memories of Rhaenyra and wishes to fight next to her. They can't agree on it at all.

The decision is made when Helaena approaches them with the declaration that she wishes to marry the first son of Laena. Daemon would let it happen for the political opportunity alone but for Alicent the thing that settles it is the tangible love between the two of them. With love like that she would let her marry him even if he was a street urchin.

The path behind them was long and hard and in front of them it will be bloody too but at least they have each other to lean on.

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 12.

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

wordcount: 4.6k

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

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, death any tw's and cw's will be added to chapters with them in it.

story playlist

Shera’s head pounds, laden with rocks and gravel as if she were resting at the bottom of a creek. Joints cracking and aching, she sits up. 

She doesn’t recognize where she is, only smelling the salt air and the distant crash of the tides. Her mouth is dry, sticky with a cloyingly sweet flavor. “Mhh,” she groans, vision blurred more than usual, throat tight. 

“You’re awake,” a taunting voice observes. “Good.” 

It takes her a few moments to match the voice to Prince Daemon— her situation going from bad to worse. 

She must’ve made a putrid expression, as the rogue prince gave a chuckle. “Am I that off putting, Lady Stark?” 

She continues to grumble, unable to form words yet— she remembers being hit in the throat particularly hard, rendering her voiceless and silent at the time of her capture. “W… wh,” she breathes, lifting her head to glare at the blurry figure of Daemon. “Wh… y…” 

“Why?” he asks, tilting his head. “I did you a favor, rescuing you from the usurper’s halls. I’m sure that Otto Hightower would’ve had you wedded and bedded with his one-eyed grandchild at a moment’s notice if he thought that your brother might waver to his side.” 

“I… didn’t…” she grasped at words, the ability to speak fleeting, like birds spooked from a windowsill. “I don’t…. w-want…” 

“Don’t strain yourself now,” Daemon chided, scolding her like a child. He watched her for a bit longer, seeming to take in each minute detail of her face. “Nasty scar that,” he gestured to her eye. “Baela didn’t seem to have as good of an aim as Lucerys. At least my nephew’s injury was swift work, taking out the eye entirely,” he was closer now, brow perked. He unsheathed his dagger, embossed in swirling depictions of scales and dragon wings, and began to cut a strip of fabric from the blanket upon the bed.

Shera watched him in blurred confusion, backing herself up against the headboard, trying to be small— mayhaps if she was small, she would disappear. 

The prince offered the fabric to her. “To cover it up— ‘tis a ghastly sight, as you seem to know from your usual garb. I’m sure we’ll have some more… suitable dregs for you soon enough.” 

Her eyes flicked between the fabric and his hand, back and forth. Something in her blood welled to the surface as she leaned forward to grab the cloth. It was a feral rage, something ancient swirling in the pit of her stomach as she lurched forward, sinking her teeth into the soft of Daemon’s wrist. 

She tasted his blood, her nails scratching at any exposed skin she could grasp. Her senses darkened as she heard his far away voice, saying words she didn’t understand, yelling at her, pushing her off. 

The back of his hand met her face as she landed back against the headboard once more, chest heaving. She spit at him, body shaking with rage and adrenaline. “Your blood… t-tastes… like shit.” she cursed him, spatting his foul copper ichor back at him. 

He was enraged, she could tell, feeling a similar dragon-esque heat emanating off of him. A small part of her sobbed, deep within the recesses of her mind— it reminded her of Aemond, even if only for a moment. 

And yet, despite Daemon’s rage, he retained some sort of manic lightness in his eyes, even as he was bleeding, teeth marks indented onto his skin. He stared at her with a morbid interest, as if she was some type of animal he had never seen before, never encountered so close— and in captivity.

It was a blur as the maester walked in and lifted a cool liquid to her lips, tasting of that same saccharine sweet that filled her mouth when she awoke. It was undoubtedly an attempt to subdue her. She drank it gladly, wanting nothing more than to be asleep again. Mayhaps she would dream of Aemond. Mayhaps she would never need to wake and could dream forever. 

As her consciousness faded again, she never once broke the locked stare between her and the prince until her body gave out. 

If he ever got that close to her again, she would love nothing more than to sink her teeth into his neck, maybe even sinking her nails into his eyes. 

She would dream of ways to kill him, surely.

— 

He hasn’t been granted a marble yet— not even an official title for his seat has been bestowed. And yet, he is there, sitting at the head of the table across from the King. 

It had been ten days since Shera was taken, six days since the Velaryon fleet enforced its blockade upon King’s Landing, and four days since court had been held in the throne room to hear concerns from the smallfolk and lesser lords. 

Days upon days of doing nothing— of doing diplomacy as Aegon had put it, to parrot the words from Otto’s mouth. Aemond rolled his eye at the sentiment, knowing he would have this war snuffed out in a moment’s notice. 

Our house’s words are Fire and Blood, are they not? And yet we are nothing more than simpering whelps— for the sake of diplomacy. Aemond suppressed a scoff as Tyland Lannister spoke about the costly nature of the blockade. He could only think, mayhaps Shera would be proud of his restraint in holding his tongue. 

The thought brought a small bit of warmth to the tips of his ears, suddenly grateful for his hair covering them.

Aegon twirls his yellow and pink tinged marble in its circular setting, seemingly bored with the conversation at hand, his eyes set upon the marble as one council member or other continues to drone.

“… the shipments have been delayed due to the Sea Snake’s blockade…”

“… the shepherds are asking for compensation for their sheep being taken…” 

Aemond’s ears begin to ring— a high pitched, ugly, grating sound, drowning out the noise. He looks down at his fist on the table as it flexes and relaxes, the tendons and ligaments snapping and mending back into place like a taut bowstring. All this time of doing nothing, nothing, nothing— 

“Well,” Aegon’s voice snapped through his fog, effectively cutting off whomever was speaking. “I believe I have a plan that will solve all of these… predicaments.” he clasped his hands together with a self-assured smile. 

Otto visibly tensed, sprouting another proverbial gray hair. “Do share, your grace.” 

“You have dragonriders on your side, with very capable dragons. I don’t see why we don’t dissolve the blockade with fire.” 

“I will assume you are speaking of you and Aemond,” the hand spoke, his tone light. “The princess’ side has many dragons as well— what is stopping them from attacking King’s Landing while our two capable dragons are traipsing in the bay?” 

“You’re correct in your sentiment, grandsire. My half-sister’s army consists of more dragons than we— but most are babes or hardly fledglings,” Aegon drawled, looking down at the marble. “You are also discounting that we have another capable dragon and dragonrider. Do you forget your Queen’s dragon so easily?” 

There was a palpable silence in the room as Otto stared at the King. “Helaena is… she is no warrior.”

“She is no more a warrior than Rhaenyra is, than any of us are— but she does know how to say ‘Dracarys’, if I recall. Dreamfyre is large enough to defend the city while Aemond and I are gone on our quick incursion. I don’t believe I need to remind you of the speed at which dragon travel differs from horse travel, grandsire.” Aegon hummed now, seemingly pleased with himself. 

“Even so— it is incredibly reckless for you to be out. You are the king, not some paltry foot soldier,” Otto’s calm demeanor was shedding slowly, irritation bleeding into his words. “It doesn’t bode well for a king to fight so openly.” 

“Nor does it bode well for me and mine to sit and hide here and let paltry foot soldiers die in the masses when we could end it before sundown. I fear you won’t persuade us otherwise, lord hand,” Aegon stood up, pushing his chair back. “In fact, we will even return before you pass your evening constitution, grandsire. Does your privy have a good view of the Blackwater?” 

The Hand turned to his younger grandson, who’s single eyed gaze met him in kind. “Aemond? Do you believe this wise, as well?” 

Aemond didn’t move an inch, merely glazing over Aegon’s smug expression before returning to Otto. “I would not be so capricious as to challenge the king’s wishes, grandsire. I shall do as he commands and nothing less. The blockade needs to be eradicated— all of our diplomatic approaches have been exhausted. As his grace said, it shall be ended swiftly before Dragonstone hears a word of us even mounting our dragons.”

A cold chill befell the council room as Otto let out a tempered breath. There was a vein bulging at his temple, coupled with a myriad of new gray hairs. His expression could only be described as regret, for he is a tower cornered by two fire hungry dragons. “Very well. Rid the bay of the blockade and nothing more.” 

Soon enough, the chamber cleared. All that remained were Aemond, Aegon and Otto, the latter of whom waited until the door closed to speak. “You’re both being incredibly reckless. I expected this from you, Aegon— but Aemond, you are better than this. You have more restraint, more patience.”

The king wilted ever so slightly at the admonishment, turning towards the open window with his goblet. He remained silent. 

Aemond, however, stayed sitting. His leg was propped up against the table, one hand tracing the deep engraved ridges of the pommel of his sword. “Patience,” he echoed his grandsire’s words, mulling over the meaning of it. “Restraint,” the prince continued, finally looking back up at Otto. “I indeed have those qualities in spades, to some extent. But, patience is like an hourglass. The sand dwindles, granule by granule until there is nothing left. I am reaching my limit, becoming bereft of such patience, sitting here on my hands for days upon days. We are ready to do something.” 

Otto’s brow knit together as he observed his second youngest grandchild— a man grown now, always studious and hardworking, a true shining example of a prince. It was a perfect illusion, adept at fooling those who didn’t look deeper. A single crack at the surface reveals a fathomless gaping hole could be seen, leading to molten fire and an adept ability to not be swayed, not to be controlled by someone else. 

This is the first time Otto Hightower realizes how dangerous his grandson had become— and how much he was reminded of a certain rogue. 

Swallowing softly, the hand nods. “Do what you think is wise, Aemond.” 

—

The wolf still follows him, like a mangy shadow. Aemond didn’t care for the animal, but couldn’t bear sending him off somewhere else. 

Moongeist would let out a warbling whine each time they passed the corridor that led to Shera’s guest chambers, glancing down the hallway to see if she might be there, before padding to catch up with Aemond, who wouldn’t permit the wolf into his room. 

Aemond, admittedly, had done the same a few times, having to will himself to not venture to the guest quarters. His breath would catch if he saw a blur of auburn hair somewhere in a crowd, he would smell her scent of lavender and rosemary in the oddest of places. It felt like she was haunting him, her ghost steeping into every facet of his life.

But she wasn’t dead— was she? 

That was the ever clouding thought on his mind. He just wished to know if she was alive— even Lord Larys Strong, a man known to have his fingers and eyes in many places of Westeros, couldn’t catch a bead on Shera’s whereabouts. That in itself was disconcerting to Aemond. 

His gaze was glazed over as he knocked upon Helaena’s door, stepping in without a word or greeting to her handmaiden. The wolf, of course, followed. 

“I was wondering when you would visit today,” Helaena murmured, kneeling at one of the tables in her solar. She was fiddling with wooden cages fashioned for her crickets, facing away from Aemond. “Maelor will be happy to play with Moongeist, I’m sure,” she paused and murmured softly to herself. “The vines are overgrown, they strangled a green dragonfly just this morn…” 

The mention of the cherubic toddler caused Moongeist’s ears to perk up, his tail giving a small wag. Finally breaking away from the invisible chain that held him to Aemond, the wolf walked over towards the doorway of the nursery and took a seat, waiting patiently for the arrival of Maelor, who undoubtedly was taking an afternoon nap. 

“This one has been very quiet lately,” Helaena continued, bringing up one of the cages closer to her face, lips tugging into a frown. “Do you think it’s lonely?” 

Aemond walked to his sister, leaning down ever so slightly to observe the silent cricket. “Mayhaps,” he replied, hands behind his back. “Do crickets get lonely?” 

“Sometimes. They get lonely when no one listens to their song, so they stop singing. What would be the point to sing if no one can hear it?” she ponders, giving the cricket one last look over before putting the enclosure back on the table. “How are you feeling as of late, brother?” 

He was caught somewhat off guard by her question— it wasn’t usual in their family, perhaps even society itself, to ask something so directly. It took him a few moments to answer. “Fine. I am feeling fine.” his words were plain, hollow. 

“I miss her too,” Helaena responded, sitting up and straightening out her skirts. “It isn’t your fault, Aemond.” 

Aemond peered at his sister, hands finally unclasping from behind his back. His shoulders slumped for the first time in days, the muscles previously strung taut like thread on a loom. He couldn’t say anything for a long moment, brow furrowed. “I…” he cleared his throat, feeling more vulnerable at this moment than he would like to. It felt as if he was belly up, soft innards ripe for the slaughter. “It is my fault. I faltered in a time of weakness.” 

“Love isn’t a weakness. We all must love.” 

“Love— love is a… weakness. I allowed for one sliver of something good, I indulged when I should have starved. Look what it has gotten me, gotten us,” he continued, cracking a finger with each inflection. He needed to be doing something, anything rather than to be still. To be still, to be at peace, is to lie down and die. “I won’t make another mistake.” 

“You’re just like mother in that way,” Helaena sighed softly, taking her brother’s hands in her own to stop his incessant fidgeting. “You both have such a staunch code of what you think you deserve. All goodness is an illusion— a trick,” she squeezed his palms. “You deserve much and more.” 

His eye glazed over for a moment as he savored the feeling of Helaena’s hands in his own. He hadn’t been touched by another human being since Shera had gone— he would never let anyone else get so close. Aemond’s throat bobbed, mouth opening to say something, but the steel within him cut it off. 

Helaena felt this, letting go with a nod. “I think today is a good day for flying, don’t you think?” she began to hum again as she looked to the open window that overlooked the bay.

It had been a while since Aemond had left her chambers, leaving her to get on her riding leathers. She didn’t prefer wearing them, as beautiful as they were– she would opt for her regular dress and mayhaps some long pants to prevent chafing. The leathers felt restraining and tight, when all she wanted was to be free and to fly. 

Maelor giggled in the background as he played with Moongeist, who was gentle for such a large beast. But, it didn’t surprise Helaena in the slightest. The wolf was imbued with Shera’s soft sense of humanity, the thought of it making the queen’s heart ache. If she were more fierce, more brave, more fire blooded, she would go to Dragonstone herself and negotiate for her release. But where Aemond’s blood was molten fury, untethered and unpredictable, her veins were full of dreams and predictability. 

She knows that negotiating wouldn’t work, nor would burning down the island. Shera’s escape comes in the means of green dragonflies and barn owls.

“Will you watch him?” she asks Moongeist, who lifts his muzzle to lick her open palm as she approaches. Maelor is laying atop him, arms wrapped around the wolf’s torso as he sleeps, using the poor beast as a makeshift bed. He does not seem to mind though. “He isn’t like the twins. He’s more fragile, you see. The maesters say his heart is bad– how can that be possible? He is just a boy, never doing a bad thing in his life. He is pure of heart, you know that.” 

The wolf’s amber eyes blinked slowly as he gave a small chuffing sound in response. The wolf had attached himself to the toddler since they met, Maelor second to only Shera herself. Now with Shera gone, Moongeist likely felt the same amount of shame Aemond did, if not more. He couldn’t protect his master and she was taken– as much as he tried, as much as he fought, it wasn’t enough to save her. He favored Maelor now, perhaps because he reminded the wolf of Shera, and perhaps he likened himself to protect the little toddler with an irregular heartbeat.

Helaena leaned down and kissed Maelor on his head, then Moongeist between his ears before slipping out of her solar, off to the Dragonpit.

— 

He threw his leg over the saddle, not quite buckled in yet. Vhagar doesn’t rest in the Dragonpit any longer, opting for a craggy shore near the bay. She grumbles, lamenting softly at being awoken. Aemond thinks her akin to an old cat nowadays, opting more to nap than to burn and conquer like she did in days of old. He almost felt bad to disturb her, a gloved hand patting the exposed scale above the saddle. 

“Just burn a few boats, Vhagar, then we shall rest on the cliffs,” he murmured as they took flight, skimming low above the roiling waves. It took Vhagar longer to climb in altitude, but soon enough, they were looking at King’s Landing from the clouds. Her mass blotted out the sun temporarily, casting a shadow over the sprawling city. Even through the dim, a glint of gold caught his eye. 

Sunfyre, with Aegon atop, raced through the sky like a whizzing bee. The king’s dragon was young, hatching as an egg in the cradle, an admittedly gorgeous golden and pink whelpling. Aemond could remember the jealousy he felt at his brother’s bond with his dragon. Aegon had loose ties to many humans of the world– his nature wasn’t made for forging meaningful relationships, as much as he tried. Apart from his children, as well as a confusing relationship with his sister-wife, he was bereft in anything beyond that. 

But, Sunfyre was different. In many ways, the golden dragon reminded Aemond more of a giant dog than a fearsome beast. He was keen on giving and being given affection and was quite pompous, puffing out his chest to Dreamfyre and giving mewling coos when the she-dragon was in his vicinity. Aegon spoke to Sunfyre in broken High Valyrian, mostly opting to speak in the common tongue– the way the dragon learned to understand Westerosi and anything Aegon seemed to say was beyond Aemond. The bond between Targaryen and dragon was bound in ancient magic, but the bond between the king and his mount was even more so– supernatural, even. 

The golden beast lingered a good length away from Vhagar, knowing that she was in a testy and irritable mood. The two dragons seemed to converse, Sunfyre giving trilling whistles, while Vhagar returned in low grumbles. 

“Your old lady is upsetting my boy, Aemond,” Aegon laughed, head thrown back. He was always in his best moods in the sky– they all were. 

“Tell your boy to leave Vhagar alone, I know he must be spewing obscenities at her. You two are alike in that way,” Aemond bit back, the bite in his voice in more of a teasing manner. Aegon wouldn’t get a smile out of him, though. 

A low trill of a third dragon broke through the clouds above them, the cerulean and opalescent sheen of Dreamfyre parting from the blue in the sky as if she were invisible previously. Helaena atop her dragon, waved to them with a wide smile. 

“Seven hells, Helaena,” Aegon and Sunfyre reeled almost in unison at the sudden appearance of the duo. “How did you get above us? You hadn’t even left the pit when we took off!” 

“Camouflage, brother. Dreamfyre blends into the sky at this time of day so well, doesn’t she?” Helaena preened, hands off the reins and resting behind her head. She was always so carefree when riding, especially since Dreamfyre was one of the most steady flyers. When the twins were still little babes, Helaena swaddled them both to her chest and flew, much to Alicent’s absolute horror. They slept soundly against her breast, not disturbed by the movements of dragonflight in the slightest.

“Are we all prepared, then?” Aemond cut in, getting straight to business. “Helaena?” 

“Yes, we shall skim the clouds and keep an eye on the horizon. There aren’t many bugs this high… too cold for them,” she hummed, clad in her deep turquoise colored riding leathers. It was imprinted with embroidery of dragonflies, coupled with a matching engraving on the front of Dreamfyre’s saddle. 

Aemond nodded, not waiting for his brother to answer before he set off towards the bay, knowing he and his fast golden beast would be in tow. 

The Velaryon fleet laid beyond the outcast of the Blackwater, barely floating above the skyline. There were approximately twenty ships encircling and blocking entrance to the harbor. It was a bold move on their part, to taunt the King and his family so openly, in their own waters. Aemond sneered slightly as arrows were notched and released to no avail— Vhagar’s skin was as tough as armor to the pitiful splinters they let forth, and Sunfyre was much too swift to even be nicked. 

The two brothers made quick work of the blockade, blessing the boats in fire and watching them sink to the bottom of the sea. They met in the middle, lines of inferno mingling together. 

“Now we’re clear for the second bit?” Aegon yelled, eyes squinting from the ashes blowing in the wind. 

Aemond nodded, waving his arm towards the north. Decidedly, to the next part of their plan— a bit they did not reveal to the council nor their grandsire. It was something only shared between the three siblings and their dragons. 

They continued northward, the tailwind carrying them towards Dragonstone. 

–

It’s light, the luminosity of the sun reflecting off of the water. The lake was so large, the largest Shera had ever seen, she couldn’t even see the end of the opposite side. The waves were calm, lapping at her bare feet as they sunk into the soft sandy clay sediment that made up the shore. It was very different to the pebbled beach of the Blackwater, and the muddy, reedy embankments of northern lakes.

The air is still, quiet, her hair ruffling only when a dragonfly races past her, then circling back and hovering in front of her face. It is a green color, iridescent in its hue as the rays hit its thorax.

“Hello,” she whispers, greeting the bug like she does with all insects; a habit picked up from Helaena. She lifts her hand, finger perked. It lands on her pointer finger, impossibly fast wings coming to a resting speed. 

But then, it’s spooked by a gust of wind from behind them, fleeing off into the atmosphere. Watching it leave sparks an unexpected feeling of hurt deep within her chest. 

As she turns, she sees him— dressed in the traditional robes of Old Valyria. A garment of beige, steeped in red ochre at the ends. It is tied taut to his chest, a sanguine ichor dripping from his shoulders. His hair is down, his eyepatch forgotten, a pleasant smile lives on his face— one reserved just for her, just for them in this moment. Aemond’s hand extends, his palm eerily cold against her own.

Red leaves fall from the weirwood above them as a woman recites something. Her voice is garbled and as Shera tries to look upon her, a shadow is cast upon her features. Only her long, dark hair and the glint of a green eye is visible as she speaks in a manner of tongue Shera’s never heard before. The language feels… old, primal even, as it tugs at the very roots of her soul. 

Aemond palms her face, parting her lips ever so slightly with his thumb. She feels the cool shard of dragonglass pressed to her skin as it slices into her— barely a prick, blood beading at the surface. He offers her the knife, a shaky hand doing the same to him in turn. Bloody lip against bloody lip, the tang of copper satisfying the need of the Old Gods. 

Shera turns to look at the woman again— but she is gone, only a flitting feather remaining in her place. Her brow knits in confusion, head feeling airy and full of cotton. 

Aemond distracts her from her worries, murmuring slurred words in her ear. She is unable to discern what he is saying, a high pitched ringing drowning out the sound. 

“Ae—mond,” she whispers, clutching at his tunic, the red ochre staining her finger tips. “Aemond, Aemond.” 

He keeps speaking, but none of it makes sense. He still has that pleasant smile upon his face, his lip continuing to drip a steady stream of ichor. 

Splat. Drip. Splat. 

Droplets of blood spatter to the ground, overtaking any and every thought Shera had— it was all she could hear now. Her mouth is full of bile and viscera as the world around her changes. It darkens, castle walls enclosing around her lit only by a few candles. 

She feels the heavy burden of a cloak around her shoulders as a cup of wine is brought to her lips, her arm intertwined with another. 

“In the sight of the Old Gods and the New,” a gravelly voice spoke. “I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for all eternity.” 

The wine feels like putrid spew as it’s tipped into her mouth, trickling down her throat. The arm laced with hers gives her a reassuring squeeze— and just for a moment, she looks to see him, to see Aemond. 

Except it is not Aemond. It never was Aemond. 

Jacaerys looks back down at her, brown eyes dilated into complete darkness. He is as sad as she is, it seems. 

“The union of Jacaerys Velaryon and Shera Stark is now absolute, in every respect. They are wed in the eyes of the Old Gods and the new.” a man speaks, his voice infallible with authority.

[humanpurposes]

It Will Come Back

Chapter 3, Broken Bonds

Two sides of a family fight for their own claims to the Targaryen inheritance. Amongst the endless infighting, forced pleasantries and PR scandals, Jaya Velaryon finds herself face to face with a demon of her past, namely Aemond Targaryen. Love and hate are not emotions easily unlearned.

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Jaya Velaryon (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, dark elements, targcest (uncle x niece relationship) toxic family dynamics, angst, mentions of violence and trauma

Words: 7.4k

A/n: Also available to read on AO3, if you're that way inclined.

Now…

The heat is relentless this summer. Light bleeds through the stained glass windows of the Red Keep in beams of red, green, blue and gold, only to be lost to the dark wood floors, furniture and panelled walls. It is Aemond’s least favourite time of year, when the weather makes him irritable and the harsh light gives him a headache, when business tends to be busy and everyone is preoccupied with holidays and garden parties. He’s less inclined to distract himself with frivolity. 

His sleeves are rolled up, his long silver hair pulled into a ponytail, sweat starting to pool underneath the eyepatch over the left side of his face. He’s leaning over Aegon, one hand on the back of his chair, staring down at a laptop screen as they check over some details for next week’s event.

It’s not often Aemond finds himself in his brother’s office. Technically Aegon is his superior, ‘deputy operations manager’ according to the golden plaque on the door. This is more of a courtesy title because he couldn’t get a respectable job anywhere else, and it would be far worse for their father’s image to have a layabout son.

That’s the funny thing about the family business. It’s no secret that Viserys Targaryen didn’t want his sons involved in Dragon Bank, but his influence is not as all encompassing as he would like to believe, not since the Hightowers got a foot in the door thirty or so years ago… then another… then another. Viserys can make his demands and shout when he’s angry enough, but there is one truth he cannot deny; he needs them. He needs Otto. He needs Alicent. He needs Helaena and Daeron to stay perfect. He needs Aegon to not be a fuck up and that’s enough. And he needs Aemond because he’s good at his job. No one has an eye for detail like him, no one can make sense out of figures or persuade clients and investors like he can.

Why their grandfather wants him to look over PR and marketing nonsense is understandable, but irritating nonetheless.

Their father has been planning this event for years, Dragon Bank’s fifth centenary gala, with all the pomp and grandeur of a bygone era, held at their ancestral seat of Dragonstone Castle, just outside the city. Five hundred years since one of their ancestors forged a throne for himself in King’s Landing, building an empire that still has most of the country under their family’s thumb. Viserys intends to use the occasion as a reminder to the rest of Westeros that they cannot compare to the might of the Targaryens. So there can be no oversights. Everything has to be perfect.

Aemond’s eye scans over the diagram on the screen, circles surrounded boxes with names; the seating plan for the main ballroom.

Then a name catches his eye and it makes his heart stop. He doesn’t want to believe what he sees but there it is on the screen, in Times New fucking Roman: Jaya Velaryon.

He’s hardly heard that name, read it, or heard it in six years. He can already feel a dull ache creeping into his skull, which he knows will catch like kindling and soon become a burning, blinding pain behind the space where his eye should be.

Aegon, completely oblivious, huffs a little laugh to himself. “Shit, yeah, I meant to say there was an update with the seating. So this could turn out to be quite interesting– fuck, are you alright?” 

“Fine!” Aemond snaps, staggering back from the chair. His head feels like it’s been run through with a knife and his fingers fumble to get his eyepatch off. “Fine– fuck! I’m fine.”

“Sit,” Aegon orders, quickly standing and guiding Aemond over to one of the leather sofas on the other side of the room, where the sunlight isn’t so direct.

The pain is often like this, striking suddenly, spreading quickly like a forest fire, eating away at him like a disease. He has no choice but to endure it.

He feels the eyepatch slip from his face before something cold presses against the worst of his scar. He reaches up to clasp his hands around it. A glass water bottle, one Aegon is holding. His brother is useless most of the time but he does have his moments.

“Fuck it’s all red,” Aegon mutters. “Have you got meds with you?”

When Aemond opens his mouth to speak his jaw is trembling. “Office,” he says, gritting his teeth together, trying to control his breath and the extent of the pain. “It’s in my office.” He can see where the packet is in the first draw under his desk.

“I can go and get you some–”

“No,” Aemond says, grabbing Aegon’s arm so he won’t move. 

He can handle this. Every time this kind of pain flares up he thinks of how much it hurt that night, how terrified he was as he felt the blood gushing from the gash in his eye, slipping through his fingers. The pain had been so great he thought it might kill him. If he can get through that night, the first few hours in the hospital, the months of recovery or the years since, then he can get through a fucking headache. 

He closes his eye and breathes in counts of three. In through the nose, hold, and out. Between that and the bottle against his face, the pain starts to feel a little duller and the room doesn’t feel so close.

“Is it… you know,”

Did seeing Jaya’s name shock him so severely that his body went into meltdown? Is his heart still pounding in his chest at the thought of reading her name and the possibility of seeing her again? 

Aemond exhales irritably against the back of his throat, defeated, but always stubborn.

“I thought you knew,” Aegon says. “Mum said she was going to talk to you.”

“Evidently that conversation is yet to happen.” Maybe it was meant to happen tonight. It’s a Friday which means Aemond will go to his mother’s apartments in the Keep for dinner after work.

It’s a struggle but he breathes through the worst of it, and blinks a tear from his eye. The pain hasn’t quite faded but something else burns hotter through his blood. He clenches his jaw and his fists. “How long have you known?”

Aegon makes a startled stuttering noise. “I– well–”

Aemond glares at him.

“A few days. The note came from Rhaenyra’s office on Monday or Tuesday, I can’t really remember–”

“Grandfather knew,” Aemond says, a question, but he can guess the answer. If it involves Dragon Bank or a member of the Targaryen family, Otto Hightower will know.

“Of course he knew. He said it was a last minute decision, one that Viserys was insisting we all bend over backwards to accommodate.”

Of course he would, anything for the precious daughter of his favourite child, the girl who slashed Aemond’s eye out with a broken bottle. 

He hates her for it. He hates every burst of pain, like an echo of that moment pulsing through his head. He hates every person he catches staring at him, he hates the way his reflection looks with her cruelty carved into his flesh. Most of all he hates that it reminds him of her. In a way he is grateful too. Time helped to heal the wound and eventually he realised how he had been changed by that night, how it made him the person he is now. 

But for the first time in a long time he does not find any pride in it, cowering in his brother’s office like a child at the mere mention of her name. 

“I can’t go,” Aemond says, hating how quiet his own voice is.

“That’s alright,” Aegon says, “you can sit here for as long as you need.”

“I meant the party.”

“Oh right, sorry.”

“I can’t go, not if she’s going to be there.”

There’s a long silence, filled only by the hum of the AC and the distant sounds of the city far below the keep, car horns, engines, sirens, the occasional cry of a seagull.

“Why don’t you talk it through with mum?”

“Aegon,”

“She’ll want you to go. She’ll be upset if you don’t.”

“I can’t,”

“I know you two were close, but, you know, I’m sure you both regret how things happened,” 

“Aegon, for fuck’s sake,”

“She cut out your eye, you said you’d cut out hers if you ever saw her again, we were all caught up in the moment.”

Aemond pushes up from the sofa and tosses the water bottle at Aegon’s head, not stopping to see if he caught it or not, before he’s yanking open the door and marching into the hallway.

The Red Keep is older than Dragon Bank itself, a red brick holdfast that has loomed proudly over King’s Landing for centuries, even as the skyline of the city has come to meet over time. It’s easy to get lost here, with its grand hallways, winding staircases and hidden passages, if old rumours are to be believed. He knows this place like he knows his own mind. He walks to his office through empty stairwells and forgotten corridors.

When he finally makes it to his own office he closes the door and lets his back fall against it.

He takes a slow breath, holds it, pouts his lips and exhales steadily. 

Who else knows? Viserys would have sent the invitation, Rhaenyra and the rest of her little runts will know. Otto knows, clearly his mother and Aegon both know, and he couldn’t have kept that secret, he would have told Helaena or Daeron, most likely both.

Everyone knows. Jaya is coming back home to King’s Landing, and everyone knows but him.

His mother told him everything when she thought he was ready to hear it. The bandages had been removed from his face and the cannula had been taken out of his hand. The doctors wanted him to stay in the hospital for a few more days so all the drugs could wear off and he could start getting used to the disorientation of losing half his vision. Alicent wanted him home, in his own bed. So he left the dry air and the white overhead lights of his room in the hospital, back to Dragonstone.

She told him that while he’d been on his knees with his hand over his face, trying to stop the blood and the remains of his eye from spilling onto the ground, Viserys had barked out his orders. He didn’t want ambulances or sirens because it would cause a scene in front of the guests. The shame, the damage it would do to the family’s image. Otto had persuaded him away from such a nonsensical idea and convinced Viserys to get the guests inside the house so Aemond and Jace’s injuries could be seen to.

He remembered shouting and sirens, blue lights and his mother’s hand clinging onto his before he blacked out. He had gone in for surgery almost immediately and woken the following evening surrounded by white walls, his mother and Criston Cole at his side.

Aegon, Helaena and Daeron all stayed at Dragonstone while he was there. They said once he and Jace had been taken away, Viserys had gathered the entire family inside the house. With their faces all still red from crying and Jaya’s pretty white dress still coated in blood, he demanded to know the truth. 

They all knew what the truth was. Jace didn’t know his limits and Aegon didn’t care about his.

He could see it all happening in his head, walking towards the orchard with Jaya and Baela, catching Jaya when she tripped over a stone, her tipsy smile as she looked up at him, the pearl and the sapphire pendant settled against her chest.

Who knows what started the argument between Jace and Aegon, but suddenly Aemond had found himself between them.

“There he is,” Jace had sneered, but his voice quickly raised into a shout, “‘perfect’ Aemond Targaryen, fucking mummy’s boy, thinking he’s some kind of fucking diplomat!”

Aegon tried to shout back, “more of a man than you’ll ever be,” Aemond couldn’t make out everything through the way his voice slurred.

“Not so fucking perfect though, are you? You’re no worse than Aegon– no! You’re so much worse, aren’t you? Aren’t you!?

He’d watched Jace’s expression darken, his lips sneering into a sickening smile.

“You’ve got my sister wrapped around your fucking finger, fucking creep.”

He told himself Jace was just drunk. It didn’t matter what he thought… only it did. Jace could tell Rhaenyra or Viserys. Worse, he could talk to Jaya. She had always been devoted to her twin. She had picked Jace over Aemond before, in petty arguments when they were children. 

“You want her, don’t you? Don’t you!? She’s too good for you though, and you know it. You want her but you’ll never fucking have her!”

When Aemond’s fist collided with Jace’s jaw it was on pure instinct. He was sober enough to stop himself but he didn’t. He just kept going.

According to Aegon, when Viserys came to Jaya, she said that it was Aemond who had started the argument. Jace was in the orchard with the others, when Aemond had come from nowhere and threw the first punch. She had seen it, so had Baela, so had Luke and Joffrey. It was their word against Aegon and Daeron’s.

The official story was that it had been a tragic accident, one in which Rhaenyra’s children were certainly blameless.

She called him the night he got to Dragonstone but he let the phone ring. A week later she appeared in the doorway to his bedroom. She was hazy, or he was still delirious from sleep, his mother hovering over her shoulder, reluctant to leave them alone together.

He doesn’t remember most of the conversation now. He doesn’t want to remember it. He knows it ended with tears streaming down her cheeks, but her face was completely still. She didn’t flinch, didn’t distort her face, scrunch her nose or make an ugly shape with her mouth. She looked utterly beautiful and cried effortlessly. It wasn’t fair when he still had stitches sewn into his flesh to keep the left half of his face in place.

At one point she approached the bed and tried to touch his hand. He snatched it out of her grasp. When she tried again he pushed her away.

“Why did you do it?” she said. “You attacked Jace, why? Why? Why? Why?”

Because Jace could have taken away the one thing he thought was his, by right, by love. Instead he gave some bullshit excuse– Jace had threatened Aegon, insulted Daeron, insulted him. And what did it matter anyway? Viserys believed her. 

He needed her. He needed her and she pushed him away and cradled her coward of a brother in her arms. He needed her and she’d thrown it all back in his face with a slash of a broken bottle. He needed her, but she had made her decision.

“Liar,” he hissed. “You’re a fucking liar.”

He saw it in her face then, her desire to fight melting away. To Aemond that had always meant that she knew he was right.

“Show up here again, utter so much as a word to me again, and I’ll tear yours out as payment for mine.”

Some weeks later Aegon mentioned that she had abandoned her plans to go to KLU and instead found a place at the University of Pentos. She never tried to call after that and neither did he.

A layer of sweat clings to his skin and makes him shiver. He shrugs it off as he sits down at his desk, and spots a handwritten note sitting beside the keyboard of his laptop. Investment figures for Seasnake Shipping back to me by 7pm at the latest. Knowing Otto Hightower, that means an hour before the specified time.

In for three, hold for three, out for three. It always amazes him how well that trick works, he thinks as he takes out a packet from the top drawer of his desk and pushes out two tablets, the one good thing he’d gotten out of his year of therapy. He swallows the medication dry, suddenly regretting throwing away the bottle of water.

It’s nearly 6pm when Aemond has everything his grandfather wants, the names of Seasnake’s investors, the other companies they’re attached to, numbers and details he’s found buried in endless spreadsheets and pages of paperwork. He shouldn’t be able to see most of them but he has his ways. The Velaryons have been in business with the Targaryens for centuries and there are always trails to follow. 

A few familiar names appear, Rhaenyra Tagrayren, Daemon Targayren, married to each of Corlys’ children. Aemond was only a year old when his sister married Laenor, but he’s always known how sceptical his mother and grandfather were of the match. It wasn’t something Rhaenyra had to do. She wasn’t going to inherit Seasnake, that had been promised to Laena, the elder sibling, and she was already Viserys’ chosen heir, so what did she think she was going to get out of it? Not a loving husband, surely.

Other investors and partners include the names Stark and Arryn, both wealthy and well established families. He also sees the names Celtigar, Massey, Bar Emmon, old names, though not as respected as they once were.

He leaves a note for his grandfather at the top of the document: Seasnake is being directed by a man who built his wealth to match his own pride, supported by opportunists with more money than sense.

With that task done he opens a new email to inform his father’s office that he’ll be absent from the event. He types it quickly and reads over it once before he can talk himself out of pressing send. He doesn’t give a reason why; Viserys should know why.

This leaves him just enough time to pack up and get ready for dinner.

The Red Keep has a series of apartments separated from the offices, where Aemond spent most of his childhood. The building is known as the Holdfast, with its own gatehouse leading into the city and gardens surrounded by high red brick walls. Historically it was built to house the extensive members of House Targaryen, but it is mostly empty now. His mother has had her own apartment for a few years, since Daeron moved out. The only one of his siblings to still live here now is Aegon, at Alicent’s insistence. 

Walking from his office to the Holdfast brings him through courtyards and underneath old battlements, until he comes to a facade with towers, tall windows and an unsuspecting wooden door, save for the armed guards standing either side of it. His mother’s apartments are on the first floor, along a gallery and up the grand staircase, past portraits and tapestries. The hallways get smaller the further in you go and soon he comes to the private rooms.

Alicent often dismisses the staff on quiet Friday evenings. The minute he’s in the door he is met with the sound of one of her 80s playlists, the scent of spices and her favourite lemon and lavender candles. He finds her in the kitchen, dark blue jeans, a white shirt, black pumps and her auburn curls pulled into a bun to show off her pearl earrings, stirring two pots on the stove. 

“Criston’s got me learning another one of his recipes,” she says, only looking at him for a moment, “I’ve got rice on too, so I hope you’re hungry.”

Aemond approaches her to kiss her on the cheek and takes a look inside the pots, one filled with chickpeas, the other with black lentils. “Is Aegon here?” he says.

“He’s in the lounge, tell him to set the table.”

Aemond watches her, entirely absorbed in the notebook on the counter next to the stove, with handwritten instructions. Nothing seems to be especially bothering her, even though the centenary event has had her on edge for over a month. She looks no different from the last time he saw her, before he knew about Jaya, when she was supposed to talk to him, supposedly.

“I want a drink first,” he says, whisky with no ice. He pours it for himself slowly while his mother hums along to Tears for Fears. “Do you know why grandfather wanted that information on Seasnake’s investors?” 

“Hmm? Oh he’s probably doing one of his checks, you know what he’s like. Good to keep an eye on everyone,” she says. She has a glass of red wine next to the notebook, though by the looks of it she’s hardly touched it. “He said something interesting about Rickon Stark recently, his son Cregan is in King’s Landing.”

Aemond pulls his glass away from his lips, the sweet sting of alcohol slipping down his throat. “Shouldn’t be too unusual, they’re attending next week.” Staying at Dragonstone no less, some of Viserys’ most honoured guests.

“He’s staying at Queen’s Lodge.”

That takes him by surprise. “Hmm,” he says, bringing the glass to his lips again.

“He and Jacaerys are quite close, Aegon tells me.”

The Starks had visited Dragonstone once or twice as summer guests, back when they were all kids. Cregan was always talkative and effortlessly charming, but it was obvious to Aemond that his warmth was far more calculated than anyone else believed. He made sure Jaya kept her distance, but Jace followed him around like a lost puppy for the weeks he’d stay with their family.

They would have studied together at White Harbour, though Cregan was a few years older than Jace. They could have met again and reconnected. Aemond doesn’t interact with his nephew outside of necessity.

“And what would Aegon know about it?” he says.

“More than you,” a voice calls from the doorway. Aegon has ditched his suit for brown cargos and a comically baggy sports shirt, leaning against the frame. “Ran into them last weekend,” he says, grinning coldly and running his tongue over his teeth. “The Starks are making some close personal connections with our sister’s family.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Alicent sighs.

Aegon scoffs and makes a dismissive gesture. While their mother is still distracted, he looks at Aemond and raises his eyebrows. 

“Set the table, Aegon,” Aemond grumbles.

His brother does as he’s told. Aemond helps Alicent bring the dishes in. She sits at the head of the table, Aemond to her right, Aegon opposite him, to her left. She says a quick prayer to the Seven, as she always does. She asks the Mother to protect her children and asks the Crone for wisdom, for a light in dark and uncertain times. 

“Speaking of close personal connections,” Aegon says, already having wolfed down half of his plate. Aemond already hates the tone of this conversation. “We’ll finally get to meet Daeron’s new bit,”

“Do you have to say it like that?” Aemond says.

Aegon ignores him. “Are you excited to meet Nettles, mother?”

Daeron talks about her constantly. They met in Oldtwon while they were both studying. Now he’s working for the Citadel Institute, she’s some kind of journalist, and they live together in a perfect little flat that looks out over the Honeywine river. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

“That can’t actually be her name, surely?” Alicent says.

“Perhaps it’s short for something,” Aemond says, prodding his food now to find himself with no appetite. He thinks about the drive he’ll have to make through the city, back to the empty house waiting for him on Silverwing Square.

“Nettles,” Aegon says, eyes on the ceiling like he’s trying to decipher a hidden meaning. “Nettles, like stinging nettles?”

“Oh, Aemond,” Alicent says, looking down at the uneaten food on his plate, “what happened with Maris Baratheon, why is she not on the final guest list?”

Aegon smiles, folding his elbows on the table and leaning forward, eager to hear an explanation like he hasn’t already coaxed it out of Aemond over too many bottles of wine at a steak restaurant on Conquest Street.

“Things didn’t work out with Maris,” Aemond says shortly. An understatement. The thought of their last conversation makes him nauseous.

“Aemond, sometimes I feel like you don’t love me.”

“I don’t think I do,” which felt untruthful, because he knew from the start that he never would. There were lots of things he liked about Maris. He liked that she was interested in him, he liked that she was blunt and unrelentingly honest, he liked that she had dark hair, and that she liked being fucked from behind and would let him press her face down into the pillow to muffle her moans. Soon the things he liked about her only felt like another reminder.

“Maris is old news, mother,” Aegon says.

“What a shame,” Alicent says, reaching for her wine again. “Oh well, I don’t think Viserys particularly likes her father anyway.”

“Well you know Aemond, always striving for perfection.”

Aemond’s eye meets Aegon’s over the table. His brother is trying not to grin, violet eyes bright from the light of the candelabra between them. Shadows catch on the hollow parts of his face, it makes him look tired but vicious. 

Then he looks to his mother. She eats slowly with small mouthfuls, not making eye contact with either of her sons. It’s not often he finds himself upset or angry with his mother, not since he was old enough to understand just how hard she has worked, or know what she’s had to put up with as the wife of Viserys Targaryen. Aemond knows she trusts him in a way that does not always extend to his siblings. 

But now all he can think is that she knows about Jaya. She knows, and she won’t even look at him.

Jaya could be in King’s Landing this very moment, lounging around Queen’s Lodge, looking out over the orchard she watered with Aemond’s blood while her mother fawns over her only daughter’s return.

He just needs to say it. He won’t go to Dragonstone if Jaya is there, he won’t stand to be in the same room as her, or breathe the same air as her. The thought already sends a feeling like flames licking up his spine that makes him restless with rage, with hurt and betrayal.

Aegon is still watching him and gives him a small nod. 

Aemond takes a soft breath through parted lips–

Until a sound comes from the hallway that makes them all freeze, the sound of the front door unlocking, opening, then slamming with an ear splitting bang!

Aemond feels his face harden, brows straining with every footstep that marches against the hardwood floors towards the dining room. 

Viserys appears in the threshold, dressed in one of his red and black suits, his face one of stone cold fury. He doesn’t look at Alicent, or Aegon, his eyes are fixed on Aemond.

He steps slowly into the room, placing one hand on the back of the chair closest to him at the head of the table, miles away from the rest of his family. His voice is quiet and clear through the stunned silence. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

Alicent makes a stuttering, scoffing noise. “Viserys–”

He holds up a finger to silence her, his eyes widening in warning. “Aemond,” he says, “you will answer me.”

Aemond keeps his jaw clenched at first. He can feel his teeth wanting to chatter, anger aching in every part of his body. He cannot afford to show any sign of weakness or remorse, not in front of his father. But why does it feel so difficult to speak? He swallows through a dry feeling in his throat. “I thought I’d worded it all very simply–”

“Look at me when I speak to you, boy.”

He hadn’t realised his gaze had fallen to the table. He looks up with an expression that is as passive as he can manage. “I would have thought it would be obvious why I can’t go, with the recent addition to the guestlist.”

His head is turned completely so that Viserys is in his line of vision, but he hears his mother make a small sighing sound. “Aemond, I was going to–”

“ALICENT!” Viserys roars.

Aemond feels himself flinch but his gaze is unwavering. Why does he think he has any right to barge in here, to ask anything of them? 

If Aemond were to stand he’d be taller than his father, but he finds himself unable to move.

“That’s all you have to say for yourself?” Viserys says to him. “This could be the single most important night for the family for centuries and you’re still holding onto childish grudges?”

Childish grudges. He was mutilated and forced to carry the blame because of a lie, but of course his father expects him to let go, to forgive and forget. 

He feels the leather of the eyepatch digging uncomfortably into his forehead and wishes more than anything he could just tear it off.

There are some things Aemond can argue with Viserys about, but they tend to be logical arguments, work related. The longer he looks at his father the more he remembers that no amount of sense could ever compare to the blind devotion Viserys has for his eldest child. There’s nothing Aemond can appeal to, not love or loyalty, not even sympathy.

“This is not about you, Aemond. This is about the bank, this is about the Targaryen name, our legacy, does that all mean nothing to you?”

“Of course it does,” Aemond says. He’s worked for nothing else his whole life, Dragon Bank, his heritage as a Targaryen, what is he without all of that? 

Viserys’ face softens a little, as if he thinks he’s made some kind of progress. “I’ve never known you to be selfish, it’s not in your nature.”

“Well then you clearly know nothing about me,” Aemond says, glaring up at him.

Viserys frowns. “You will be there, and I want to hear no more of it. You will be polite. You will grin and fucking bear it because that’s what the rest of us have to do.”

He’s delusional, he’s fucking delusional.

Aemond looks to his brother, slumped in his chair, his eyes even darker now. He has his hand around the stem of a wine glass. He’s been staring at the crimson liquid since their father walked in. He might have been expecting to be the target of Viserys’ anger tonight; he usually is. 

Aegon looks across at him, furious, exhausted, eager for this exchange to be over. He tilts his head in a questioning motion, though his lips stay firmly sealed.

All the years he spent trying to be the best that he could, how hard he pushed himself to get through that final year at KLU while recovering from his injury, all the hours he’s devoted to the family business, all the times he’s kept his mouth shut and his head held high, is this the hill Aemond is going to die on?

He won’t try to look at his mother, but he can guess she would have a similar reasoning. 

A fearsome wind from the Narrow Sea howls against the windows of Aemond’s black Jag. The road to Dragonstone is a desolate one, leading through a forest that might as well be nothingness in the dark. The headlights beam against the tarmac which turns and rises and falls, so he can never see what’s ahead of him.

There’s a burst of light as he approaches the gates. He hasn’t seen the gatehouse for years and remembers that he used to be scared of the stone dragon heads that stand open mouthed and teeth bared on either side, at the base of the turrets. Some hired security guard comes to his window, his demeanour changing completely when Aemond glares at him through a single eye. 

Cars line the acres of grass before the house, the driveway lined with lanterns and more statuettes of dragons. Dragonstone lies ahead in its full glory, lights on in every window, moonlight shining upon its ancient walls so the castle looms in shadows and silver. 

He must be one of the last people to arrive, the last of the important people, slotting the Jag next to a golden Dodge Charger he recognises as Aegon’s. The rest of the Targaryens all drive black cars.

He checks his reflection in the rearview mirror for as long as he can stand to look at himself, glaring at the blunt edges of the sapphire in his left socket, dull and dark in the low light. The flesh around his eyelids are twisted and red, the scar itself deep but clean. His mother had suggested they could get it looked at, to make his eye seem less severe, but that’s what the eyepatch is for, to cover up the worst of his injury, for the comfort of others and not his.

He slips the leather patch over his head and secures it in place, careful not to mess up his hair in the process. 

One day he’ll make her look at it, the sapphire and the scar, maybe then she’ll understand what she put him through. Not tonight, no, tonight he intends to play it safe.

He effortlessly exits the car, checking his cuffs as he walks up to the front doors. A server offers him a glass of champagne when he steps into the entrance hall which he takes a small sip from, parched after his drive from King’s Landing. He knows his way through the opulent halls that have stayed the same for as long as he can remember, towards the hum of at least a hundred voices. 

The ballroom glimmers with reflected light, mirrors, gold accents, crystal chandeliers, champagne glasses. The guests are all in their finery, tuxedos and floor length gowns, either in black or the colours of their houses. Some have started to take their seats around the circular tables, but many are still mingling.

Any head of silver hair stands out rather obviously, and the first he sees is his father standing in the centre of the ballroom, a smile on his face and his arm around his wife’s waist. Alicent is radiant in a gold gown that catches the warmth of the candles dotted about the room. She looks less than pleased being made to talk to Rhaenyra and Laenor– now there’s a surprise, he doesn’t usually make a habit of appearing at family events. Rhaenyra is in black, as is her husband, with a waistcoat embroidered with swirling gold patterns, like waves on the sea.

His eye continues to scour the room. He sees Helaena and Daeron with the girl he assumes is Nettles. He sees Aegon getting friendly with the Martell siblings. He sees Corlys and Rhaenys with Laena and Daemon. He sees Jacaerys standing with the Starks, closer than is friendly to Cregan. He sees those with the surnames Tyrell, Tully, Lannister, Arryn, all the others, and keeps searching.

She’s not where she’s meant to be, at the table closest to the high table where Viserys will sit with the board members. She’s not with her parents, she’s not at the bar, she’s not at the doors to the gardens. Each moment he does not find her fuels some kind of fire within him, adrenaline pumping through his blood, like he’s chasing something just out of his reach. 

A flash of loose, dark hair steals his attention. He doesn’t see her face at first but he notices when she nudges his shoulder as she passes him on his blind side, very nearly ending up with champagne down her silky, off white gown or spilled across the string of pearls sitting on her bare collar.

He apologises on instinct, reaching for a handkerchief in his pocket that has only ever been intended as decorative.

“No harm done,” the woman insists. “It’s good stuff, I would have been mortified to waste any of it.”

He recognises her face, the slanted nose, the sharpness of her cheeks, her bright green eyes and unsettlingly perfect smile. He’s seen her at press events, some kind of relation to the Strongs, but not close enough that she’d ever be invited to any personal occasions.

“Alys Rivers,” she says, holding out a hand for him to shake. “Deputy editor for Seven.” He’s heard of it, a high society gossip magazine, they often run stories about his family, Daemon and Aegon mostly, the rest of them clearly aren’t newsworthy.

“You used to work for the Harrenhal Observer, didn’t you?” he says.

“I did,” she says, “between you and me though, I think cousin Larys felt a little threatened.”

“Threatened?” Aemond says, noticing a pair of girls who are oddly familiar to him. He can’t place their names but he thinks they might be old friend’s of Jaya’s. They approach Jace, turning their heads around frequently like they’re looking for something. “How so?”

“He thought I was too opinionated,” Alys says, keeping her eyes on his.

“I didn’t think there could be such a thing,” Aemond says, though now he thinks he recognises the girls from one of the parties at Maegor’s Square, from years ago. One of them meets his gaze and quickly looks away. 

“The Observer is supposedly a neutral publication after all, I had a few things to say about the working conditions at the Casterly Rock mines which caused quite a stir.”

That’s where he recognises her name from. Viserys wasn’t happy with the article given their ties to the Lannisters and their gold. It sets off a silent alarm in his head, suddenly her gaze is a little too scrutinising for his liking and he’s aware of every breath he takes, shallow or deep, soft or sharp, she could use anything against him.

“I heard a rumour you weren’t going to be attending tonight’s event,” she says.

“It’s Dragon Bank’s fifth centenary,” he says, “I’m incredibly proud of all the work my family has put into the last five hundred years.”

“You say that like you’re expecting this conversation to go to print.”

“That’s why you approached me, is it not?”

She hums a gentle laugh to herself as her gaze roams over his suit, black, simple and perfectly fitted. She looks back to his face, he sees the way her eyes flicker to his left side. She smiles lazily in a way that makes him wonder if she’s trying to flirt, and places a hand on his shoulder, leaning in closer until he can smell the classic, musky scent of her perfume. He lets her do it, lets her lips get closer to his ear.

“I only wanted to see if you had something interesting to say,” Alys whispers over the noise of the party.

He glances up, towards the grand fireplace at the end of the room. Gold plated engravings of dragons intertwine and spread their wings, framing the fire that burns within.

She’s standing there, a glass of champagne in one hand, in an emerald green dress suited for summer, loose fabric, exposing her arms, her hair pulled up into a style that’s effortlessly elegant.

Their eyes meet. It’s like electricity strikes his heart.

Six years fades into oblivion, she looks different and exactly the same. He can almost believe he’s never known a life without her, but she’s always been there, hasn’t she? An unspoken secret, living in the lightest and the darkest parts of his mind. 

He can see the moment of recognition, when her expression goes from passive and proud to alert, eyes widening, lips falling, her hand lowering the glass to the nearest surface.

It’s dangerous how quickly he can already feel himself start to slip. He’s had seven days to prepare and part of him is still in disbelief that Jaya is a living, breathing person and not just a memory. Another part of him is calm and unsurprised, like he’s always known she was going to come back. To King’s Landing, to the family business, to him.

He doesn’t feel any pain, not in his head or his chest, but he feels empty, starved to the point of ravenous. 

Jaya starts to move through the crowd, towards the glass doors that lead to an outlook over the gardens and the sea. It only sparks excitement for Aemond, imagining all the thoughts that could be swimming through her head, anger, pride, fear. By the Seven he hopes one of those is fear.

“It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

“What?” he says, looking back to Alys.

“I thought I’d refresh my memory a little before I came here tonight. It’s been six years since Jaya Velaryon was in King’s Landing. The two of you were close, weren’t you?”

Close. 

Close like the way Jaya used to hug him when they were children. She’d wrap her little arms so tightly around his chest or his neck that he could hardly breathe. He’d tell her to stop, shove her away, but then she’d only cry, and he could never say no to her after that. 

Close like their minds worked in the same way, when they only needed to look at each other a certain way to know what they were both thinking.

Close like the air of his bedroom the first night they kissed, feeling the shared warmth, her body against his, the softness of her skin, when she tasted like wine and smelled like smoke.

Close was never close enough, but what difference did it make?

“Then there was that accident at Queen’s Lodge. The press release was so vague, it only said you and Jacaerys were recovering from minor injuries…”

Aemond glares at her, the same look that would usually silence Aegon, but Alys Rivers is not afraid of his warning.

She makes a gesture to his eye. “I mean, clearly one injury was more severe than the other. Curious that Jaya left for Pentos so soon after that when she was due to start at KLU that year. Why did she leave, do you know?”

Aemond pushes past her without another word, towards the glass doors that only Jaya has passed through in the last minute or so. The other guests are starting to take their places at the tables now. He sees Rhaenyra and Laenor looking around the room, having gathered their other three brats. His own mother tries to capture his attention but his mind can only think of one thing. He walks towards the doors as calmly as he can, even though it feels as if his life depends on reaching them, on reaching her.

The doors lead out to a patio, seemingly empty right up to the balustrade. He walks to the edge, the noise of the party lost to the roar of the wind and the waves in his ears, no doubt his hair will be blown into a mess but he doesn’t care.

Everything below him is black, out of reach from the lights of the castle. Then he spots something, a flicker of flame far below him, down a series of steps, out of view, down at an outlook over the sea. She shields it with her hand, lighting a cigarette by the look of it, until the end glows with a red ember.

He walks slowly, savouring the sound of every step his shoes make against the paving stones. He keeps his hands in his pockets, single eye fixated on the shape of her shoulders, the curve of her spine and her waist through the dress.

He tries to guess the moment she realises when she’s not alone. She angles her head slightly as he reaches the bottom of the steps, still a good distance away from her. He watches her take one drag from the cigarette before she lowers it, resting her hand against the stone balcony.

He comes close enough to realise she’s shaking, jaw clenched, looking almost determinedly out across the sea. The wind cuts across his cheeks like it’s burning his skin, so how she can stand to be out here with nothing to protect herself from the cold is almost admirable. It is also foolish of her.

Goosebumps bloom over her skin, skin he could reach out and touch if he wanted to.

And she won’t look at him.

She won’t look at him.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

Series taglist: @aemondsbabygirl @persephonerinyes @sirenangelroyal @qyburnsghost @adragonprinceswhore @boundlessfantasy @asumofwords @summerposie @thedamewithabook @ammo23 @valyrianflower @jiminie-08 @magnificentdelusionr @hiddencurator

[celtigxr]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 18 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: A dinner that shall forever be known as the Battle of Passive Aggression. Word Count: 4319 CHAPTER WARNINGS: Sass.

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

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: Happy Thanksgiving to all my Northerners (Canadians) out there!

Valeana had readied herself to be nervous and overly shy under Aemond’s stare that evening. However, the moment she saw him perched next to Maris Baratheon, of all people, that quickly changed. There was a distinct ringing in her head that made it difficult for her to hear others as they introduced themselves. She found it particularly hard to say anything coherent to Samantha, who had recognized her in name only. 

Her green eyes bored into Aemond’s scarred face and the position of his body. Arm draped on the back of the settee, behind Maris, with his body poised in her direction. It was way too familiar. Too intimate.

Then Shyla acknowledged her, and when the confirmation came out that Maris was indeed here because of Aemond, Valeana couldn’t help herself. 

“Invited you?” It came out like bile after drinking something vile and putrid. She had meant to think that, but it came out nonetheless.

“I did,” Aemond had said, baring his scared cheek at her. 

It took every ounce of strength in her to keep her face unreadable, but her flickering eyes between the two likely betrayed her thoughts. Maris seemed to pick up on the contentiousness that radiated off of her, because the Baratheon was quick to respond.

“Does that surprise you, Lady Valeana?” Her brows furrowed in challenge.

The Celtigar pursed her lips before giving Maris an fraudulently innocent smile,  “Only by a little. I was not aware Prince Aemond had friends.”

If any of the Hightowers were aware of this silent but deadly battle between ladies, they did a very good job at pretending nothing was going on. Aegon, however, was enraptured; his eyes darted between the two, and then finally to his brother when Aemond started to speak.

“Hm, a reasonable assumption, Lady Valeana. Though, I merely am conservative on who I call friend nowadays. One cannot always be certain of another's intentions in court. And…Lady Maris’ presence has been such a delight that I did not wish to part with her this evening, so I had no choice but to invite her.” 

The way he looked at her and she at him made Valeana’s fingers curl so savagely into the fabric of her skirt, she was sure that her nails were tearing through the thread. The strength of keeping her face straight was all put on her jaw, which clenched at her teeth so severely it started to get sore. A slow rumble of a growl was vibrating in her throat, though it was completely unnoticeable to anyone but her. Perhaps it was her Lannister blood, because all she wanted to do was lunge at Maris like a lioness hunting a doe the moment Lady Sam made her comment about sweetness and love matches. 

It was Aegon’s hand wrapped itself around her bicep that stopped her from moving forward, and then it was Otto’s declaration of dinner being served that brought her back to reality. 

Valeana barely registered Shyla as she fluttered to Daeron’s side, away from them and towards the table. Her eyes bore into Maris’ back, where Aemond’s hand found purchase. 

“I have an idea,” Aegon whispered conspiratorially to Valeana as they followed the Greens over to the large dinner table. “Follow my league.”

Her mouth popped open to ask what he was doing, but she felt his arm snake around her waist and guided her around the table. The circular table was large, but with the additional three to the party, the chairs were closer together. Otto took claim of the largest chair at the far left, between Ormund on his left, and Lady Sam on his right. From her, sat Lyonel (a bit too close to Samantha, Valeana noticed), Daeron, Garmund, and beside him is where Aemond was pulling a chair out for Maris. 

“Trust me,” Aegon whispered from behind as he guided her into the chair and tucked her in before moving to her right side. Shyla sat to his right beside him, leaving her directly across from Daeron, which might have been by her design. 

When Valeana’s eyes swept over the table, she had realized that everyone had sat down save for Aemond, and the chair next to her was the only one available. She was bitterly reminded of her first evening back, where she was forced to sit in front of him. 

At the moment, she did not know which was worse. 

Aemond stiffly sunk into the seat next to her, and the proximity of the chairs seemed far more tighter now for it. At the very least he remained in her peripheral, so she didn’t have to worry about accidentally catching his eye, but that was a different case for Maris. She was just within sight that she would have no choice but to regard Valeana too when she addressed Aemond. 

Shyla was quick to begin conversation the moment food was placed on the table and served to the guests. Of course, her line of questioning was all about Daeron, and the prince was eager to provide answers for it. What it was like to grow up in Oldtown, what Tessarion was like, what were his hobbies, etc. Occasionally, an anecdote was provided by the nephews, and the four boys would fall into a reverie about past escapades. 

Aegon leaned into Valeana’s ear, “Arrogant prick.”

Val eyed him, a secretive smile placed behind her napkin as she whispered back “Just like his brothers.”

Aegon also smiled, but rolled his eyes and brought his goblet to his lips. 

“It is a shame Gwayne could not join us,” Ormund said through bites of his food. 

“He had prior engagements,” Otto explained, eyes cast to his food. “He rather spend his first night in the city with a bunch of drunken knights, pretending to prepare for a tourney that does not start for sinnight.” 

Samantha chuckles, “Good uncle, please. He sees his family every day, and just simply wishes to be among like minded men.” 

Valeana spotted the smirk on the corner of Aegon’s lip, switching at his attempt to hold it back. 

Otto merely scoffed at this. 

“Will you be competing in the tourney too, Prince Daeron?” Shyla asked immediately, once again shifting attention to the youngest prince. 

“Of course!” Daeron beamed, “Should they participate, it would be an honour to compete alongside and against my brothers.”

The attention was put onto the two elder princes, who both pursed their lips in response. 

“I have not yet decided,” Aegon replied first, then looked over at the other, “But Aemond has shown eagerness towards it, haven’t you, brother?”

“And what gave you that impression, Aegon?” Aemond asked with a turn to his brother, though Valeana kept her body’s position to the right so she could not see him when he did. 

“Well, you dragged me out of my quarters demanding that I train with you in preparations for the tourney, did you not?”

Shyla craned her neck to look around Aegon and Val to see Aemond, “Is that what that whole business was about that other day in the training yard?”

“What business?” Maris tilted her head at Aemond. 

“Aegon and Aemond were sparring viciously in the training yard,” Shyla giggled, “For a second I thought they were going to maim each other.”

Daeron laughed, “I wish I witnessed that. I did not think you a fighter, Aegon.”

Aegon’s head whipped in his direction, “I am just as fearsome as Aemond. In fact, I bested him that day, did I not, Lady Valeana?” 

Valeana was leaning back in her chair with her fork twirling in her fingers when she was acknowledged. Aegon held her gaze for a moment after the question was directed at her, and then she moved her eyes around the table before landing on Aemond. 

“He did.”

Aegon beamed back at Daeron, brows raised in victory, “See?”

“I would hardly count that as a fair victory,” Aemond responded as he leaned back in his chair and mimicked the position of the woman at his right. “I was distracted.”

“Mm,” Aegon hums as he swallows his drink, “Quite the distraction, though, I might say.”

Valeana shot him a look. That day was a horrible reminder of a bitter truth that she was still trying to swallow. 

“I do not give a shit about her. I never have, and the Seven knows I never will.”

Sometimes in these last few days, she wondered if that were true. He’s made it clear in very blunt, obvious ways, such as their painful discussion when she had tried to make amends with him near the stables. But then he would go around and volunteer to bring her safely back to her apartments, out of concern for her virtue at the hands of his brother and the untrustworthy guards. Then he would touch her and kiss her skin, and leave her with bruises before pulling away from her as if he realized she was a pig in a dress all along. 

Val chanced a glance at Maris, who thankfully wasn’t looking in her direction when she did. Maris… another odd, annoying development. Is that genuine, or was he playing at something? Why would he, if he wanted nothing to do with Valeana? 

Maris tilted her head at Aemond and the moment she did, Val turned away before she was caught staring. 

“What could have possibly gotten you that distracted?” Her tone had a lace of amusement, and from the corner of Val’s eye she could see the Baratheon’s hand reach out and land on his elbow.

Aemond had to turn his head fully in Maris’ direction to answer her, but before he could, it was Aegon who did in his stead. 

“Only the most beautiful distraction of all the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Valeana’s mouth popped open and her eyes flashed widely at Aegon as he took her free hand in his grasp and brought it to his lips. Her face flushed rouge, and a pit of something settled in her gut. Fear? Embarrassment? Shyness? It felt a bit like a moth fluttering around the glass of a lamplight. 

Aegon kept her eye for a moment. His own mischievous and playful, but when he shifted to the presence behind her, it darkened. Valeana remained frozen in her place, save for her eyes that flickered away from the prince and focused on the older man at her far right. Otto Hightower was looking directly at her, brows shadowed over his eyes, hand cradling his glass goblet in front of him, but not quite reaching his lips. 

He stared at her as if she were the cause of this. Of everything. Every damn misstep and inconvenience in court. And perhaps she was. No, she knew she was. She was dangling herself like a piece of raw meat between two snarling dragons.

The staring contest in which Aegon held with Aemond lasted mere seconds, but it felt like a hundred year war. Oh, Aemond would loath to admit how much Aegon knew him. How easily he could get possessive over things that he believed belonged to him. A trait that likely stems from him being the middle child, Aemond was always expected to be given leftovers and to share. Whereas both Aegon and Heleana were often given everything freely, as both the oldest and the only daughter. Daeron, of course, was the shining example of a spoiled youngest sibling. The first to claim, and the last to own. 

Aegon knew well enough that Aemond longed for Valeana the moment she left King’s Landing a decade ago. He had a visible shift in his personality since then; more sullen, more phlegmatic, more self serious, and he smiled considerably less. However, Aemond swallowed his regrets and gave a stiff upper lip to it all, even after his lashings. But, the fact of the matter is, Valeana was the most important person in his life at the time. Aemond tried to hide it as best he could, always keeping his companion hidden from his brother and nephews as much as he was able. They teased him relentlessly due to Valeana’s blatant affections for him, forcing Aemond to keep his friendship in the shadows, but it was still painfully obvious. So, Aegon would tease Valeana when he could, knowing it would rile up Aemond, though he would not be able to defend her out of fear of catching the blows as well. It was like mocking starved pit hounds through the bars of a cage, only the cage was of Aemond’s own making.

Oh, how things never change. The title was different, but the story was the same. Aemond’s pride still prevented him from acting upon his evident possessiveness, but those bars of his shuddered against his snarling, evident by the flared nostrils and upper lip curling. 

Time spun back to life when Lady Sam cooed and shared a look with Lyonel, then her husband quickly after. She jutted her bottom lip at him with a hand clutching her step son’s arm, shaking it gently. Completely oblivious to the affection his wife had with his son, Ormund tilted his head lovingly at his wife’s reaction. 

“This is so sweet. Both princes are completely smitten already. Love is in the air in King’s Landing, is it not, husband?”

Aegon wretched his eyes from Aemond, and gently placed Valeana’s hand back down, but did not let it go. Briefly, he caught sight of Maris with a stitch in her brow over the exchange, giving him some satisfaction that this also affected the other woman, if only that it would please her fair-haired opponent. 

“Now it is just your turn, Daeron,” Lyonel laughed, giving a playful punch to the younger prince’s arm. 

Daeron chuckled good naturedly, “Perhaps my love story has already begun, eh?” 

Beside him, Aegon could hear Shyla give a soft squeak as she stiffened straight in her seat. He gave her a brief glance, pleased to find her still enraptured by his stupid brother, and that she had completely dismissed Aegon’s earlier affections towards her sister. Aegon was now free to unleash as much chaos as he’d like without the threatening presence of the youngest Celtigar daughter and her unsettling aura. 

Passing Shyla, Aegon caught his grandsire’s eye, which instantly wiped the smile from his face. Otto’s glower was filled with a hundred words of scolding for ruining what should have been a fine dinner with family. The silent berate went ignored, however, for Aegon’s prize was far more valuable than the approval of the Lord Hand.

 He was aware that his grandfather was the one responsible for his mother’s urgency for Aegon to marry Helaena, despite the two of them and the King himself having no desire for the match. Whilst Aegon wasn’t the brightest of the Targaryens, he still lived in court long enough to understand how it works. It also helped that he was made aware at a young age that his existence was a weapon to usurp the Throne for the Hightowers, and one of the paths to that was to marry his sister and sire more pure, direct heirs. 

But Aegon did not want to be king. He wanted–

“Could you imagine?” Garmund spoke excitedly, “Three royal weddings at once?” 

“Heavens, the food alone would deplete the royal treasury,” Ormund chuckled. 

Valeana cleared her throat, “I would not get ahead of ourselves. The Conclave hasn’t even started.”

“I agree, Lady Valeana,” Otto spoke at last, “It is early still, and no formal declarations have been made. The Crone may have other plans by the end of the event.” 

Aemond’s eye was burning a hole in Aegon’s hand, which still had not declawed itself from Valeana’s. What was this, this sudden display of affection? They waltzed in the dark, and now, all of a sudden, Aegon was essentially announcing their courtship. Was this part of her game, or his? 

Or theirs? 

Aemond’s eye widened at the revelation. Now his mind was a tempest of moments of the time past since the arrival of the Celtigars; everything he has bared witnessed that others have not. The moments between her and Aegon began to pile up in his head, along with Floris’ warning about her step sister. Aemond came to one only conclusion: They were both in on this. Valeana with her petty revenge, and Aegon’s unsatiated hunger to remind Aemond that he is lesser to him. While Valeana’s motivations were valid in its childishness, he could not help but wonder what Aegon’s were. It could not simply be for the enjoyment of watching Aemond be miserable, there had to be another reason. 

Once again, Aemond glanced back at Aegon’s hand clasping hers, and it brought him back to the moans he heard beyond his brother’s door that night. He took a steady breath through his flared nostrils, and slowly lifted his chin until his eye was forcibly piercing into Valeana’s profile. Lips pouted neutrally, eyes casted over her plate, and body poised away from him, all keeping up an impartial visage. Would his Valeana really stoop so low as to literally sleep with his brother in order to get back at him? Or at the very least, allow Aegon’s hands on her in ways that Aemond dared not think of? Then again, his Valeana would not have drank herself into a stupor and allowed him to ravish her tits in the dark like some common harlot. 

No, this was not his Valeana at all… That girl died long ago, and before him was the girl set out to avenge her death. He had no one else to blame but himself, but he also was not the same Aemond as before. That Aemond died as well, though he couldn’t pinpoint when and where that happened. Perhaps it was that day as well. But either way, the final nail in the coffin was when his eye was plucked out of his socket by the tip of his nephew’s dagger. That was when he truly lost himself.

Sound rushed to his ears when at last Valeana pulled her hand away from Aegon’s to reach for her goblet and take a sip. The conversation that was being had somehow delved into small talk about this and that. The warm weather they were having, the nobles from the Reach that would be arriving soon after the Hightowers, Cannibal’s unsettling presence that has caused smallfolk quite the stir, and Daeron’s assurance that he and Tessarion could probably take him. Aemond was too preoccupied with his stewing to make a comment about how ludicrous that was.

Finally the pot reached a boil, and Aemond simply could not help himself. 

“I believe tonight can benefit with some music,” He sat back in his chair, his food almost largely forgotten. He turned to Maris and smiled before he looked over at his grandfather, “Don’t you agree, Lord Hand?”

Otto raised an eyebrow at him, not entirely sure what Aemond was trying to achieve, “It would, but alas, we are fresh out of bards.”

“But we are not,” Aemond’s words bristled the woman to his right. “We are in the presence of great talent right now.”

Daeron, irritatingly guffawed and waved at him, “Please, brother. I am a fair lutist at best, but that is flattering to say.” 

“I was referring to the Celtigar sisters, brother,” it took a great deal of power for him to rein in the ire from his tone, and the desire to call him a buffoon was on the tip of his tongue. “The Sirens of Claw Isle, they are called, and we are in the presence of two of them.” 

“Oh, that is right, of course,” Samantha perked in her seat excitedly. “How could I forget – My father remembers you three singing as children when he visited here many years ago. He likened it to being lured into the sea by mermaids.” 

Daeron’s eyebrow raised, “Is that so? Well, now I must hear a song or two, so that it will put me and my silly lute to shame.” 

Maris softly scoffed and sarcastically remarked, “Please, do not exaggerate, I fear it will raise my expectations too high.”

Valeana slowly turned towards Aegon, hoping that he could recognize the plea in her wide eyes. She knew immediately what Aemond was doing as soon as he had mentioned music – he means to put her in an uncomfortable position, a humiliating one where she must again explain why she no longer sings, a fact she is not proud of. Along with her embroidery skills, her voice was the only thing she had liked about herself, and time and shadow robbed her of it. 

Aegon merely raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, clearly not reading her mind. Some partner in crime he was. 

So her eyes flickered over to her only other ally at the table: her sister. Her large doe brown eyes found Valeana’s after prying them off of Daeron for once. With a skill that really only women knew, Shyla read her mind in an instant. 

Unfortunately for Valeana, Shyla had her own solution to the problem. 

“My mother taught me it is unseemly to brag, but,” Shyla beamed brightly at her sister. “We are quite good together. Even if Floris is not here, Valeana and I make great harmony.” 

“I was under the impression Lady Valeana has retired her voice,” Otto’s inclusion of the truth causes Valeana’s cheeks to redden, and she bows her head and opens her mouth to confirm his statement. 

But Shyla continued. 

“She says that, but she is modest. She sings all the time in her room. My sister is a good lutist and harpist, of course, but she also writes the songs we sing at Claw Isle, and practices them on her own time to make sure they sound right.” 

“You write, Lady Valeana?” Maris’ question forced the elder Celtigar to turn in her direction, nearly catching Aemond’s profile in her line of sight. She felt she was getting whiplash, though she wasn’t entirely ungrateful for Maris’ change of subject. Anything to cease the possibility of her singing in public. 

“Mm, I do, yes,” Val cleared her throat when her voice sounded too tentative and small. “Creatively; mostly songs, and bards tales.” 

“My lady is full of talents,” Aegon spoke finally, hand moving now to rest on the back of her chair. “Singer, songwriter, seamstress. Almost all the good ‘s’ words.” 

Valeana hit his thigh with the back of her hand discreetly under the table. 

“Lady Maris is an accomplished writer as well,” Aemond added, “She was just telling me earlier about her progress on the book she is writing. I am eager to read it once she is finished.”

Maris glowed under his praise, “That is lovely for you to say, my Prince.”

“Do you write creatively too, Lady Maris?” Samantha asked before taking small bites of what remains on her plate. 

Maris shakes her head, “No, and I mean no offense to Lady Valeana, but I find creative writing to be… a bit frivolous, and not very productive of my time. I much prefer fact over fiction. My current work, as Aemond mentioned, is a book about medicinal uses of plants and flowers.” 

Pretentious cunt, Valeana bit her lip before her thoughts became reality. 

“I was just speaking with Prince Aemond earlier today about the common bush flower, Hydrangea, and how in large doses can be toxic, but it’s roots–” 

“Hydrangea,” Valeana corrected her. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Apologies, Lady Maris. Your pronunciation is incorrect. It’s Hy-drain-juh, not hy-dran-gee-ah.” 

“Hm,” Maris shook her head. “No, no, it isn’t. It is hy-dran-gee-ah.”

Valeana smiled condescendingly, and nodded after taking a large gulp of the rest of her wine before motioning Aegon to fill her cup for her. Which he obliged without hesitation. “It isn’t, and I would know because they are in abundance on Claw Isle. It’s widely considered to be our national flower, and everyone pronounces it as hy-drain-juh.” 

Maris gave a lofty chuckle, “Then I am pained to tell you this, Lady Valeana, but it seems like everyone on Claw Isle has been mispronouncing your ‘national flower’.” 

Everyone in that room might as well not exist, and frankly, Valeana did not care if there were more in attendance to this asinine debate that Maris insisted on having, instead of simply admitting she was wrong. The audience would make it all the more satisfying. 

 Val’s eyes narrowed at the shrew, then she leaned forward with her hands braced on the table.  

“Hydrangea is a Valyrian word, because it is a flower that came from Old Valyria, and was introduced to Westeros when my ancestors settled here, a century before the Conquest. It exists here, because my forefathers brought it here. Hydrangea means cup or vessel, because the seed capsules resemble cups,” With a flourish of her hand in Maris’ direction, she swiftly grabbed her now full cup with the other, as if for emphasis. “Though, you are an Andal, so I do not expect you to know much of the history and flora of Old Valyria, much less the pronunciation of our words. Perhaps that is something you should include in your book, Lady Maris. Se pār kostā tāemītsos ziry bē aōha gundja.” (And then you can stick it up your ass) She raised her glass in mock cheers and brought it to her lips.

But before the liquid touched her tongue, her green eyes flickered over to Aemond. She instead drank up that. Lips parted, pupil blown wide, and chest barely containing his deep steady breaths. If she looked south, she would have seen his fingers splayed on his thigh, flexing stiffly near the tent in his breeches. 

CHAPTER NINETEEN SNEAKPEAK “Lord Bartimos spoke to me earlier,” He broke the silence at last with a tilt of his head to try to catch Rhaenyra’s eye. She was staring out the window, where Seasmoke flew in the distance, baying into the sea to express his loneliness. When she only acknowledged him with an uninterested hum, he continued. “He had an interesting proposal regarding Jacaerys.” At the mention of her son’s name, Rhaenyra tore her eyes from the window, and acknowledged her husband’s presence. She hadn’t the capacity to show any more interest than a simple, “What about him?”

Notes: Hydrangeas are actually originally from Japan, but the name is Greek. Since Valyrian is based off of ancient Greek and Latin, I thought it would be fairly believable if I just ~pretended~ the flower is from there, or at least that region of the world. What Val says is true though, it does mean cup, or rather "water vessel", because of the seed shape. Also taking a moment to say that some words are not translated in Valyrian yet. It's an incomplete language, so in the future, when it's spoken, the words that do not have a Valyrian translation (and there are many) I will be using an ancient Greek or Latin placeholder for it.

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

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

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

[sunnyie-eve]

6. Forget Her

Fandom: House of the Dragon

Series: Devious Opportunity

Pairing: (Aegon II Targaryen x Cousin! OFC Targaryen!)

Word Count: 1.6k

Notes: Incest, feeling alone, mention of drinking

| MASTERLIST |

At the moment, Celeste was watching Luke play with twins and their toys on the floor. Luke was the second person Dahlia loved to go to for attention while Astraea went to Jace . They both loved to spoil them since they never had a baby sister growing up.

The twins weren't exactly 100% identical but for first timers seeing them you could confuse them, and then sometimes people who knew them could confuse them if they didn't pay attention. One of the dead giveaways was their hair.  Dahlia had had curly hair while Astraea had straight hair.

"I swear she's going to love you more than her own mother." She laughs as Dahlia stood up to throw herself at Luke wanting to be held.

"She constantly says mama... I'm sure you have nothing to worry about." He looks over at her as he kisses the side of Dahlia's head.

"Dally, come to mama." Celeste holds her arms out so she leaves Luke rushing over to her mama giggling. "That's my baby girl." She showers her in kisses making Astraea jealous rushing over wanting kisses too.

"See, they love you more than us." Luke laughs at her as Jace enters the room.

"I feel like bad news has arrived... The look on your father's face walking in to give our mother a letter." He tells the two.

"Long as it's not about me... I'm not stressing."

A bit of time passes and both Rhaenyra and Daemon walk into the room to give them the news that they received, "We have to make a trip to Kings Landing. It's about Luke's legitimacy. Vaemond want's it questioned." She tells the group.

"You can stay here if you want to." Daemon tells his daughter.

"We know you probably don't want everyone there, mainly the Hightowers, knowing about Dahlia." Rhaenyra adds.

"That's very true but I want to be there for Luke." Celeste tells them so they all agree they will head out soon.

On the ship heading back to Kings Landing, Jace could see Celeste was in deep thoughts, "Only if they didn't hate being with the handmaids you wouldn't have to worry. Everyone is going to assume they're our sisters most likely."

She looks at him away from the water, "Dahlia can only be with them a good amount of time before screaming for me or one of you boys. Astraea is different because she just likes the attention."

"That's because you actually raise them and don't pass them off." He rests on the side with her looking out at the water, "And like you said Astraea loves attention from anyone." He laughs, "You're a good mother to them."

"Thank you, Jace." She takes his hand to squeeze.

"Are you going to tell him or not?"

"I want to but I told him to move on. I just know Otto and Alicent are harder on him as he gets older. They want him to inherit the throne so badly." She sighs, "I just hope he's okay."

"I'm sure you'll know what to do whenever you see him."

She chuckles a bit, "Yeah, run away and swim back home."

Once they arrive getting out of the carriages they all stand together feeling odd being back. Celeste asks Dahlia to be good for the handmaids but she didn't want to go with them. "Fine, stay with mama then." She takes her and Astraea as well, "If you need me, I'll be in my room." She tells the boys heading off.

At the same time, Alicent was leaving the council meeting to go see Rhaenyra and Daemon but Ser Erryk tells her Aegon was acting up again in his room earlier. "What now?" She huffs.

"He won't leave his apartments, he screamed at one of the serving girls for more cups to drown himself in but they ran out of what he wanted. He startled her and she fell backwards hurting herself. She told me to tell you she left and wasn't coming back."

Alicent groans heading off to go to his room to tell him off and on the way she saw Celeste with her daughters giggling as the two year old hoppeds around, "Okay, Dahlia. Let's go take a nap."

"Nap nap!" She puts her arms up to be carried.

"Astraea, wanna nap too?" Celeste bends down to pick both girls up.

Watching the three, Alicent didn't know what to make of it. Was it Rhaenyra's daughters? Or were they hers with maybe Jace? Alicent had no knowledge of when Aegon snuck away to see Celeste so that wasn't a thought for her.

Finally carrying on her way she finally makes it to Aegon's room trying to wake him up. "Get up!" She shouts tossing the sheet off him so covers himself back up asking what. "What? What is it? The serving girl. You scared her so badly that she hurt herself and left."

"I didn't touch her. She fell on her own." He mumbles with his eyes closed.

"That's not the point, Aegon! How can you keep carrying on like this especially on a day like today?"

"Why? What is it today?" He sits up and she slaps him across the face.

"You are no son of mine." She speaks after a moment of silence before turning to leave.

Aegon gets up from his bed holding his sheet up to keep himself covered, "I did not ask for this. I've done everything you've asked me to, and I try so... I try so hard, but it will never be enough."

"You drink till you pass out. You keep yourself in your room sleeping all day unless you are drinking. You do not try, Aegon. You are childish!" She points her finger at him trying to keep it together but can't.

"I drink to forget about her!" He snaps as well.

"Well get over her because you have a wife and child with her. And I'm sure she moved on from you from what I saw on the way here." Alicent says as Helaena walks in.

"Have you seen Dyana? She's supposed to dress Jaehaera." She asked her mother, "As well, I didn't know Rhaenyra and everyone was coming today. What's today?" She asks, getting Aegon's attention hoping Celeste came along.

"Yes, they are here to settle things for Drifmark. Umm, Dyana had to leave, She hurt herself. I'll find another to help." Alicent leaves with her daughter.

Meanwhile with Celeste, she got the girls to take a nap so a handmaid stayed to watch over them while Celeste left the room to find Jace and Luke. Having an idea where they went, she heads out to the yard to find them watching Aemond with Ser Criston practicing.

"Are they sleeping?" Jace asks as she joins his side.

"How else would I be out here?" She laughs.

"Nephews, have you come to train?" He looks over at them and they were lucky to be interrupted with Vaemond entering the gates.

Both Jace and Luke take off going back in while Celeste walks over to Aemond, "The eye patch is a nice touch." She tells him with a smile and sees the look on his face, "You still upset about the whole thing?"

"I lost an eye."

"And you stole my sister's dragon, attacked my sisters and the boys, if I recall." She follows him as he puts the weapons away, "As you said at least you got a dragon so forget about it. You have one of the biggest dragons now. Plus you scared Luke and he stood up to you."

"Shouldn't you be wondering off to see my brother?" He turns to face.

Celeste takes a breath shaking her head, "No, I shouldn't be. If I remember correctly Otto told him to stay away from me so that goes for me as well." She tells him.

"That didn't stop him from going to see you a couple of years ago." He says so she stays quiet, "Whatever happened upset him when he got back." He tells her.

As the two talk, Aegon was carefully rushing around the Red Keep trying to find Celeste. He didn't want to check her room right away just having a feeling she wasn't in there. As he finally made his way to the yard, he just barely missed her as she left.

"Brother, you just missed her." Aemond tells him.

"Are you kidding me?!" He rushes back in to find her.

Sprinting up the stairs he finally sees her taking her time walking down the hall. His heart starts to beat even faster as he runs after her but quickly makes a turn seeing his Grandfather turn the corner to stop Celeste.

"How you've grown into a beautiful young woman." Otto eyes her.

"Thank you." She says politely not wanting to talk to him.

"Have you seen my grandson?" He asks her.

"If you mean Aegon, no. I just left Aemond though heading to my room." She tells him the truth, "I'm sorry but I must be going. I have to get back."

"What's so important?"

"I'd like to get back before my daughters wake up. One doesn't like being alone with the handmaids for too long." She tells him not seeing why not since he would just guess it was with Jace.

"You have two daughters? Congratulations my lady." He smiles thinking she was finally over Aegon, "Maybe they could play with Aegon's and Helaena's daughter." He adds.

"Maybe." She smiles heading off.

Sadly Aegon didn't hear any of that conversation since he left to take the back pathways to get to her room without being seen.

In the room, Celeste sees Jace and Luke with the girls, who were awake. "Do you mind if we take them around?" Luke asks her.

"No," She tells him so they leave with them to go play.

As she takes a seat on the sofa she hears a noise turning to see the secret door to the back ways carefully opening. She stands up walking over having an idea who it was. "Still taking the back ways to sneak in here like you used to at late hours when we were younger?" She laughs as he opens the door all the way looking at her.

[srim01997]

The Red Princess & The Green Knight | Gwayne H. x OFC

Paring: Gwayne Hightower x Alyssan Targaryen (OC), Slight Aemond “One-Eye” Targaryen x Alyssan Targaryen (OC), Eventual Gwayne Hightower x Alyssan Targaryen (OC)

Fandom: House of The Dragon (HBO) Warning: Slight Angst, Child Neclet, Viserys I Targaryen and Alicent Hightower are bad parents

Writer’s note: Apologies for my English, as it is my second language. As I translate work from Thai to English, updates may be gradual. I'm Team Black but this knight stole my heart. ;)

The Red Princess & The Green Knight Masterlist| Chapter 2

Chapter 1 The Young Knight & The Little Princess

Rumors say that a servant girl saw Sir Gwayne Hightower go in and out of the room of his eldest niece, Princess Alyssan Targaryen. Princess Alyssan is the eldest daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower. She has a twin brother, Prince Aegon, and is the older sister of Princess Helaena, Prince Aemond, and Prince Daeron.

Some people believe that Princess Alyssan would never betray her Targaryen husband, Prince Aemond. Others think she might be having an affair with her uncle to mock Alyssan’s husband, who often disappears from Madame Sylvie’s brothel. There are also claims that he is involved with Alys River, the witch of Harrenhal, who says she is pregnant with his child.

Additionally, some believe that Princess Alyssan is cursed by another Targaryen with a different hair color. They say this curse means she will have a worse fate than her siblings or other family members. However, only the three people involved truly know what is happening.

But what is really happened to Princess Alyssan Targaryen?

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Alyssan Targaryen was born on the same day as Prince Aegon Targaryen, but she was born first and had a different hair color than the other Targaryens—she had a Hightower’s hair color, so it was not surprising that her father, Viserys, was more interested in her twin brother, who had the characteristics of a true Targaryen, than hers. The red-haired little girl was still crying while his mother and wet nurse were busy taking care of Agon.

"Alyssan, right?" The reddish-haired young man who was carrying her and swaying back and forth with his thick fingertips poking her small nose back and forth. "This is your uncle, Uncle Gwayne."

The little purple-eyed babe looked at the person holding her with twinkling eyes, her little hand clenched his fingertips tightly before laughing. Gwayne smiled broadly when he saw the little boy in his arms. The Green Knight smiled before kissing the baby's small forehead in his arms.

"You're like my sister when she was a babe, Alyssan." The young Hightower said before seeing Otto enter the room. The father shook his head before he could speak.

"Why would you bother the princess?"

As the older Hightower picked up the child, she cried again, leaving the other person confused about why she was still upset. Gwayne shook his head at the indifference of those around him. He cared more about the little prince than the little princess, who was also the queen's child. Why not care for both equally?

“Let me hold her,” said the red-brown man as he took the baby in his arms. Alyssan quickly calmed down and fell asleep in her uncle's embrace. Otto noticed his eldest son looking at his granddaughter but did not say anything, thinking his son was just following the old ways.

Two years later

Viserys celebrated his twins' birthday by organizing a royal hunting party for the elusive white stag. However, to Gwayne, it seemed like all the nobles’ attention was focused solely on Aegon rather than the young Alyssan, who was being carried by one of the children’s wet nurse. Meanwhile, the Green Queen was visibly pregnant with her third child with Viserys, leading the green queen’s older brother to wonder just how many children the Dragon King would be content to have.

He watched as Princess Rhaenyra stormed out of the royal pavilion after a heated argument with the king over her marriage. A member of the Kings guard trailed her, riding close behind. Gwayne’s gaze then fell upon his father, deep in conversation with Viserys, attempting to arrange a marriage between the young princess and two-year-old Aegon.

Gwayne couldn't help but think his father had lost his mind…

Thankfully, the king didn't agree, sparing the kingdom the absurdity of a toddler wedding to Princess Rhaenyra. The knight's attention returned to his little niece. Alyssan’s hair, now revealing the characteristic Hightower hues, was yet tinged with Valyrian blood, evident in her lilac-colored eyes.

With a calm, measured step, Ser Gwayne approached the child, finding her seated alone, playing with a small wooden dragon, while the caretakers seemed occupied with the young prince.

He strode up to them, his voice cold and even. "I truly wonder," he began, "What will you say if Princess Alyssan goes missing because you are too busy caring for Prince Aegon and forget that there is another royal child?”

Handing the little princess back to the wet nurse, Ser Gwayne gave them a lingering, watchful glance. He then moved aside, yet stayed close enough to ensure his niece remained safely in their care, his green eyes keen and vigilant.

As exhaustion settled over the camp after an unfruitful day searching for the white stag in honor of Alyssan and Aegon’s second birthday, everyone retired for the night, planning to resume the hunt the next day. The young Hightower made a quick check on the little ones sleeping soundly in their cradles before returning to his family’s tent on the other side of the grounds, readying himself for tomorrow’s pursuit alongside the king — though he had a feeling they'd return with a brown deer instead of the fabled white.

Just then, the heir to the Iron Throne, Princess Rhaenyra, appeared, accompanied by Ser Criston Cole, dragging the carcass of a wild boar behind them. The princess herself was smeared in blood, a vivid, fierce sight that seemed to trouble no one much, especially with everyone already set to journey back to King’s Landing in the morning. Gwayne himself was relieved; he hardly wanted his niece to spend too many days outside the safety of the Red Keep. Just two days in the wilderness had been tiring enough.

One evening, Otto summoned Gwayne for a private discussion, bringing up his intention to place young Alyssan under the care of Hobert Hightower, Otto’s elder brother, in Oldtown. There, she would be taught the essentials of a princess’s education — all the manners, knowledge, and poise Otto had in mind for her future. Gwayne understood; his father had certain plans for the little princess. Early at dawn, they departed, with Ser Gwayne and a guard of Hightower soldiers flanking the carriage that held the young Alyssan and her nursemaid.

Like any young child, Alyssan was blissfully unaware of the true purpose of the journey until they reached Oldtown. It was only then, in the quiet of the night, that she began to grasp the distance between herself and her parents. The comforting voice that soothed her in the dark wasn’t that of her mother, Alicent, but rather her nursemaid. Still, a few familiar faces stopped by to see her on occasion, cousins she barely knew, offering her some solace. Yet it was the Hand’s eldest son who would come by when his duties allowed, becoming a steady presence in her new life away from the Red Keep.

Many Years Later

Alyssan adapted quickly to life within the walls of Oldtown. Lord Hobert ensured she was educated by the finest maesters, who taught her to read and write, imparted the history of Oldtown and Westeros, and instructed her in High Valyrian, philosophy, and the proper etiquette of a noble lady. Otto wanted to ensure his niece was prepared for whatever the future held.

Yet those close to her knew that the young Targaryen princess was no innocent as she might appear to outsiders. Beneath the surface, she was sharp, often unpredictable, and possessed an innate understanding of who was worth befriending and who was best kept at a distance — a trait unusual in a child but one that served her well. On more than one occasion, she’d even come to blows with boys larger than herself, always managing to escape trouble unscathed, thanks to her cunning and the leniency of Lord Hobert and Ser Gwayne. Even so, the steward, Lynesse, occasionally found herself exasperated by Alyssan’s antics.

“Grandfather Hobert,” thirteen-year-old Alyssan asked one day, “I’d like to visit King’s Landing. The septa mentioned I have a new sibling. Is it a little brother or sister?”

Hobert simply smiled, reaching out to tousle her dust-streaked hair. “A baby brother. Queen Alicent named him Daeron,” he replied gently. “But first, you should go wash up, young lady, before your wet nurse gives you a scolding.”

After washing up, Alyssan was dressed in a green gown embroidered with golden thread. She sat quietly at the dining table, only to spot a familiar tall figure leaning against her chair. Without a second thought, she leaped up, throwing her small arms around his waist.

“Uncle Gwayne!”

“You’re becoming a young lady now. It’s not proper to embrace a man, even if he’s your relative,” Gwayne teased with a smile. “But tell me, why the gloomy face, little princess?”

“I’m not a little girl anymore!” Alyssan scowled at the term. “I’m just… hurt that my mother hasn’t written to me or asked me back to King’s Landing. I’m their daughter too, after all. But it’s fine… I’ve always been on my own, Uncle.”

Gwayne understood her feelings. He, too, had felt overlooked when his sister Alicent was born, convinced that she was their father’s favored child. Not wanting his niece to feel the same pain, he gently patted her head.

“I’m sure your parents think of you,” He said, searching for the right words to soothe her. “It’s just… King’s Landing can be a chaotic place, and they might not have had the time to send a letter.”

“Even my siblings?” Alyssan’s lilac eyes looked up at him, wide with longing. “I’ve heard I have a little brother and sister now. I’d like to meet them too! My dragon’s big enough to carry both of us, you know.”

“That won’t be necessary, my dear niece,” Gwayne chuckled. “I doubt it would take a liking to me.”

“Then I’ll make sure it does one day!” she replied with a mischievous smile, returning to her seat as the other Hightower family members began to arrive for dinner. Hobert regarded his niece with a steady gaze and announced, “Princess, a message from King’s Landing has arrived. You’re invited to attend Lady Laena Velaryon’s funeral at Driftmark — and to meet your betrothed.”

The mention of a betrothed caught her ear, and her gaze sharpened.

“Betrothed? To whom?” she asked.

“One of Lord Tyrell’s sons,” Hobert replied calmly.

The clatter of a knife dropping onto a plate drew all eyes toward the red-haired knight, who looked visibly taken aback. Gwayne knew Targaryens often arranged marriages within their own family but hadn’t anticipated that Alyssan, at only thirteen, would be matched so soon. While Alyssan’s expression remained calm, her next words took him by surprise.

“If it’s my duty to the realm,” she said quietly, “then I’ll do it.”

TBC.

[assortedseaglass]

Borne & Bound - III

[Masterlist]

Aemond Targaryen X OFC, Jacaerys Velaryon x OFC (if you squint)

Summary: When Prince Aemond insults the commander of the Braedel cavalry, Viserys sends him to their kingdom so that he may learn the art of diplomacy and do battle with the commander herself, the spirited Lady Geowyth.

Content Warnings: Strong Language, Violence, Smut, Canon-typical Sexism, Mentions of Incest¸ Mentions of Sexual Assault

Word Count: 5.3K

“-as warm as Dorne and strong as steel!” Geowyth grimaced at Ser Herumbrand as Ser Harrold crashed his cup into the other’s, ale spilling unnoticed onto their gauntlets. His taste for women was near as strong as it was for the fight, though her surprise as was nothing compared to the woman beside her, who stared at the chaste Ser Harrold in horror. King Viserys’ feast had reached its zenith. That moment recognised by all when the ideal share of amusement was reached. When cups were high and stomachs were full, granting upon everyone the glow of goodness with which to look upon their peers.  

As the two goliaths laughed, Geowyth took her chance to observe the Princess of Dragonstone. There was no doubting she was Targaryen, for even if she had not the white hair of her forebears, she seemed to glow with the cold warmth that shrouded the rest of her kin. Beneath that alabaster skin, dragonblood flowed like wildfire. Geowyth was certain she could see it, and it was just that which bestowed the Princess with her aureate brilliance. The Princess laughed at something Ser Harrold said and Geowyth smiled along. Ser Herumbrand looked at his young charge, raising a knowing brow to her. The look she returned was demure, almost mischievous, and continued to watch the Princess from the corner of her eye. She was gazing up at the Lord Commander, her straight nose raised, hands crossed before her. She looked every image the queen. Geowyth glanced at the royal table. The real Queen was speaking amiably with her guests, brown eyes bright, holding the hand of a girl no more than seventeen. Geowyth supposed it was her first time at court. How kind of the Queen to calm her nerves. 

The same could not be said of the King. He sat at the head of the table, head inclined towards Otto Hightower as the Hand muttered something in his ear. His gaunt face seemed to sag before her eyes, as though the grey skin was too heavy for the frame of his face. The effect was haunting. From out of the sunken mask of his face, the King’s eyes stared with little life and the golden gleam that radiated from the rest of his family was nowhere to be found. The dragon’s blood was beginning to run cold. Geowyth shivered and thought fleetingly of her uncle. She would send him a raven tomorrow, no doubt Geodred had forgotten. 

Where was Geodred? Geowyth’s eyes scanned the myriad of people awaiting the chance to speak to the Royal Family. Like dying stars, each seemed to have a great many people orbiting them. The young Velaryon Princes were surrounded by other young noblemen. Each brother laughed freely, pointing and jesting at each other, their company of boys or else somebody in the crowd. Their betrotheds, Rhaena and Baela, were similarly speaking to a gaggle of young women. Geowyth saw the youngest Baratheon girls, some beautiful Tyrell noblewomen and even Princess Helaena, though she stood at the periphery of the group. A few of the young men were watching the young Princess and noblewomen with predatory interest. They blanched however, under the watch of the spry man looming behind them. Prince Daemon, the girls’ father. 

Geowyth was struck by how handsome he was. Like his wife, he stood tall and proud, with his white hair and broad shoulders. He seemed, however, to possess that most unattractive air of vanity. His eyes shone with amusement, a half-formed smile playing on his small lips as he watched his daughters. The emotion could have been mistaken for gaiety. It wasn’t until the man beside him spoke however, that Geowyth noticed it was quite the reverse. The Prince’s eyes crinkled as he chuckled at the joke, yet his focus remained entirely on the men surrounding his children. His joy derived not from the festivity, or the happiness of his daughters, but in making the men around them squirm. He surveyed them as if knowing something to which they were not party, and watched one by one as they filtered away. Pleased with his dominant display, the King’s brother turned his attentions to the man at his side. There he was! All smiles and joviality. He seemed not to care about the Prince’s distraction and, such was Geodred’s effect on people, the Prince seemed not to mind his company. Geowyth smiled. If only she had her brother’s ease. Having located his whereabouts, she turned back to her own party of four. That is, she tried to, but an increasingly familiar sense of unease bristled the hackles of her neck. Drawn to the sensation like a wolf to the feast, her amber eyes halted in their path.

Geowyth’s breath caught beneath her ribs. A hot flush that had nothing to do with the King’s wine prickled her cheeks. When she found the courage to inhale, it juddered from her chest with fearful anticipation. From his sentinel at the royal table, Prince Aemond’s icy eye stared with pinpoint focus upon her. What terror was held within that gaze? Perhaps it was a miracle he only had one. His body seemed strained with tension, from the leather doublet stretched over his shoulders to the waxen skin across his cheekbones. All because of her. Geowyth blushed all the stronger. She was used to holding people’s attention, but for her quick wit and proficiency on the field. Not for…whatever she had done that aggrieved the Prince so. She cast her eyes down. When she returned her gaze to the Prince, he was engaged in conversation with his grandsire.

“- and dare I say it, the young Princess is much gentler than her older sister,”

“Ser Harrold,”

“And a good deal less trouble!” Laughter peeled behind Geowyth and, at last, she rejoined the conversation of the knights and woman of Dragonstone. The Princess’ eyes were warm despite her warning. For the first time in the hours that Geowyth had known her, Rhaenyra Targaryen looked happy.

“Tell me, Ser Harrold,” Herumbrand spoke to his counterpart of the Keep. “What advice do you have for an old man in charge of a wilful young woman?”

Geowyth leaned towards the Princess as if to whisper, only to loudly state, “He just thinks he’s in charge.” Rhaenyra and Ser Harrold laughed. Ser Herumbrand winked.

“There you have it!” Harrold said, gesturing to Geowyth. “Let them believe they are in charge. There is no way to tame these tempests-” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at Geowyth and smiled at the Lord Commander. “We just weather whatever comes with them. That, and we must listen. Though, I don’t believe you need my advice, Ser Herumbrand. The Seven know I could not get the Princess to bestow upon me half the respect you command from Lady Geowyth and Lord Geodred.”

Ser Herumbrand’s laugh boomed about the chamber. “You have been fooled, Ser. Perhaps we could swap places during our stay? Princess Helaena for this nuisance.”

“I’ll tell uncle,” Geowyth said.

“I have served him well. I am certain he’d allow me the break.” Lady Geowyth smiled sweetly at him. For all her teasing and testing of him, it was true. Herumbrand was too good to her. She looked to Rhaenyra.

“Speaking of your sister, Princess, I wondered if you might help me?” The older woman inclined her head. “She is charming and pleasant company but, and I hope I don’t speak out of turn, she seems-” Geowyth searched for the word. “Nervous. Is there anything I could do that may help her?” 

 “Oh. Well,” The Princess looked to Ser Harrold. “I, erm,” Ser Herumbrand and Geowyth stilled, graciously averting their eyes as Rhaenyra struggled for words. She sighed and unclasped her hands. “The truth is, Lady Geowyth, I do not know.” There was embarrassed agitation in her tone, and Geowyth felt deeply that she had picked the scab of a family secret. “Excuse me.” Rhaenyra bowed her head to the party, and Geowyth descended into a deep curtsy as the Princess departed. She watched her weave through the crowd towards her husband and sons. As if called to her by magic, Prince Daemon looked to his wife as she approached. A word was exchanged between them, and all three Princes cast their eyes towards Geowyth. Whereas the Velaryon princes were intrigued, the mask of Prince Daemon’s face didn’t change and, placing his hand on the small of his wife’s back, he escorted her to a seat.

“I’ll never get the hang of this family,” Geowyth said, to no-one in particular. 

“Animals.” 

Geowyth startled. “Pardon?”

“Princess Helaena adores animals,” Ser Harrold said. “The smaller the better. And I think your gesture of companionship will mean more to her than you know.”

“Thank you, Ser.” Harrold nodded with finality and turned to Herumbrand. 

“Another cup for you, Ser?”  

Herumbrand clapped him on the back. “Lead the way.” The knights bowed to Geowyth and, as they turned, Herumbrand accosted a small serving boy carrying a tray of goblets. Left to her own devices and quite alone, Geowyth clapped her hands behind her back and made to watch the dancers. Her progress was hindered however, when she span straight into the chest of a dark haired young man. She jumped back into yet another deep curtsy.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” 

“Please, there is no need.” The hand of Jacaerys Velaryon was held out before her. “‘Twas my fault entirely.” Geowyth shook his outstretched hand and he laughed, bowing to place a chaste kiss on its back. “Baela told me you are a fan of dancing.” 

“Yes, although I am struggling to find a partner,”

“That is precisely why I am here.” Jacaerys smiled with an offer of his arm. Geowyth took it gladly and the young Prince led her towards the centre of the hall, nestling them amongst the other dancers. 

“How did Lady Baela know I like to dance?” Geowyth asked, place her hand against Jacaerys’ as they began circling each other.

“My aunt told her. Though it was hardly necessary, you have spent a good deal of the evening nowhere else.”

Geowyth blushed. “Forgive me, your aunt-?”

“Princess Helaena.” 

“Of course! I will get the hang of it one day, Your Grace, but your family tree is more of a family circle”. She stopped in her tracks, mortified. Jacaerys only smiled and took her waist in encouragement that she continue dancing.

“It’s true. My only reassurance is that sometimes even I forget.” 

“I don’t believe you!”

“Well now,” Jacaerys steered her so that they both faced the top table. “My parents and grandparents are a fairly straightforward matter. But the Rogue Prince?” He whispered lowly in Geowyth’s ear. “My step-father and great-uncle.” Geowyth laughed as he spun her round further to where his fiancée stood with her sister. “Lady Baela is my betrothed, my cousin and my step-sister. Her mother, my aunt, were she alive, would be my mother-in-law.”

“I can’t keep up,” Geowyth was giggling now.

“I told you it’s a tangled web,” he span her faster. He caught Larys Strong’s eye and faltered. “My aunt and uncles, through my grandmother Princess Rhaenys, are my cousins too.”

“Distantly,” Geowyth added.

“Yes, distantly.”  

“How lucky for you.”

At this quiet yet cutting remark, Jacaerys turned his face from Baela to the Braedel stranger. “What do you mean?”

“Only that I have spent one day in the company of your uncles and already desire to be as far away from them as possible. Lucky your mother retreated to Dragonstone.”

“I see.” The young Prince smirked. “You are not charmed by their silver hair and silver tongues?”

“Hardly,” Geowyth scoffed. “I admit that Prince Aegon, despite his obvious flaws, has a taste for humour and merriment. Prince Aemond however,” She stopped once again, embarrassment clear on her face. “I’m sorry. My uncle sent me here to learn and all I seem to do is say the wrong thing-”

“Don’t trouble yourself, my Lady.” He cast a wary eye towards his uncle. “Despite our family’s proclivity for closeness, my brother and I never saw eye to eye with our uncles.”

Geowyth laughed. “Very good!” It was Jacaerys’ turn to be confused, and Geowyth nodded her head in the direction of the haughty prince. “’Eye to eye’!” They laughed heartily, and any thought or feeling of Aemond’s angry gaze upon her faded, just as the wine and revelers did the same. That it still lingered on her, secret and scathing, mattered not.

Beyond the great hall’s walls, guardsmen silently changed posts with nods of acknowledgement. The lingering echo of a brawl from the city beyond the Keep bounced off the stone walls, and somewhere in the night a dog was barking. But for the street of silk, King’s Landing slept.

For the gentry within the confines of the castle, the night too was waning. The King had long since retired to his chambers, Otto Hightower skulking closely in his wake. Princess Rhaenyra had encouraged her husband away to their chambers with much muttering and pointed looks towards his goblet and the young noblewomen he entertained. At his absence, many a second son had swept onto the scene to stake their claim. The beautiful Tyrells had retired, as had the Lannisters (though Lord Jason took much convincing), and only those remaining were the Baratheon nobles, the young royals and the contingent of Braedel horse lords and ladies.

Lady Geowyth sat by Ser Herumbrand, still deep in conversation with Ser Harrold, her body leant slightly against the cavalry captain. The deep rumble of his voice encouraged her to sleep, and she would have succumbed were it not for the hearty laughter of her brother and Lord Borros. She opened her eyes. It seemed everything in the hall was ready to slumber. Candles, once proud at the start of the night, dripped in puddles along the tables. The plumes of flowers were starting to droop and, in the darkening light, Geowyth made out a few shadowy figures linked arm in arm, slinking towards seclusion and away from gossip.

“Astandan (come).” Through her sleep-burdened eyes, Geowyth look up. Rosy as ever, as though the night hadn’t touched him, her brother beamed down. Herumbrand nudged her from his shoulder, and she took Geodred’s outstretched hand. “I will walk you to your chambers.” Geowyth nodded sleepily, but before she could begin her way towards the great chamber doors, Geodred swung her by the arm until she faced the opposite direction. “Geowyth, weordfulnes eower (your manners).” Together, they walked towards the raised royal table. Queen Alicent was speaking quickly in her eldest son’s ear, though what she said neither could make out. Princess Helaena was slumped uncomfortably in her chair beside her husband and, like her mother, her mouth moved quickly. Geowyth guessed however, that no words left her lips. She was speaking to no one at all, her face directed towards the table, eyes wide and glazed over, as though watching something frightful in the far distance. If Geowyth were concerned by this display, she soon realised she needn’t be. It was clear this mood was common for the queen-in-waiting, for where Helaena’s hand rested on the table, Prince Aemond’s sat atop it, his thumb stroking the pale skin there. Unlike his family, whose chairs were turned towards the hall at large, Prince Aemond’s fully faced his sister. The angle of his seat near disguised him entirely, for from this direction the Beridan siblings could see nought but the black of his clothes, the shine of his hair and the rough leather of his eyepatch. Indeed, the only part of him they could see was the hand stroking his sisters, and the crescent profile of his angular face.

“Queen Alicent,” Geodred bowed before her. “I come to bid you goodnight and thank you, again and as always, for your hospitality-”

Geowyth did not hear what her brother said next, nor the young Queen’s reply. Her sole focus remained instead on the Targaryen prince before her. From the slow way his thumb soothed his sister to his concentrated gaze over her, Geowyth would have said he almost looked…tender. His mouth, curved and quick, was set not in that line Geowyth was already accustomed to, but smiled. Perhaps if he could show Helaena he was happy, she would be too.   

“Geowyth, sweostor (sister),”

At Lord Geodred’s voice, Aemond’s head snapped up. Quite unexpectedly, Lady Geowyth was looming over he and his sister, eyes curious and concerned. It wasn’t uncommon for visiting dignitaries to stare at the dreamer and the decrepit like Qartheen silk. He had become quite used to it in fact, and dare he say it, Helaena endured it too, from the heads of noble houses to foreign traders. Whether their business was politics or trade, alliance or reassurance, it was Aemond’s duty to let them stare. After all, it would not do for the second son of the King to scare away the guests. That does not a happy allegiance make. But a horse maid of little standing, from a kingdom of no consequence? Who was she to stare at them with such piteous interest? Her eye flickered from Helaena’s to his. A moment of fear flashed across her fiery irises and Aemond smirked. He’d caught her. Good. Let her learn his sister was not to be studied. But instead of blanching, of curtseying reverently and asking forgiveness for her impudence, the Braedel girl stepped forward and addressed the Queen.

“I know it is unbecoming for young women of court to express such rapturous pleasure, for fear it is mistaken as salacious and vulgar, but I so enjoyed the dancing, Your Grace.”

Aemond watched his mother smile kindly at the young woman. “Well, I am pleased we could provide many a partner for your amusement, Lady Geowyth.” At this, Geowyth curtsied.

“If I may say, Your Grace,” she turned towards Helaena. Aemond’s stomach twisted as she avoided his eye. Look at me, look at me. He willed her to do it, if only to see the scorn she’d find in his gaze. “Princess Helaena outshone any partner in skill, spirit and company.” At these words, Helaena looked up. She stared at Geowyth, and though her eyes were dark, a spark of recognition lit in their blue. Geowyth smiled. “If you would allow it, Your Grace, may I call upon you tomorrow?”

The party was silent. Alicent watched Helaena nervously from the corner of her eye, her hand reaching out to steady Aegon as he swayed a little in his seat. Behind Geowyth, Geodred smiled. His bright eyes darted between the young women, his worry the trip would not be a success decreasing with every glance at his sister. When his eye landed on Aemond, and found the stony-faced Prince staring back, Geodred winked. The Prince jolted.

“Helaena, darling?” Alicent’s voice was gentle.

“I would like that,” The Princess’ voice was but a whisper. “Very much.” The entire room seemed to exhale in relief. All, but for Aemond.

“Astandan,” Geodred whispered to his sister. “Goodnight, my Queen. Your Graces.” He bowed to the family and Geowyth followed suit. She cast her eyes over Prince Aegon (he did not notice her in his state), smiled at the Queen and grinned at Princess Helaena. When she turned to leave the chamber and saw Prince Aemond watching her, expressionless and intent, she bowed her head. They had started on the wrong foot, but surely her adoration of his sister would please him. She smiled coyly. He did not return it.

Geodred took his sister by the hand and, with one last bow, they left the chamber.

“Fulgod, ealdras (well done, princess.)”

Swete Eam, min Cyng, (Beloved uncle, my King),

I write to you in the assumption that Geodred has not. Do not fear, he has thrown himself into life at the Red Keep well, despite our being here only a few days. You should have seen them Eam, when we arrived. Targaryens struck dumb because of him, so much so that I saw upon Herumbrand’s face a glimmer of pride! The Queen was most taken by him, I believe. Do you know, with her dark hair and those beautiful eyes, she could almost be a Braedel. Is there any relation between the Beridans and the Hightowers? I have been reading Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms from the Red Keep’s library, and I can see nothing in there.

Take comfort that I have been busying myself with learning and not in the yard. I know that you are relying on me to strengthen my politic and knowledge to the level of my riding and combat. I am trying, for you. The council helped a great deal, though there was much shouting and behaviour unbecoming to men of the court. By all above and below, how must they behave when women are not present? In the chamber, it was just myself, the Queen and the Princess of Dragonstone. There is no mistaking the grief that lingers there. They’re like the dark and light side of the moon, always turning to face the other, only to never know it.

Ser Herumbrand told me that Ser Harrold told him (he’s the Lord Commander and an equal to Herumbrand in honour) that they were once great friends. You will be pleased with my progress there too, Eam. I have found myself in the confidence of Princess Helaena. Well, almost. I am going to call on her after writing this to you. She is as enchanting as she is intriguing. Last night, at the King’s nameday feast, she was introduced to me by the youngest Velaryon Prince, Lucerys. She is his aunt (I have been taking great leaps with my understanding of the Targaryen lineage. You were right, it is a nightmare). The Princess is a wonderful dancer, so full of life that she seems to shine. But when she is with her husband, her brother Prince Aegon, all life seems to shrink from her, as though someone has placed her in a cage. Ser Harrold told me she likes animals, so I thought perhaps I would introduce her to Mearl.

Her brother-husband is a miscreant and a drunk. When not buried in wine he is a pleasant enough young man, but Alma, the maid that is looking after me during my stay, said the other young maids take great pains to avoid him. I think perhaps I will leave my assessment of him there. Whatever it is he does, he hides those faults much better than his younger brother. The less said there the better. Were it not for his condescension, poor manners, scowl and general dislike of all, I’m sure Prince Aemond is perfectly amiable. If an alliance does not come from our stay here, perhaps you should burn this letter.

Speaking of Mearl, how is Mawe? I hope you are looking after him – he expects chicken straight from the table. I’ll be sure to check when we return. And how are you? They best be letting you take the air and see Galepan. I am not for this “bedrest” nonsense. You are well yet and I will see you right. I have been dreaming of Braedel since we left. Of riding Mearl across the brimlad (seaway) and mor (moor). Walking with you along Braesbur. It is my sincerest hope that we can forge this alliance and leave the city as soon as possible, just to be at home by your side.

Gerestan wist, eower wraest nefene, (Rest well, your devoted niece),

Geowyth.

She folded the parchment and sealed it with wax. Pressing the stamp into the molten red, Geowyth saw it formed the three headed dragon of the Targaryen house. Alma had equipped her with all she needed to write to Braedel, having not the foresight to predict her own home-sickness.

It was early. Intentionally so. Geowyth asked a passing steward to have her woken just before the dawn, when the kitchen maids began lighting fires and preparing the day rooms of the Keep. Alma appeared before sunrise to draw the curtains in Geowyth’s small guest chambers, complete with a pitcher of fresh water and fruit from the kitchens. After retrieving writing things, Alma was dismissed for the day; Geowyth had no need of help with her hair or clothes, for her plans for the day were simple. Send the letter to her uncle, return her books to the library and perhaps collect new ones, ride Mearl through country on the outskirts of the city, and visit the Princess.

Not one item on her list had been achieved thus far, but Geowyth was content to bask in the summer warmth streaming through her chamber windows. In the courtyard below, the Keep’s staff were awaking to tend to the royals and their guests. Food was being ferried to and fro. Fruits, ornately decorated pastries and steaming carafes of exotic tea leaf. Two young maids were beating tapestries, making the most of the sunny days to rid them of dust, and below her window, Geowyth spotted Alma washing bed linens. A lanky groom leant against the wall beside her in an attempt at ease, though even from her chambers Geowyth could see the rapt attention he gave Alma as she chatted away.

Geowyth smiled. She was unashamed to admit that her excitement at visiting King’s Landing was not just for the libraries, arts and council. No. As second in line to Braedel, and the King’s young niece, she did not want for attention from the opposite sex. The problem, rather, lay in the pool of candidates. Braedel was a small kingdom, and a secluded one at that. The eligible men of the kingdom were those that Geowyth grew up with, Geodred’s friends or else faces that had come to populate every day by becoming part of the landscape; predictable, unsurprising and ordinary. It is true, the kingdom of Braedel kept to its own affairs and tales of the mainland and its elite were few and far between. But the prospect of Lords, rogues and Princes was exciting even to Geowyth. She was a woman, after all. How disappointed she was then, to find the Princess married, betrothed or disdainful in the extreme. The Lords tired and ale-wasted. The second sons too timid, or else too bawdy. Geowyth sighed. She had overheard one of the Baratheon girls, Floris, or was it Ellyn, talk of books that granted young girls the escapism and reprieve she craved. That is, if you knew where to look. Time to begin the day.

Wrapping her patterned shawl of Braedel gold and burgundy over her shoulders, Geowyth seized the letter to her uncle, Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms and Island to Inland: The Lost Kingdoms of Westeros and flung open the great doors of her chamber. The route to the library, one of many in the Keep, where she had retrieved the books was a short one, along stone corridors decorated with the Targaryen history in tapestry. Servants smiled to Geowyth as she bid them good morning and a visiting Maester, Gerardys if she remembered rightly, stopped to enquire about the enjoyment of her stay. By the time she reached the library’s doors, carved with scrolls and scripture, Geowyth felt that maybe she had misjudged the Keep and those living within its walls. A certain Prince aside, it was a pleasant enough place. Bright, friendly and decidedly warmer than Braedel. She laughed, thinking of Mawe’s hair blowing in the coastal wind as he stood atop Eobarrow. How he would enjoy bathing on the warm stone of King’s Landing.

When opened, the doors groaned and expelled a gust of dusty air. Someone had left the window open. Even so early in the morning, with the sun’s youthful warmth, the room was dark and it took a moment for Geowyth eyes to adjust to the gloom. All about the place, books were piled by chairs and on tables. Loose papers fluttered in the breeze, held down by candlesticks whose wicks were puffing smoke. Books and letter under arm, Geowyth walked toward the small window and reached out for its handle- the floor creaked behind her and she span around.

Prince Aemond. Stood a metre or so way away, tall and foreboding, mouth parted as though he were about to speak. They appeared to have taken each other by surprise.

Geowyth hurriedly dipped into a low curtsy. “Your Grace,”

Aemond’s head bowed almost imperceptibly. “Lady Geowyth.” Neither spoke. Geowyth’s heart was hammering in her chest. She hadn’t anticipated anyone being in the library at this early hour, let alone someone with whom it appeared she couldn’t converse without offending. He was watching her, curiosity or anger missing from his face. Indeed, that hard visage was entirely unreadable. Geowyth indicated the window behind her.

“I was just going to-”

“Leave it open.”

Silence. Again. She couldn’t look away from him, unsure as she was of the Prince’s remote manner. “Ok…” When he didn’t speak, only continued to watch her, Geowyth took the books from under her arm and moved towards the bookshelf she had taken them from, at last tearing her eyes away from his.

“What have you there?” The Prince didn’t move, not even to gesture at the volumes in her hands.

“Books.”

“Yes, I know that.” Prince Aemond sighed. “Which ones?”

Geowyth laughed at herself. The Prince did not. “Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms and Island to Inland: The Lost Kingdoms of Westeros. I wanted to brush up on my Westerosi history while I was here. And see what the kingdom knew of us. It seems, very little.” Geowyth indicated the smaller volume. “We are not a “lost kingdom” after all.”

The Prince hummed. “Not quite.” Before Geowyth could rebuke him, he held out a hand. “I’ve been looking for these. Your brother expressed an interest in learning more about the histories.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Geowyth bowed her head and placed the two books in his outstretched arms. As she did so, the letter addressed to her uncle fell to the ground. In a swift motion of silver, Prince Aemond bent to recover it from the floor. Between two slender fingers, he turned the parchment to read its cover.

“King Gallan-”

“My uncle, Your Grace.” The Prince did not deign to answer this, only giving her a pointed look as if to say, I know. “After returning the books, your books, I was going to send it to him, although I do not know the way to the rookery-”

“I will take it.”

Geowyth faltered. Would it find its way? Would it be checked before delivery, for fear that palace secrets or slights were within? “There is no need, Your Gra-”

“I will take it.” The door opened, and a Maester Geowyth did not know entered the library. The Prince turned his head slightly, his covered eye towards the door. It gave him the air of omniscience; though no eye was there, he didn’t need it to know who had disturbed the quiet.

“Lady Geowyth.” The Prince bowed and, without waiting for a reply, was out of the door and away, Geowyth’s letter clasped in between his fingers.

Notes: Had to get in Mr Mitchell’s delightful reference to the Targaryen “family circle”. I’m sorry this is taking a long time to write my pals – as always this is a slow build so bear with me! I can’t freaking wait to take you all to Braedel and uncover more about its society and the Beridan’s past!

Mearl = same pronunciation as Merle

Mawe = more–weh

Addition: Look at this amazing art by @cyeco13!!!!

Tags: @arcielee @mefools @bladeofdreadfort @glitterandgoldfinds @heimtathurs @ewanmitchellcrumbs @babyblue711 @wingeddeliciouscanonrebel @greenowlfactif @fantasias-creativebubble @httyd-marauders @sirenangelroyal @theoneeyedprince @fyeahhotdocs @persephonerinyes @humanpurposes @elizarbell @el-is-green @booghostii @myfandomprompts @castellomargot @trashcanrat @boundlessfantasy @aemonds-fire

[themotherofhorses]

- a dance with ancestors: prologue

summary: Every night, nestled within the silk sheets of her bed, Balenyra Targaryen dreams of the long-gone dragons and the one future she so hopelessly yearns for.

The first dance doomed her noble house through bitter and civil strife, but this second one might be its saving.

pairing: aemond targaryen x ofc!balenyra targaryen

chapter warnings: none.

notes: here is my rework and repost of my "last of her house no more" series, except now it takes place through my sweet girl balenyra's eyes. it will coexist with lohhnm but just differ in the title.

main masterlist

Greens

The Red Priestess was an unexpected sight for the family.

Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, had recently been crowned King by the High Septon within the dragonpit, followed by his queen consort Helaena, only several hours back. Spirits were still high, and the Greens hailed this small victory through cups of fresh wine, a feast, and dancing. They toasted to the health and reign of the new king and the memory of the old. And although they knew that the Princess Rhaenys would bring her word of the crowning to Dragonstone, all thoughts of the war and retaliation would wait till dawning.  

Something doesn’t feel right. . . . Alicent Hightower thought to herself, her stomach in a roil. She was nursing a cup of honeyed wine while eating in silence, listening to her family’s bustling talk and the jests they threw about amongst each other.

“Are you happy, dear daughter?” came the voice of Otto Hightower. Alicent’s lips curled into a tight smile as she turned to her father, who placed a heavy hand atop her shoulder with a smile of his own. “Aegon is King now, as the gods’ will always meant. Helaena, his Queen. And through Aemond and his betrothal, House Baratheon will remain strong allies. Have no worry- things are now how they should be.”

As they should be. . .

In all truth, it did not feel that way, but she simply nodded. “Yes, father,” she murmured before excusing herself from the dinner table, needing to clear her mind. She caught Helaena’s attention as she left, but the young girl soon lost interest and glanced back to her plate.

The realm is going to rise in madness.

Alicent recalled the Princess Rhaenys before the coronation. You are wiser than I believe you to be, Alicent Hightower. She did not feel any wiser nor better about her earlier decisions. “Aegon is King,” she told herself as she made her way through the dimmed corridor, empty of the servant folk. “He is King, as Viserys wanted. . . As the gods permitted. . .”

And it was Alicent Hightower, Queen Dowager, that came across a Red Priestess standing alone in the Keep’s Great Hall, a silent and still statue shrouded in an elegant blood-red gown that pooled around her feet. Around her slim neck was a thick necklace with a large, blackened jewel that rested across her collarbone. The queen sucked in a deep breath at the sight. Both her late husband and father spoke of the Red Priests and Priestess, the sacred clergy in the faith of the R’hllor. The Lord of Light. Their presence was both rare and only for a reason.

The hall remained quiet, with both women just staring at each other. Then the Priestess unclasped her hands apart. “You were awarded a fine victory today, Alicent Hightower,” she spoke in the common tongue, “How might you feel?”

The queen did not know what to say to that. “Good,” Alicent answered, unsure. She could feel her heart quickening within her breast, and her father calling out for her outside the room, asking where she had gone. “You are a Red Priestess,” she then said, swallowing thickly, “-mind my tongue, for I have never had the pleasure of meeting one before; I have been told you appear for reasons only you know of. . . Dare I ask why you grace my family with your presence, especially on a night like this?”

The Red Priestess took a short step towards her. “I am as old as the waves of the sea, and the midnight stars you gaze upon in the sky.” She tilted her head to the side and smiled, pale eyes sparkling. “I have lived so many lives. . . seen many things. I witnessed the reign of Aegon the Dragon and that of his successors- both good and bad, kind and evil. . . And from your borne children shall come new kings. . . but you seem to know that already.”

“Do I?” Alicent prompted, her tone weak and soft.

She simply strode closer to the queen, who hid her trembling hands behind her back. The Priestess’s accent was thick and strange, unlike any voice she had ever heard before. “You would sacrifice everything you have to ensure the lineage is of your blood. It is an admirable thing until it isn’t.”

ALICENT! Otto Hightower shouted from outside. But Alicent could not answer his calls. She could also hear her sons asking for her as well, their footsteps growing louder, closer. Had she been gone for that long? It felt like it had only been several minutes. . .

 Do not come, she wanted to scream. Please. . ! Stay over there. . .

“Admirable, one might say. Or perhaps even foolish. I cannot help but wonder what might happen if you were granted a chance to see the future,” the Priestess paused shortly, her lips quirking, “Do you believe in it, the future? Many men do not, but alas, did they not say the same about the dragons?” Alicent opened her mouth, but the words fell stuck in her words. Suddenly she felt as if she was back in Rhaenys Targaryen’s bedchamber.

Alicent!

Mother?

Soon the hall’s massive doors slammed open. “WHAT IS GOING ON?” Otto yelled, entering the throne room. He was followed by his three grandchildren, two of whom were clutching longswords and daggers in their hands. “Alicent, my daughter, I have been calling for you to rejoin us-” his voice fell as he soon took notice of the Priestess standing but a few feet away, his hand dropping to the hilt of his own sword. He then turned to his two grandsons, bidding them to sheath their own.

“What has happened?” Otto caught her arm. “Are you troubled?”

Alicent shook her head, draping a hand over his. “No, father,” she told him gently, “but we have a guest.”

“Yes, I can see that. Red Priestess,” Otto nodded through a slight bow. “With that do we owe this honor? Are you here to bless the new king, perhaps?” he asked.

The Priestess shifted her shoulders towards the newcomers, breathing deeply. “I’ve come to spread the word.” Along the stone hall walls, the draperies swayed back and forth in a wash of ebony and crimson silk.

“The word?”

“Yes. A new king has been crowned today, it seems. . . and because of that, the future shall pay the price.”

Her eyes met Alicent’s and Otto’s, who stared her way in sheer disbelief. “The world is the way it because of Dragons. Dragons are gifts from the Lord of Light, sent to purify the non-believers and sinners. And the Lord of Light fashioned the Targaryens to control such. This world has known only the Targaryens. The smallfolk and the high lords, they have all bowed to the Targaryens and their dragons. To the fire made flesh. . .” she paused, frowning, a tiny crease appearing between her eyes, “-what would happen if there were no more to submit to?”

“Dragons?”

“No. Targaryens.”

The Priestess eyed the Hand and the Queen Dowager first, then drifted her sharp gaze to the newly crowned King, and his Queen Consort, and their future Kinslayer brother. Three of them, Targaryen blooded. Silver crowns and soft violet eyes. Dragon riders. Highborn and beautiful.

All will be dead soon, a pity. Their deaths will speak poetry to the lives they lived. Her features grew sympathetic, and her tone softened with kindness and mercy when she said, “While I come to spread the word, I am here to show it to you as well. Your family is doomed, and this is your one chance to save it.”

Targaryens

Her queen mother, above many things, is a dreamer.

The young princess cherished hearing stories belonging to the long days before her birth on the Dothraki Sea. According to the maesters, who already began writing the histories down in their scrolls and books, Daenerys Stormborn, in her early months of being a Khaleesi, dreamt of dragons every night in her tent. All her dreams played out the same- that if she braved the fire, her eggs would hatch. Such sounded nonsensical, of course, until it finally happened beneath the black midnight sky.

Her mother did say the Targaryens possessed the strange ability to do things normal men could not.

Sometimes, in the later morning hours, she would join her mother underneath the shade of their lemon trees and ask if she had dreamt any new dreams. Daenys Targaryen saw the doom of Old Valyria in her sleep, and the ill-fated Helaena prophesied her kid brother, Aemond One-Eye, losing his eye in the claiming of his mount, Vhagar. History remembered all of them; she often wondered if her mother would continue to foresee the future like them, and if she did, would anything change in their house’s fate.

Alas, to her dismay, nothing has changed. Her beloved mother has dreams, but none of the kind she pines to hear.

As of right now, she is her mother’s sole heir to the throne, the proclaimed future queen of the realm. Balenyra Targaryen, first of her name, born to Daenerys Stormborn and her Khal Drogo. The youngest in their dragon brood. Her shoulders ache a terrible lot, bruised and swore from the heavy burden she carries, knowing the dragon dynasty perishes with her death. But she refuses to sink beneath it.

The living maesters claim there are bits and pieces of Rhaenyra Targaryen in her face; perhaps that is why the white stag chose her as well, and why she is this Seven Kingdoms’ Delight. The last Valyrian She-Dragon. In the Keep’s courtyards, she trains with Valyrian-steel swords and spell-forged arakhs; tucked away in one of the little libraries, she studies her history and philosophy, and flies across the bright-blue seas on the backs of the largest dragons in the world.

If her history is to include the fall of her House Targaryen- the true and goldenblood dragonlords of Old Valyria, Balenyra vows to herself to make it the greatest regal reign the maesters shall ever record.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Fire on the Mountain - Masterlist

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Canon typical sexism, canon typical violence, angst, smut, age gap, power imbalance. Individual warnings will be applied to each chapter.

Summary: Lia Costayne, childhood friend of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Alicent Hightower, has always had lofty ambitions, and is all too happy to use Alicent's father to advance her position at court. Otto sees greatness in Lia too, however, their visions of what success looks like for her could not be more different.

Author's note: Header image by @vampire-exgirlfriend. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Act One

Chapter one

Chapter two - coming soon!

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Aegon II Targaryen x OC // House of the Dragon fanfic

Soft!Dark!Aegon II Targaryen x OFC, kinda Yandere!Aegon

Trigger warnings: darkish themes, bondage, kidnapping, kinda yandere?? Targcest, OC is Viserys and Aemma's daughter, OC is named Daenerys, OC looks like Elizabeth Olsen in my head, also total self-insert

“Well isn’t this a pleasing sight.”

Aegon sauntered into the royal bedchambers with new confidence bestowed by his stolen crown. Bound to the king's bed, Daenerys could only turn her head away. Aegon approached, slipping his fingers beneath her jaw and tilting her face towards him.

She snapped her teeth, drawing blood. He yanked his hand away.

“So spirited,” he jested. “Have I woken the dragon, sweet sister?”

Daenerys ignored him. He wanted to hear her voice. She would not give him that comfort.

Aegon sighed. Footsteps sounded; Daenerys glimpsed Aegon’s back, clad in green velvet with golden dragons sewn into the brocade, as the usurper king - her husband - poured a goblet of wine and drank it in two long gulps. When he whirled to face her, his lips were stained red.

“You forced my hand! You tried to attack me. I had to take precautions.” He motioned to the rope binding her wrists and ankles to the ornate wooden bed. “Would you rather I throw you in the black cells beneath the Red Keep?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t mean that.”

She didn’t. It stung worst of all; how she still couldn’t help but feel whole in his presence, his fire calling to hers, the blood of the dragon. Aegon had always been by her side. First as a baby brother she had cared for like a doll (whenever she hadn’t been with Rhaenyra, both of them their last remaining link to their mother Aemma), then as her partner in mischief, then as the man she loved. They had always known they would marry. Father had betrothed Aegon and Daenerys mere moons following Aegon's birth, three years after Daenerys. Otto Hightower had encouraged the betrothal. The green leech had no doubt planned to use Daenerys as a hostage against Rhaenyra.

And she had flown straight into his trap.

Daenerys sighed. Her chest ached; she missed Grey Ghost, her most faithful companion, the wild dragon who had chosen her on the cliffs of Dragonstone when she was nine. Where was he? Had he eluded Aemond and Vhagar? The dragon could have returned to Dragonstone by now. She yearned to be with him, to feel the wind on her face as they soared above the clouds.

Her wings had been clipped. Tethered to Aegon’s bed, Daenerys was grounded, caged like Dreamfyre and the other dragons in the Dragonpit.

Aegon sensed her distress. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” he said gently. Pleading. “Please, Naerys. You can be queen. My queen.”

“Our sister is the true queen.”

“No, no! Father changed his mind, my mother told me-“

“Your mother will believe any delusion that affirms her desires!”

Aegon’s face hardened. “You do not believe in me.” Eyes watering, he poured another goblet of wine.

“I have always believed in you,” she said softly, almost whispering. “It is my weakness. I should have flown with Rhaenyra to Dragonstone when I had the chance, let your mother betroth you to Helaena…”

“Do not say that,” said Aegon sharply. He was next to her now, towering over her. She strained against the rope, trying to squirm away, even as her blood stirred. But Aegon had had enough of her resistance; his hand gripped her chin, hard enough to immobilize her jaw so she couldn’t bite him. He forced her eyes to his.

“You are mine,” he promised. “My wife. My queen. You were meant for me, and I for you. You will see. This is how it was meant to be. I will rule the Seven Kingdoms with you at my side.”

He leaned closer, whispering in her ear, “And I shall never let you leave me again.”

[reignof-fyre]

Upcoming fic:

Allyria Hightower - Daughter of the High Tower, Lady of the Royal Court, Queen-Consort of the Seven Kingdoms.

Otto never imagined that the destruction of all of his ambitions would come from his own household.

Especially from his own daughter.

Or, after overhearing her younger sister and father scheming, Allyria decides to change the game and puts herself in the king's path.

[farity]

Trapped

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Dornish princess OFC

Summary:  The alliance to end all hostilities with Dorne starts with the arrival of Aemond’s betrothed.

Ser Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, smiled proudly at the Dornish party, freshly arrived at the Red Keep.  

It had taken months of negotiations and strategy to secure the hand of the only daughter of the Prince of Dorne for Prince Aemond Targaryen, and all his effort, all his work, was finally paying off.

The princess was precisely as described.  Beautiful, graceful, accomplished, and if her parents were anything to go by, fertile.  She was one of eight children, her parents were also from large families.  She walked in behind one of her brothers and one of the guards that had accompanied the party.  The Prince himself would arrive in two days for the wedding festivities.

He leaned in ever so slightly to the tall, slim young man standing next to him.  “You could stop glaring.”

If Prince Aemond heard, he didn’t give any sign.

“Princess Kyara, you are most welcome,” Otto said, stepping down from the dais.  He bowed before the princess and her brother, Prince Allyn, before looking back toward Aemond.

“I am delighted to finally meet you, Princess.”

Much to Otto’s relief, Aemond was only a step behind him, and he extended his hand toward his betrothed, leaning down to kiss the princess’s bejeweled fingers as she sank into a deep curtsy.  “It is my honor, Prince Aemond.”

A handsome pair, Otto thought, watching as Aemond greeted the princess’s brother.  He looked striking in his usual blacks while she glittered with every step she took.  She seemed nervous but that was to be expected, a young woman brought up sheltered and innocent, to be moved about as it best suited her father.  She was said to be amenable, kind, and aware of her duty, which best suited Otto.

The guard seemed bored as he stood back, appraising the grandeur of the hall, and Otto summoned one of the house guards to take him to his lodgings.

* * * * * 

“You are hurting me, brother.”

“Let me remind you, Kyara, what you need to accomplish tonight.”  He squeezed harder on his sister’s wrist and she pressed her lips together to avoid crying out in pain.

“I will do it,” she snapped, shoving him off.  There would be bruises on her skin and she was glad of the long sleeves on her gown.  “Leave me be.”

Allyn stared down at her.  “Rouge your cheeks, you look sickly.  No one will want to bed a woman who looks sickly.”

Kyara managed to hold the tears in until Allyn had closed the door behind him.  She rubbed her sore wrist and examined the flimsy nightgown she was supposed to wear to seduce her betrothed.  She would put a sleep-inducing powder in his wine while he was enthralled by her and then Allyn and the guard would abscond with him back to the meeting place in The Reach, where Dornish forces would be waiting.  From there, her father would send a list of demands to King’s Landing to be met in exchange for returning the prince alive and unharmed.

She didn’t know much more other than what her part was supposed to be and felt nauseated at the thought.  When she had finally laid eyes on the prince, she thought he might be able to read the deception in her face.  His expression was very severe, although anyone with an injury such as his would look severe, but he carried himself well, and she might even think him handsome if it weren’t for the fact that she was soon going to betray him. She knew he was a skilled warrior and a learned man, and prized loyalty above most things.

How ironic.

She took the necklace with the vial containing the sleeping powder and put it on, then put on the nightgown and a cape over the whole thing.  Pulling out her looking-glass, she rubbed some rouge on her cheeks, her stomach turning the whole time.

Kyara walked out, closing the door gently behind her.

* * * * * 

She was very beautiful, he had to admit.  Her voice was pleasing, her movements graceful, her skin soft as silk when he had taken her hand to kiss it, and her eyes showed innocence and sweetness.

And terror.

Aemond wanted to think it had nothing to do with him, or his scar and eyepatch, more specifically, because she had not looked frightened or repulsed when she had faced him.  This was deep-set fear.  Maybe she knew someone who had been ill-treated by her husband, or had a relative die in childbirth.  He was well aware marriages were not often in the best interest of the woman.  

Tomorrow he would speak with her.  Assure her she would be well treated, would have the best care when she became pregnant, and that she would have a pleasant life as his spouse.  She would have a royal title and the best of everything, and he would do his best to look out for her.

There was a small knock on the door, interrupting his thoughts.

“Come in.”

The door opened slowly, revealing his betrothed, clutching the sides of her blue cape around her.

“Princess.”

“Prince Aemond, I apologize.”

He walked towards her, offered his hand, which she took with shaky fingers.  He led her to one of the chairs by the hearth before closing the door.  

“May I offer you some wine, Princess?”

“No, I don’t- yes, please, I would love some.  If you would join me in drinking a cup,” she smiled brightly.

He poured two cups, his curiosity piqued.  

“I thought,” she started, clearing her throat, “we might learn a bit about each other.  Since we are to be married soon.”

Aemond gave her one of the cups and took the other chair, facing her.  “What do you wish to know?”  He watched her stare at his cup as he sipped his wine.

She smiled again, one hand holding her wine, the other clutching the blue cape closed in the front.  “I am not sure, I have, uh, heard a lot about you, but maybe you could tell me what your interests are, other than sword training.”

If it wasn’t for the fact that he could see fabric peeking out from under the hem of the cape, he might think she was naked under the cape.

He would play along, Aemond decided, until he figured out what was really going on.  “Well, I enjoy reading, mostly history and philosophy, but lately I have been reading about Dorne.”  He placed his empty cup on the floor next to his chair.

She was nodding along, the bright smile in place, but he was getting the feeling she wasn’t really listening.  

“Are you not enjoying your wine, Princess?”

“Oh!” she looked down, then back up at him, and then proceeded to drink the entire cup of wine at once before standing up and nearly tripping over her own feet.  “I will get some more.”

She walked to the table where she’d seen him pour the wine and filled two cups, making more noise than necessary.  When she turned, she had a cup in each hand and he could see that what she was wearing underneath the cape didn’t cover much of her at all. 

She walked back toward him, offered him one of the cups.  Her hand was shaking so badly that he thought she might spill some of the wine so he took the cup and stood.

“Princess,” he said softly, “are you here to entice me to bed you?”  He cupped her cheek, stroking her skin with his thumb.  

She looked absolutely terrified and he didn’t understand why she’d be here, trying to seduce him, when they’d be wed in two days.

“I’m, uh, I wanted you, I thought we might, we could just . . . “ she rubbed her nose and he thought there might be tears in her eyes, but then she tore off the cape and he was captivated and all he could do was look because the nightgown, if it could be called that, was mostly transparent, except for a few well placed clusters of gemstones, but she was standing there, looking terrified, offering herself to him two days before their wedding.

Looking terrified.

“Princess,” he repeated, and raised the cup of wine to his lips.

* * * * * 

It was as if time itself had slowed, she thought.  For a moment she thought she had failed, when he had cupped her cheek, she thought he might be about to send her back to her room, but then she’d become desperate and shown him what was under the cape and he was lifting the cup to his mouth and-

She slapped it out of his hand.

“I can’t,” she whispered, and gasped when he grabbed her wrist.

She saw the confusion in his face, saw him look at her, look at the cup on the floor, saw the moment he realized what was happening.

“He is going to kill me,” she said, mostly to herself.

Aemond grasped her chin, raising her face to his.  “Who is going to kill you?”

“I couldn’t let you drink it,” she replied, tears running down her face.  “And now he’ll kill me.”

“Was that poison?” he asked then.

She shook her head.  “It was to make you sleep.”  She collapsed to her knees and Aemond knelt with her, grabbing her upper arms.  “They were going to take you.”

“Your brother.  And that guard.”

Kyara nodded.  “I am sorry.”

Aemond turned her other wrist, which she’d bared when offering him the wine.  “Did your brother do this, too?”

He watched her as she simply looked at him, saying nothing, saw shame and fear and embarrassment in her face, picked up the cape from the floor and wrapped it around her. 

“Please make it quick,” she said quietly.

“I am not bedding you.”

She looked at him, gave him a sad smile.  “When you kill me, please make it quick.”

He grabbed her shoulders, leaned down to look her in the eye.  “No one is going to kill you.  Not your brother.  Not that guard.  Not me.  Not anyone.”  He helped her up.  “Come with me.”

* * * * * 

The last thing Helaena expected was to see her brother and his future wife walking into her rooms.  “Aemond!  And Princess, uh, Kyra?”  The poor girl looked like she’d been crying for hours.  “Aemond, were you mean to her?”

The princess smiled through her tears, “no, Your Grace, he has been very kind to me.  Much kinder than I deserve, I-”

“We need a change of clothes, Hel.  I will explain later,” Aemond interrupted, one arm around Kyara.  “Riding clothes?”

Helaena looked at him strangely.  “Sure, brother.” She walked to a chest next to the wall and from inside, brought out a bundle of clothes.  “Oh, are you taking her out on Vhagar?  That is lovely.  I do hope we will be friends, Kyra.”

“Kyara,” Aemond corrected, kissing his sister’s cheek, “thank you, Hel, I am sure you two will be friends.  And, please, don’t tell anyone you saw us?”  He and Kyara left as swiftly as they had appeared, and Helaena wondered what this new game was.  Aemond was always doing something clever.

* * * * * 

“You’re taller than Helaena, but-”

“No, it’s much better than that horrible nightgown.  Thank you, Prince Aemond, I truly-”

“Aemond.”  He thought she was incredibly brave, despite her tears and her terror.  “I think we have earned calling each other by our first names.”  

She looked at him, and for once, without the secrets and the fear, her eyes were clear and calm.  She had wiped off the bright red on her cheeks and the dark color around her eyes.  

Aemond knew what the plan was now, they would be waiting for her signal and she would give it, except the outcome was going to be very different.

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 9.

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

wordcount: 4.0k

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so sorry for the long wait. ):

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, decapitation, death

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The sound of paper furling and unfurling were the only ones heard. Then the slam of a fist on a wooden desk. Then a sigh. 

“This is ridiculous,” Rhaenyra hissed, reading over the missive stamped with the Velaryon sigil for the near hundredth time. “Absolutely ridiculous— borderline treasonous.” 

The letter spelled out, in so many words, that Vaemond Velaryon was contesting Lucerys’ inheritance claim to Driftmark. Lord Corlys had apparently fallen ill in the Stepstones— damn that accursed place— which brought up the question of succession. There had been whispers over the years of Rhaenyra’s first three sons’ true parentage belied in the seed of a certain late Commander of the City’s watch. Such accusations have been unfounded and swatted away like flies if the argument was ever brought up in the small council chamber or throne room. 

Upon looking at them, the three Velaryon boys were only such in name– that much was obvious. Their brown eyes and curled brown hair struck a decided resemblance to someone that was not Ser Laenor Velaryon. 

Even if the rumors, as they may be, were plain as day truths, such things couldn’t be acted upon, much less said about the heir to the iron throne, could they? 

“How can Alicent even entertain this… this mummer’s farce?” she continued to seethe, resorting to pacing now, twisting the rings on her fingers. Her throat felt a bit dry at the situation. Her and Alicent had struck a comfortable balance since returning. This felt… it felt akin to a slap in the face.

“‘Tis not just Alicent entertaining it,” Daemon muttered, swirling wine in his cup. He was lazed in the chaise, one leg over the other. He seemed particularly laissez-faire about the situation at hand, as if it were nothing more than a mere annoyance to him, like a leg cramp or an annoying bug. “That snake of a father she has has his fangs in every pot. Whatever suits him— and this would seem to be one of those things.” he glanced to his wife, wanting to say more about the queen, but thought better of it. Daemon Targaryen was, in all accounts, a man who spoke his mind– but he didn’t wish to ruffle his pregnant wife’s feathers by calling her ‘girlhood friend’ a cunt like her father. 

“Otto Hightower is a conniving man, that much is true. What could he hope to gain by currying favor with Vaemond?” 

“The Velaryon fleet. The Velaryon coin. The Velaryon connections. The well of opportunities for conniving cunts like Otto are endless.” he punctuated each point with a wave of his glass.

Rhaenyra’s mouth snapped shut. She was silent for a long while before finally speaking again. “Well, Lord Corlys is not dead yet. This will be fought and we will be heard.”

—

The morning after the gala was… eventful, to say the least. She hardly remembered going back to her room, it all felt like a hazy, dizzy dream. 

Aemond had escorted her back to her chambers in (comfortable) silence, giving her another goodnight kiss before leaving her for the night. She had been reeling from it all, the adrenaline of their interaction.

She could feel his lips on hers and a delightful buzz on her face and… another unfamiliar sensation deep in her body, nestled behind her navel. It felt like a pulling sensation, like a thread connecting her and Aemond. Just the slightest tug on the string had her feeling warm and fuzzy— she wanted him. The implication of wanting him could mean a myriad of things. She was fond of him, of course, she always had been. His possessive declaration, to any normal person, could be deduced into one thing. But in Shera’s mind, there were many interpretations of such an action, it couldn’t be assumed to mean one thing! 

He said she belonged to him— that didn’t necessarily mean he… loved her, he just wanted her near him. The kiss… she had started it, of course! It was merely… something of comfort between them, like a soft blanket or a favorite smell, right? Nothing so deep as… as one might assume.

 But it was also… melding into one another with ease, like their lips coming together had been second nature, their feelings inevitable. 

She kicked her legs in bed, spooking Moongeist slightly. Burying her face in her pillow, she gave an uncharacteristically loud squeal— to personify her current feelings. This was girlish and so very silly! Her face was red, she knew, feeling the heat radiating off of it.

No, no— ‘twas not love. It… Aemond didn’t love her, he couldn’t, it was a passing fancy. Yes, he was possessive and had mentioned marrying her twice. But that didn’t… mean… 

She glanced over at the dozens of drawings and sketches they’d done over the past few weeks on her side table. Her eye immediately caught on the portrait she did of him in blue and purple pastels, fingers wrought over the etching as she thought back to when she presented it to him. 

“I do not look like this, Shera,” he scoffed as he rolled his eye at her depiction of him. “You made me look like a child getting their portrait done for the first time. I look like I am being held at swordpoint.” 

Her mouth opened, brows flying to her hairline. “What do you mean? This is what you look like to me,” she snatched the paper from his hand and put it up next to his face to compare. “And you wouldn’t sit still, you basically were a child. I thought you had more discipline than that– Ser Criston would be disappointed.” she tutted.

Of course, it was a stylized portrait– mayhaps overly stylized. It was lines and angles and he did look quite pointy in it. But it felt like him, harsh around the edges but there was a glint in his eye that was soft, something few people could catch in Aemond Targaryen. He had been agitated when she made him stand still and it was surprising that she didn’t capture that overbearing emotion– rather, she caught the softness reserved only for her that hung in the back light of his eye.

“You are blind.” Aemond huffed, turning away.

“Yes, we have established that,” she pushed his shoulder playfully.

Love. Love? Love!

She screamed herself hoarse again into her pillow until Moongeist tugged it away from her. 

She loved him. She was in love with Aemond Targaryen and had been for a very, very long time. 

She was still giddy about it, getting out of bed with a spring in her step, as if she were some sort of sprightly hare. She peppered Moongeist’s face in kisses, to which he returned sleepy chuffs and whines, cooing soft noises to him in lieu of words— her throat hurt from her girlish squealing.

She had almost forgotten about the incident. The warging. She wasn’t even sure it had been real, if not for the bruises where Aemond held her so tightly to stop her from falling to the floor, she thought it would’ve been a dream. 

Shera knew of warging– every Stark did, every Northman did. It was a seemingly supernatural phenomenon told by stewardesses to children. It was a thing of wonder and utter horror. She remembers her own stewardess, the very fleeting memories she had before King’s Landing of Winterfell, keeping her afraid with the threat that if a skinchanger died while inhabiting another being, they would be trapped in said being’s skin forever. 

“Some skinchangers are more beast than man, Shera,” the older woman said, wagging a finger in the little girl’s face, who was no more than four at the time. “If you keep up your antics, don’t be surprised if you wake up as a beast, you little hellion.”

Shera promptly bit the offending wagging finger.

Unfurling the paper left with her breakfast, a hearty plate of hot eggs and bangers (which looked ravenously appetizing), she skimmed it. The message was clear in its intent: the move back to Dragonstone was delayed. Biting into the sausage, she threw Moongeist some eggs.

One more thing to be delighted about– she felt like everything between her and… those who resided in King’s Landing was on borrowed time. 

‘Twas a pity about the hearing for Lucerys’ inheritance. She didn’t care much for Lucerys– but she didn’t really know him. She wonders if he even remembers taking Aemond’s eye, and Shera subsequently shoving him into a wall where he hit his head.

She ponders it more over breakfast, even asking for a second helping of sausage before reporting to the throne hall. The maids that dressed her had brought a separate garment, one unfamiliar and most certainly not something she brought with her.

“Princess Rhaenyra wishes for you to wear this at the hearing,” one of them murmured. 

Shera eyed the dress– it was deep, blood red with black and gold trim. There were embellishments of dragons and wolves across the chest and a sash belt that looked like it had wolf claws embedded into it. It was… nice in its own way, except for the ghastly color. The maids were relentless in the cinching of her waist and she shifted uneasily from foot to foot as she regretted her second helping of breakfast. The women didn’t say anything to her, really, but exchanged looks that said more than words. 

As she slips into the throne room, she feels a whoosh of air beside her. “You look garish in that color,” a familiar voice sneered. Aegon blocked her way, brows raised. “Some little birdie told me that you prefer blue.”

“... mayhaps I do,” she murmured. “And how exactly do you know that?” 

“Again, my little birdie. But also, I was at the gala and saw you and my brother eye-fucking each other. You two are seriously shameless, debaucherous almost.”

“That is truly rich coming from you, Aegon,” Shera cracked a small smile. 

Continuing her walk, Jacaerys sweeps her up into his arm and leads them over to… their side. Rhaenyra, Daemon, Lucerys and Rhaena are waiting. Across the opposite side of the room are Aemond, Aegon, Helaena, Alicent and Otto. In the center, stands Vaemond, swaying ever so slightly to the Queen’s side. The room is so clearly divided that it's almost sickening. Just the previous night, they had been making merry without all of this division. She sees Aemond, who gives her dress a onceover– his expression is reserved and she can’t tell what he is thinking. He looks at her for half a second, nostrils flared, before looking away from her. 

While the proceedings are happening, she swims within her own mind. She stands near Jace, who has his arm looped in hers in a protective manner. Scattered words of Vaemond come through her muddled thoughts, ‘Velaryon’, ‘Blood’, ‘Survival’, ‘House’. Her eyes were glazed over as she counted the cracks in the stones of the floor.

One, two, three… four… 

She doesn’t really pay attention to what’s going on until the heavy doors of the throne room open with almost silencing impunity, quiet chatter and shocked whispers pulling her from her reverie.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!” the Kingsguard announced as His Grace, who still looked all the part of a royal corpse, hobbled into the room. He declined any assistance to walk and take his seat.

She gets a sinking feeling in her gut– something telling her that everything is about to explode. 

“I must… admit… my confusion,” he wheezes, winded by the small walk. Shera feels a small twinge of sympathy at that, understanding the feeling. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession.”

“You are of sound mind in that, father,” Rhaenyra bowed her head, unfurling another paper, walking to the King to present it. “This is a whit and declaration of betrothal between my son, Lucerys Velaryon, and Lord Corlys’ granddaughter, Rhaena Targaryen. It is signed and stamped by Lady Rhaenys, who upholds her husband’s declaration that Laenor’s son shall inherit Driftmark. This betrothal shall only strengthen his claim.” 

Viserys gave a small smile. “Thank you, my daughter,” he skimmed the paper, obviously with some struggle. “The matter… is settled, Ser Vaemond. It has been and it will… stay affirmed… that Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon is heir to Driftmark… the Driftwood Throne… and the next Lord of the Tides… and the children… of him and Lady Rhaena… will inherit it after him.” 

She feels the intensity in the air, it’s almost palpable. She feels sick as the voices raise, the blood in the room rises. 

Vaemond looks like he is about to burst, his body shaking in clear anger. “You break law… and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me… who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon,” he pauses for a moment as if to consider his next words, “No.I will not allow it.”

“‘Allow it’? Do not forget yourself, Vaemond,” Viserys struggled to sit up, returning Vaemond’s vitriol with his own– as labored and unthreatening as it was.

“That,” Vaemond pointed to Lucerys, with a look that could raze an army. “is no true Velaryon, and certainly no nephew of mine.”

“Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you… are no more than the second son of Driftmark.” 

“You… may run your house as you see fit… but you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned… I will not see it ended on the account of this…” Vaemond looked back to Lucerys and Jacaerys. The rage in his eyes were palpable as a humid day, the anger emanating from him sticking in the room like cloying smoke.

“Say it.” Daemon whispered, eyes trained on the second son of Driftmark. The rogue prince was disarmingly calm, his voice like Caraxes’ hiss. 

“Her children… are bastards!” Vaemond boomed, stomping his foot and pointing again at Rhaenyra’s sons. 

Shera’s breath left her lungs. She remembered what happened the last time someone called them bastards. She glanced to Aemond, who was looking right back at her. 

“And she…” Ser Vaemond turned his damning finger to Rhaenyra, “is… a… whore.” 

The swing of a sword was all she heard. 

It is silent, save for the hushed and shocked breathing of everyone watching. One would think that people would scream, would gasp. But no, it was quiet as a mouse, quiet as Vaemond’s head was removed from his body and the gentle seep of blood staining the stone floor. 

Shera had never seen anyone die before– not like this. She can see into the passages of his skull, his eyes still open. Shocked, she looks at Daemon, who is wiping his blade against his doublet. Her eyes were glued to the ground, to the cracks she was counting before. They were soaked in his blood, the divots and fissures of the stone opening way for the blood to fall into, branching out into jagged rivers.

One, two, three… f-four…

This is what is he capable of, isn’t it? No one came to truly seize him, to arrest him for killing a man in broad daylight, in front of the King, in front of the Hand, in front of courtiers, in front of the Kingsguard. 

Alicent’s mouth was opened, her eyes wide. Even Otto was shocked, his fist clenched. It was as much emotion as Shera had ever seen the Hand express.

Her saliva feels cloying in her mouth as she glances across the room. Helaena has her ears covered and Shera wishes she had done the same. Aegon was staring off into space, pupils dilated. The scuffle of blades and minds beginning to come to a sense of what just really happened.

Aemond’s face finally held some emotion: enamorment. For the power that Daemon held, the prowess, the act of brutality itself– Shera couldn’t parse which. All she knew is that it scared her. That darkness lying just beneath the surface that she’d tried so hard to ignore–

Her extremities feel numb, the sharp sting of icy needles crawling up her arms and legs. She began to sway, unknowingly clasping onto Jacaerys. The room was spinning and shaking, the intense smell of copper— Vaemond’s blood— tainting her senses. 

A high pitched ringing overwhelmed her hearing as she slipped from consciousness into darkness. 

—

Alicent held Rhaenyra’s arm, hand over the length of the scar she gave her so many years ago. It seemed like a fever dream; that night. Her thumb traced the raised skin as the two women shared a moment in silence.

“I— I will return, Alicent,” the princess murmured, her hand over her belly. “I will take the children home and return for Shera. We… we have overstayed our welcome.” her throat bobbed as they spoke softly in the corner of the maester’s room. 

The queen’s eyes roved over Shera’s sleeping form. Her chest rose and fell softly and she seemed… troubled in her unconsciousness, soft whines emitting from her every so often. Her wolf stayed at the foot of the bed, standing at attention. Amber eyes vigilant, guarding. 

“How… how shall you transport her? She hasn’t woken up yet, Nyra,” Alicent asked, tilting her head. “The maesters say she is fragile.” 

“Syrax is a smooth flier— a makeshift cot is being constructed on her saddle as we speak. The flight wouldn’t be long and it would be much less taxing than a wheelhouse or horse.” 

Alicent nibbled on her lip anxiously. She had never been fond of dragons, despite most of those closest to her connected to one in some way. 

Targaryens and their queer customs. 

“Is… is that wise?” she pressed, brow knitting. “They do not even know if she will wake.” 

“I made an oath to her brother that I would keep her under my care, Alicent— we must go back to Dragonstone, our affairs cannot be put off any longer. I do not wish to birth my babe here, nor do I wish for Jacaerys to marry here.” 

But I wish for you to stay. I wish for you to leave that ingrate of a husband. She punctuated her unheard thought with a meaningful squeeze to Rhaenyra’s arm. A silent plea— it was the first time in years that something had felt right. 

But it wasn’t her place to say anything about it, the words were better left unsaid. “If you think that is wise, Rhaenyra,” the queen responded, her hand dropping from her skin as if it burned her. Mayhaps it did. “At least let our maesters monitor her for a few days— then you may take her.” 

Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched as she recused both hands to her belly as if to defend herself. “Very well, my queen.” 

They were so close, yet so far. 

—

It was hazy. Hazy and dreary— silent but all too loud. Her steps were calm and measured as her heart thumped in her chest. Shera felt light in her steps without any inhibition or reproach. Feeling no pain or vertigo, she flew down the staircase, skipping two or three at a time, giggling. This had to be a dream, didn’t it?

Descending, down… down… 

She was in the Red Keep, she knew. But it felt different, somehow. Younger in its stones, in the bones of its foundation, there was still some give. 

And yet, despite the airiness of the walls, there was a shadow looming

Two somewhat familiar figures were conversing near the skull of Balerion. She recognized them from portraits– young Rhaenyra and a much healthier, much more alive version of Viserys. 

She had always been fascinated by him, Balerion. Despite her heritage being very non-dragonesque, she always felt a childlike wonder whenever someone would speak of Balerion. It was hardly fathomable to her to imagine a dragon that would blot out the sun– one that even rivaled Vhagar’s gargantuan size. 

Viserys spoke softly but firmly to Rhaenyra, who was so young. She had just lost her mother and brother— the claim to the Iron Throne and named heir were up in the air. 

“Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds. And whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living. When this Great Winter comes, Rhaenyra… all of Westeros must stand against it,” Viserys urged softly as the candlelight flickered against his features, fingers skimming atop the flames

“And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A king,” he paused, looking at Rhaenyra once more, “or queen, strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. Aegon called his dream ‘The Song of Ice and Fire.’ This secret… it’s been passed from king to heir since Aegon’s time. Now you must promise to carry it… and protect it. Promise me this, Rhaenyra,” the king looked directly to where Shera was standing, looking right into her eyes, as if he could see her, see into her. “Promise me.”

The metal of the Catspaw blade heated up atop the coals to a bright and almost fluorescent orange. Goosebumps prickled on Shera’s skin in tandem with the rising heat of the room. It was so warm, no, it was hot, scorching. The air vacated her lungs, replaced by flames licking at her insides, burning, consuming.

Young Rhaenyra had left the room, leaving Viserys to look at the skull of Balerion. He picked up a single candle, peering into the flame like it held the secrets of the world. 

He spoke again, but his voice wasn’t that of the era of King that Shera was looking upon. It was old, weezing– just like in the throne room from earlier in the day. The form of Viserys slumped, hair falling out and skin graying as he held the candle like a lifeline. He fell to his knees and the sound of his bones shattering could be heard, breaking and splintering into nothing but dust. 

But the candle was still lit. His hand, now nothing but bone and sinew, was fused to the wax. 

“No… more,” he coughed and sputtered, blood leaking from his lips onto the stone. Wax dripped, mingling with the blood. Finally, he focused on the flame of the candle. “My… love.” 

He blew out the candle with his last breath. With that, all of the candles in the room blew out.

Shera was left alone in the darkness and swirling smoke. 

It was cold.

–

She awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. But she was still cold, shivering. The smell of smoke was still lingering. 

Her chest was heaving as she sat up and tried to walk, wanting that same flighty weightlessness she felt before. Her body failed her and she crumbled to the floor, a broken doll once again. Arms wrapped around her and helped her up. The familiarity of sandalwood lulled her frantic nerves as she wholeheartedly buried her face into Aemond’s chest. She knew it was him. His arms laced behind her as he lifted her up easily as if not to taint her with having to stand on the ground. His nose buried into her hair, holding onto her as if he was afraid she would slip away.

There was the sound of a throat clearing near the corner of the room. The two of them were not alone– but she didn’t care. She clung to Aemond like her life depended on it, peering behind him slowly. 

Aegon was sitting behind them, knee bobbing nervously. He looked… disheveled, more than usual. Even more so, he was wearing… the crown of the conqueror. He was wearing the crown of his namesake. “You’ve missed a lot, Shera,” he muttered, eyes dark.

“Aegon?” she croaked, voice sounding hoarse and broken from disuse.

“‘Tis ‘your grace’ now.” Aegon said bitterly.