#the prince of winterfell | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

damneddamsy · 4 months ago

Text

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part viii)

a/n: the 2 big C's - cregan and character deaths

With Aegon II Targaryen averred as king in King's Landing and Rhaenyra crowned queen in Dragonstone, a war among kin was brewing on the horizon. Upon Prince Jacaerys' request, it was resolved by Queen Rhaenyra that she would send her three eldest children—Princess Aemma, Prince Jace and Luke—as messengers on dragonback to remind the great houses of whom they had sworn fealty to her succession nigh on twenty years ago.

"Dragons will persuade the lords more than a raven scroll," Jace had said. "Let them see that we are the blood of the dragon and we are not to be disparaged."

It was decided that Aemma, the oldest of her siblings, would fly to Winterfell to meet with Lord Stark, given his previous inclinations in treating with her before her hasty marriage to Prince Aemond. By stealth, the queen wanted to propitiate Cregan Stark's displeasure with her daughter as a significant motivation. It was a foul thought for a mother to have, but chances were on her side.

The princess was initially defiant about being cozened into this bloodshed. Whilst her husband advocated his traitor brother's claim to the throne and her mother played her for a mummer in her siege to the throne, she preferred to bide her time. She would not be made to raise war against her husband and, moreover her dearest friend.

That evening, Prince Daemon had cornered his stepdaughter in her chambers and bore down on her.

"You, my girl, piss on compromise—I adore that. But, ambition without intellect is like a bird without wings," Daemon had said to Aemma. "Are you a chicken or a dragon?"

She had snorted. "Better that than ambition without conscience. You would lead my little brothers to slaughter and death."

"Then take no part in it. Go as the queen's emissary and nothing else." He glanced at her, slightly encouraged. "Assure safety to your kin. Do your mother good and help her raise an army."

Jace, the oldest male of the three, was entrusted with a longer and trickier task of flying to Eyrie to meet with the Lady of the Vale, Jeyne Arryn first, before making his way to White Harbour to win over Lord Manderly.

At long last, Princess Aemma attempted to advise the queen against sending her little brothers anywhere, fearing their novice would travail their situation. Jace was fifteen and Luke was but thirteen, and Aemma had noticed how her youngest brother had blanched upon her mother's decision. Luke was in no way fit to deal with those mighty lords alone.

"Both your brothers have served as squires for long," Rhaenyra pacified Aemma, bringing her aside from the great painted table. "It is you we fear for. You only mounted Silverwing three days ago. With winter’s grip tightening in the North, we cannot risk your health flaring up on the journey."

Luke silently lingered by her and squeezed Aemma's tense shoulder, sheepish to her protectiveness. "You minimize me, Emmy. I am to be the Lord of the Tides one day. I can fight as well as my brother."

"Arrax is yet a fledgling," she insisted.

"A dragon, nonetheless." But his rejoinder went by ignored.

"At least send Luke and Jace together," Aemma pleaded to her mother. "They will make each other invulnerable, protect themselves."

"It would be time wasted," her mother said.

"Then I shall accompany Luke to Winterfell, persuade Lord Stark, and afterwards proceed to Storm's End," Aemma declared firmly. She took her mother’s hand, gripping it tightly. "Arm my brother with his blade, and let him act as my ward instead."

"There will be no fighting," Rhaenyra especially prompted. "You will only go as my envoys. Remind the lords of the oaths they swore."

"Then Luke will be my knight," Aemma triumphed.

The queen hesitated, her gaze shifting between her daughter’s earnest plea and the anxious figure of young Luke standing behind her. Rhaenyra could sense the depth of Aemma’s desperation, the way she fervently protected her siblings with a fierce loyalty that had always been evident. Whether it was managing a simple supper or overseeing rigorous training, Aemma had always been protective of her younger brothers, asserting her authority with unwavering dedication. Her devotion was so profound that, if either of her brothers were not fully on board, Aemma would have upended the household to find recourse.

Daemon had once remarked that Aemma’s dedication to her brothers was a way of compensating for the absence of Aemond as if the next best thing was to safeguard her own kin with even greater intensity.

Now, as Aemma ardently defended her younger brothers, Rhaenyra found herself torn. She was caught between honouring her beloved daughter's unrelenting aims and fulfilling her obligation to the realm justly.

Finally, Rhaenyra nodded. "So be it."

Little Joffrey stepped between Aemma and his mother, his mouth twisted in disdain. They watched him incredulously, Daemon included. Rhaenyra smothered a smile at how her children lovingly doted on one another.

"I will fly on Tyraxes with Jace. I will be his knight," he offered harshly. "Let me go with my family, mummy."

Luke tousled his brother's hair, who fought off his mischief. "Sheath your steel, Joff. Daemon needs you and your dragon here, on the lookout with Moondancer."

Come undern, Aemma lingered in her chambers, feeling like a fish far from the familiar seas. The garments laid out for her—a sleek brigandine with armoured layers—were finely designed yet undeniably cumbersome. The synthetic scales and padded wadding were meant to mimic the attire of a Targaryen dragonrider, but the weight of it felt oppressive.

She sighed in frustration, tugging at the stiff jacket. When her mother arrived at the door, a knowing smile on her face, the realization dawned.

"As much as you'd like to shield me to the teeth, Mother, I'm still flesh and bone underneath," Aemma said, grumbling as she smoothed the jacket’s skirting. "Seven hells, I can barely move in this."

"This old thing was mine once," Rhaenyra revealed, her tone soft with nostalgia. Aemma turned to her, surprise flickering across her face. "Though it seems you’ve outgrown it. You’re taller than I was at your age."

Aemma tilted her sleeve, inspecting the gold stitching and intricate patterns that mimicked the form of Syrax, her mother’s dragon. Her fingers traced the delicate embroidery, a grin spreading across her lips.

"Beautiful," she murmured.

"I’ve imagined you like this since the day your tiny hand curled around my finger," Rhaenyra mused, standing beside her daughter and speaking through their reflection in the mirror. Her hands gently adjusted the braids near Aemma’s temple, a wistful look in her eyes.

"I know you wish none of this were happening," Rhaenyra continued, her voice tender. "But I am eternally grateful that you would do this, for your queen."

"For my mother," Aemma corrected, her voice barely above a murmur.

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, her indigo eyes shining as she leaned in to kiss Aemma’s cheek, the gesture overflowing with affection. One kiss turned into three more, each more desperate than the last as if trying to hold on to her daughter before she had to let her go.

"Hurry back to me, sweetling," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice thick with emotion, her hand lingering on Aemma’s arm as though she could keep her safe just a little longer.

The three siblings departed from Dragonstone on their dragons. Silverwing and Arrax flew north, battling the rash winds and winter, while Vermax flew west toward the Bloody Gate. Throughout their leave-taking, the entire island held its breath. Something was left amiss, for sure.

Prince Luke and Princess Aemma Velaryon's arrival at Winterfell was of distinction, as decreed by their northern king. Despite the daunting fire-breathing beasts that came thundering down onto their outer courtyards, Lord Cregan Stark and his few council members lingered outside the entrance gates, waiting on hand and foot.

Lord Stark was most persistent to see the Targaryen princess who had dashed his hopes, considering that he should be raising his banners against her in a war for breaking her word. For months, the young lord had heard tell of her beauty, elegance and infinite passion, and a few gossips of her paternal lineage. She had acquitted herself well to her people, kith and kin; spirited, gracious, knowledgeable, good-humoured, and treasured by the smallfolk. Out of sight, Princess Aemma had him fascinated, twisted into a wordless spell.

And now, as he saw Aemma dismount her awesome dragon, she appeared as a might-have-been. What a vision, the princess was; her eyes gleamed with the warmth that could melt a thousand winters, while the hazy evening sun bathed her in a golden glow, offering her the aura of a queen long forgotten. There was no mistaking the magnificence of her lineage, visible in the silvery sheen of her hair and the striking features of her face. In stark contrast, her brother stood at her side, lacking the same Targaryen traits but every bit as protective, his presence quietly formidable.

"Lord Stark," Prince Lucerys greeted, nervousness cloaked beneath his strong voice. "I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon. This is my sister, Princess Aemma Velaryon, heir to the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. We bear a message from our mother... the Queen."

Just then, the boy prince's dragon let out a deafening roar. Whilst Lord Stark's meagre council staggered back and away, the young lord stood his ground, amazed.

Aemma curtsied with a quiet greeting, her head held high. There were traces of a grin on her shivering lips—she was not dressed for such cold—and she galumphed across the snow with a tightly bound scroll.

"Good morrow, my lords," she addressed his council first, then the Warden of the North. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Cregan."

Aemma spoke exuding the integrity she wished would make up for his disfavour.

Cregan made do with a slow nod and a breathy, "Princess." He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"I hope you bear no malice towards my engagements, my lord. Or that my impulsive actions are to the detriment of your ancestor's oath to my grandsire." Her silver-toned voice was faint, as if these words were only meant for him.

Cregan simply flashed her a smile, instinctively taking her scroll-carrying hand into his. He brushed a courteous kiss against her gloved knuckles before acquiring the message.

"Starks do not forget their oaths, princess," he proclaimed. He leaned closer, saying, "And believe me, your beauty is one I would raise my swords and banners against your prince husband in a blink."

Aemma managed a suave laugh. "My prince husband would rend a vein in his head if he heard your words."

Cregan arched a quizzical brow. "Who just happens to be southward, miles away, plotting his war resisting the Queen. I am compelled to assume his loyalties are hence withdrawn."

This struck home, and her jaw flexed. "They remain true, my lord. Writ in dragonglass, bound by blood."

"So I've heard," he said, barely concealing his amusement. "I meant no disrespect, princess. Even the many cold mysteries that lay beyond the Wall cannot stand to compare with matters of a lady's heart."

Aemma chewed the inside of her cheek, stifling the levity that built in her. A shiver wracked her body, and she darted a look at Luke, who stood a few steps behind her, watching his sister's interaction, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and blowing into his palms. The cold was overwhelming him, too.

"Let us pursue this matter further in a more amiable setting. Winterfell is yours for tonight, Your Graces," Lord Stark announced before Aemma could make a request. She shuffled back to join her brother's side.

"To all appearances, our summer snow does not agree with dragon blood. I'll have warm clothes sent to your chambers. I expect you'll be walking piles of quilts for supper."

Aemma burst forth a snicker, unlike Luke who was quick to take offence. He glanced his disdain at his sister, prickled by the lord's familiarity. Cregan bowed his head with a spirited grin aimed at the prince and princess before stepping aside to direct the path to the Winterfell gates.

"If it so pleases you, I would be honoured to show you around the castle," he remarked, eyeing Aemma particularly.

"For the sake of goodwill, my only request is that no one infringes on our dragons without us, my lord," Luke informed before walking forward. His tone was tinged with an immature threat. "Contrary to our gracious disposition, dragons are far less so, their mercy though a breath of fire."

Cregan acknowledged this with a courteous nod. "Very well, my prince."

"Silverwing is rather benign," Aemma interjected, striving to allay their concern. "And Arrax has been well-fed before our journey. I assure you, they will bring no harm to your people."

The lord pursed his lips, fighting a smile as he bowed his head once more.

"Your assurances are most welcome, princess," Cregan said, his tone even but grey eyes gleaming with thinly veiled mirth. "Though I must confess, it's not the fullness of a dragon's belly that troubles us, but how swiftly it empties."

As much as Aemma despised the bereft frost and the muddy funk the north had to offer, she could not deny how captivating their hearts were. Northmen and women carried themselves with honour above all else, bound to duty for their castle and regent. Like raw gold, they were unpolished but held a promise of brilliance once refined.

Their values glistened most promisingly in their young lord and king, Cregan Stark. At merely seven and ten, he was sized like a titan, unmatched by her athletic Aemond, and built like an ox, swathed in a dense cloak of wolf furs and leathers, amassing his ancestral Valyrian sword, Ice. His pride wafted out in vaunts of his home and his duty-bound traditions and resilience to the Wall. His accent was thick, assertive yet unfamiliar to Aemma's ears, his voice tinged with the lilting cadence of the North.

In the castle stables, they came upon the direwolves, and Aemma’s excitement was uncontainable. She had only ever known one direwolf, her own Seasmoke, and now before her was an entire pack with pups. She could hardly believe it.

"I’ve never heard of direwolves surviving so far south of the Wall," Cregan mused as he watched her awe-struck expression. The wolves, still untamed, were kept behind barricades, wild and untrained, but their presence was nothing short of glorious.

"My direwolf is named Seasmoke," Aemma said with quiet pride, her voice softening with fondness. Her eyes grew misty as the green memories awakened. "Named after my father's dragon. Aemond and I raised him as a companion. We were the only ones of our kin without dragons for a long time; Seasmoke was our solace, our friend in that loneliness."

Cregan’s lips curled into a thoughtful smirk. "I understand now," he said quietly.

Aemma turned to him, her brow furrowing slightly. "Understand what?"

"It was not haste," Cregan replied, his voice gentle but sure. "You simply married your friend. Few are so fortunate."

Aemma couldn’t suppress the smile that blossomed on her lips, warm and unbidden. "Fortunate indeed," she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan’s expression turned serious, his gaze unflinching as he met her dark, doe eyes. "If we are past evasions, there is something I would ask freely."

"Anything."

"Is it not treachery that Prince Aemond stands with the usurpers instead of the rightful queen?"

Aemma exhaled slowly, a weary grimace tugging at her features. "This whole war is treason, my lord," she answered, her voice heavy with the weight of her thoughts. "I fear what we have begun."

A lavish feast was hosted during supper to honour the Targaryen nobility who graced the halls of Winterfell. Aemma was resplendent—tireless to win over the young lord—in striking black velvet adorned with thick furs, her pendant sleeves embroidered with intricate dragon motifs. Beside her, on the grand table overlooking the Great Hall replete with folk, Luke wore a regal black pelt draped over his shoulders in the manner of dragon scales, the red sigil of his house prominently displayed on his raven armour.

Aemma's bell-like laugh rang out louder than the chortles among the men in the hall when one of Cregan's captains had cracked a joke about most of his men puffing up like overstuffed armchairs during their harshest winter from a few years ago.

Luke stewed in silence, observant of his sister's unstinting friendliness. She had effortlessly impressed upon the lord's heart, no doubt, now remained the lingering question of his obeisance. He subtly touched his elbow against Aemma's in a signal.

Aemma glimpsed him, wiping a tear from her eye, from laughing too hard. She happily cut another slice of pie onto her plate before adding a few slices of honeycake onto Luke's.

"Must you remain so shy, brother?" She waved to a table full of boys who appeared his age, engaged in lively dialogue. "Interactions would do you good."

"Well, these interactions would be more esteemed if I..." he sighed, peeking at his sister's silvery hair and angled features. "Never mind."

Aemma laid down her cutlery to scowl at him. "Luke."

"Nothing," he hedged.

"Tell me. What's wrong?" she urged softly.

He shook his head before he mumbled, "Some guards took me for an outsider when I ventured out to see Arrax. Perhaps they anticipated a dragonrider more akin to our uncle or mother."

Subdued by sympathy, Aemma palmed his shoulder and then his cheek. "It is the mark of our lineage to defy expectations, not simply hair and skin. You carry the legacy of the Conqueror and Old Valyria, Lucerys, no matter who you resemble." She let out a disbelieving giggle, tousling his hair. "Your steed is a dragon—how many among these people can claim such a distinguished feat?"

Luke's spirits were lifted by the reminder of his place and worth. He bared her a smile, shrugging. "You."

She tilted her head. "Besides, I think some people

More than anyone else, he felt acknowledged that Aemma valued him the most despite his differences. While Jace taught him to fight back, he learned from Aemma to take advantage of his disparities.

He took his sister's hand into his and held it to his lap silently. He didn't need to impart his thanks, he would not sour their bond with such silly presumption.

Cregan smiled to himself as he quietly listened to the conversation between the siblings. What misfortune indeed, he thought. Aemma would have been an incredible match for him, as a lady and his wife. Upon first impressions, integrity became her. Now, she carried herself with the succour of a good queen. Ice and fire would have found a home to coexist between them, here in the north.

"If I may, Lord Stark," Aemma called for his attention, clearing her throat. She was going to cut straight to the chase. "Your hospitality precedes you, truly. But our time here is scarce. The realm will be in dire straits if the North fails to recall the oath sworn to King Viserys and his rightful heir."

"The North remembers, princess," he declared.

Aemma let a relieving grin spread on her lips. His further words dampened her smile.

"But my gaze is forever torn between north and south. In winter, my duty to the Wall is even more dire than the one I owe to King's Landing." He pressed two emphatic fingers down on the table. "I need my men here."

"The Hightowers have usurped the throne," she insisted, her tone morose. "If my mother is to defend her claim, she needs an army. War is coming, my lord, and our queen cannot wage it without your support."

Murmurs and raucous conversations around them drown out their fortuitous silence.

Feeling as if her negotiation had come to nought, Aemma shrunk her shoulders and returned to her plate, staring out her defeat. Would this have been easier if she had remained unhasty, or even secretive, and brought forward a marriage pact to the lord? Would she take to pleading? Perhaps this was her impulse's due consequence.

"I have thousands of graybeards who've already seen too many winters," he pronounced, his attentive eyes yet to have left her face. "They are... well-honed."

A flicker of triumph appeared in her eyes before it vanished to steely-nerved determination. She nodded once at him before letting a curious smirk curl on her lips.

"They are old," she mentioned.

"They will fight hard." He leaned closer, whispering, "Like Northerners."

"Our queen would be honoured to have their prowess be of service to her," Aemma praised.

"I will ready them to march at once."

When she looked at her brother over her shoulder, she offered him a victorious wink. Luke responded with a slight nod, his lips curling into a bemused smile.

It was Lord Stark alone who bade farewell to the princess and princeling on the morrow whilst the sunshine still drifted behind a gloomy sky. He had shed his thick furs and menacing sword for his leather coat of plates, wishing for calm winds to carry the siblings on their arduous journey east.

Silverwing trilled a soft, melodic song, her wings beating gently as the pearly snow cascaded around her like dust motes in an abandoned hall. It was as if she were welcoming Aemma home. Aemma reached up, her hand brushing against Silverwing’s snout before trailing down the horned scales of her warm, thrumming throat.

"Iksan kesīr, gevie. Lykirī," Aemma murmured soothingly. (I am here, beautiful. Be calm.)

"A she-dragon," Cregan remarked, his tone laced with newfound understanding.

Silverwing nudged her great purring maw into Aemma's stomach, eliciting a chuckle from the princess.

She glanced at Cregan, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Does she take after her rider?" she teased.

Cregan’s lips curled into a smirk. "You’re only missing two wings, princess."

Before Aemma could respond, she heard Luke call her name, "Em!"

His voice was impatient, coming from where Arrax pawed at the ground, eager to escape the biting cold. Aemma’s laugh faltered as her gaze shifted to her brother. She stilled, seeing the shock written all over his face.

Luke’s awestruck gaze rested on a small, sizzling mound of snow, no taller than his sister’s knee, its shape undeniable—like a fresh dragon clutch. Silverwing had nested here during the night.

"What do we do?" Luke’s voice trembled slightly at the sight, unnerved by the prospect of what lay before them.

Aemma, caught between awe and uncertainty, steadied herself, her mind drifting to the wisdom of their mother. Only sharp reasoning would pull them through this.

"We... should take them with us to Storm’s End," she said, almost in a daze, her voice filled with calm resolve. "Perhaps we could offer an egg to Lord Borros, should he swear his fealty to our mother. He’s a vain man, she said. This could win him without any fuss."

Luke, still rattled but reassured by his sister’s clarity, flashed her a grateful grin. Without further hesitation, he drew his dagger and began slicing through the tough membrane covering the clutch. Inside, nestled in the steaming heat, lay three perfect dragon eggs, shimmering in silver, red, and violet.

"I really have seen everything," Cregan wondered to himself.

"Not in the slightest, m'lord," Luke huffed, glancing at Aemma.

He and Aemma carefully retrieved the eggs, their hands reverent as they placed them one by one into a satchel waiting nearby.

Luke, with a serious expression, secured the flap and slung the satchel over his shoulder. The weight of the future, the hope these eggs represented, now rested on him. He would carry them to Storm’s End, where he would face Lord Borros alone.

Aemma, sensing the significance of the moment, turned to Cregan, who stood quietly by her side, observing the scene. Her eyes, warm and earnest, met his.

"You've been a gracious host, my lord," she complimented, her voice soft but laced with hope.

Cregan’s gaze softened as he looked at her. "Much obliged, princess."

"I'm certain we will see each other once again. I'd love to show you around Dragonstone," Aemma said, a faint smile touching her lips as their eyes lingered for a moment longer.

"I await that day," he promised.

The siblings were again on the wing, charting a course to the Stormlands. It was a gruelling many-hours-long journey, so much so that Aemma began to rub her thighs raw from straddling the saddle.

Snow gave way to storm-wracked isles, and out of the horizon, rose the crests and spokes of the Storm's End fortress, centuries old in the gusty oceans with little wear to show for it. A single, colossal edifice, buttressed to the hilt endured the impending tempest like a fist of spikes.

The sight of menacing Vhagar cloistered in the outer courtyard had Aemma gleaming with a smile. Her heart painfully clenched in her chest when she realized that they had convened as opposing sides of their factionalized families, so any chance of meeting Aemond would be null.

So Aemma pursued Arrax's path of flight, descending off Silverwing who seemed to answer the gruff roars of Vhagar with her own hollers. An apprehensive Luke dismounted a shrieking Arrax to come up on the Baratheon soldiers whilst noticing Vhagar's looming head above the bridging battlements.

"Luke!" Aemma tried to yell at him.

He turned to nod at her, wilfully showing her the silver egg he had safely tucked between his chest and forearm. "I can do this, Emmy! Wait for me!"

"Let me come with you." Too bad, her words were a mere whisper in the gales and Luke had disappeared behind the impenetrable doors. The knights went back to their positions, evident that she would not be getting through.

Vhagar's savage roar rattled the bones in her ribcage. It unsettled Silverwing, too, who thundered back in return and advanced defensively over Aemma. She stood right beneath the fiery belly of her dragon, shielded between two towering wings.

Aemma touched Silverwing's shivering scales, stroking. Silverwing's tense growls subdued beneath her careful palms.

She attempted to console the impatient dragon. "Ssh. Skoros iksis ziry, Gēliotīkun?" (Ssh. What is it, Silverwing?)

Silverwing released another uncharacteristically aggressive roar, so deafening that Aemma had to press her palms tightly over her ears. Even Arrax had sensed a strange disturbance in the air, flapping his wings and bellowing out more shrieks.

"Lykiri, Silverwing. Iksan kesīr, paktot kesir," Aemma tried again, tilting her head up to catch Silverwing's auburn eye, (Calm down. I'm here, right here.)

Eventually, Silverwing sank her great head down by Aemma's side to blink her obscure emotion at her. Unknowingly, Aemma rubbed at the curve of her coarse jaw back and forth, conveying her consolation through her touch.

"Bastard!"

A vicious seethe boomed past the doors, cutting through the gushing winds following a whip of lightning and another of Vhagar's roars. The word crushed an unfeeling weight in her heart, especially with the deep voice it came bearing.

Aemma had not noticed Luke's hurried appearance out the bolted doors. She rushed to her brother's side, blood coursing through her veins, unease catching in her throat.

Luke, still clutching the dragon egg, had his eyes round with horror. "We need to leave. We need to leave now."

"What was that—what has happened?"

He shook his terrified head, half in words and half in gasps. "He wants... He wants my eye."

"Aemond," she whispered, now totally conscious.

"He was there!" Luke blustered. "He came with Dreamfyre's clutch and then he nearly cornered me!"

She inhaled deeply, understanding the full implication of his words. She had suspected for some time now the depth of his resolve. Her dearest friend had once told her, "Better to be feared than scorned," a sentiment laced with the retribution he believed he deserved. What kind of sister would she be if she allowed her little brother to believe that sacrificing his eye would quench the burning vengeance in her husband’s heart? Aemond was not going to leave this place without shedding blood—someone's blood. And she would not allow it to be Lucerys.

Vhagar's wings stormed up and into the grey clouds, leaving their line of sight.

Aemma gulped down her dread and quickly ushered Luke forward. No time to waste.

"Quickly. Get on Arrax," she ordered.

He nodded shakily. "You?"

"You fly first. I'll follow close behind—Silverwing and I will stand guard on your tail."

He was not convinced. "What if he—"

"I will keep you safe, as I always have." She held his trembling cheek firmly. "Aemond will not get past me."

She said this with all the confidence in her heart. If one thing she was certain about, Aemond would rather gouge out his other eye than see her harmed by his hand. Because that is exactly what Aemma would do, too. She trusted him enough to trust her instincts on this.

The rains whipped at them, harsher now, as if urging them off the island at once. Luke blustered calming commands at his twittering dragon before taking up the saddle and tightening his harness. Aemma stood by and watched him fly off, and then she dashed to Silvering, who waited with her torso lowered to the ground, awaiting her.

As soon as Aemma mounted her, she shouted, "Soves, Silverwing!"

A thunderclap cracked the darkened sky, and their dragons roared. It wasn't a dance anymore—this was a full-blown war.

Up ahead, through a blurry film of clouds, Arrax bolted on, battling the rain and winds. Luke looked behind him, his fright shifting to reassurance when she spotted Silverwing, as promised, close on his tail. He would have some probability of avoidance tonight, thanks to his sister.

Vhagar threatened them from above, casting a pall over them, ten times larger than Arrax, particularly more battle-worn than Silverwing.

"Dracarys!" Aemond's vindictive growl shattered between them.

Bright amber flames gushed forth, not meaning to harm either of them, only meant to separate them. As if to kindle the vestige of doubt that flashed in her mind, Aemma gasped when Silverwing staggered, trilling in surprise.

Beyond, Luke had twisted Arrax, deftly switching his direction to find cover between the clouds. A breath of relief staggered into her chest.

"Vhagar, daor!" She heard her husband's anguished yell.

Grasping the peril in the moment, she discerned what Aemond had yelled for. There was a bigger prey to hunt for Vhagar as her wings moved forth. Wings thumping and jaw-snapping, she was coming for Silverwing now.

"Come and get me," Aemma challenged, twisting the reins around her wrist tighter.

Silverwing was swift and more agile than Vhagar, so she had the upper hand in fleeing, utilizing it to the maximum. She angled off to see Aemond, hair slicked from the rain and handsome face deformed to pain, seeming a lot like that nervous boy from her memories, control slipping from his fingers.

"No, no, no..." he muttered. What was she doing? Idiot, fool, my love, flee!

His single eye roved toward her, Aemma’s fingers tightening around the rim of her helm. Those doe eyes of hers were unmistakable—both a caution and a plea.

His gaze softened ever so slightly, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. Warning her. Begging her. Anything to spare her from the madness that had engulfed them all.

Aemond's usual sharpness faded when his eye rested on Aemma and her dragon. He didn’t want her caught in this whirlwind of vengeance, didn’t want to see dread in her eyes. For a brief moment, regret clouded his expression, as if wishing to pull her away from the violent path fate had carved out.

But Aemma would never run. She would face it, head-on, so many times he had seen this. She would do anything to protect her brother. Aemond knew this, and it both enraged and pained him. What about him? What about her dear friend?

His jaw tightened as his fingers flexed around his handgrips, knuckles whitening under the weight of a choice he didn’t want to make. She stood her ground, flying onward, defiant and fearless, the same fire that lived within their bloodline burning bright in her.

"Don’t do this," his voice was barely a whisper, almost lost in the wind, but she caught it.

It wasn’t a command—it was a plea. He didn’t want to see her hurt, didn’t want to be the cause of it. His breath hitched, the internal struggle tearing at him, and for the first time in a long time, he was vulnerable.

Aemma, in her silent resolve, glanced upward, to the sheet of roiling clouds where Arrax soared as a silent shadow. She was her brother's shield, his protector, even when she was outmatched. The bond between them was unshakable, something Aemond could almost respect—almost envy. His heart twisted as he realized that. Aegon would never do that for him, be that for him.

But this was the world they lived in. He was bound by duty and pride, while she, unyielding and courageous, would never leave her brother's side. And in that moment, Aemond knew—no matter what he felt, this battle wasn’t his to stop.

It was then that everything happened in the blink of an eye, too fast for any to fully comprehend—save for one. Prince Lucerys Velaryon, the sole witness, would carry the weight of what he saw that day for the rest of his life. The memory would be a haunting spectre, etched into his mind like a scar never to heal.

A jagged bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the chaos unfolding above. From out of the storm’s fury came Silverwing, her silvery-blue form cutting through the dark clouds like a blade. She appeared from the blindside, as if summoned by the tempest itself, her wings sweeping back to gain speed. With a sudden, terrifying dip, she collided with Vhagar, catching the ancient behemoth off guard.

Vhagar's massive jaws were spread wide, ready to unleash destruction, but Silverwing struck first; not in an attack, but a defence.

Her momentum was devastating—saddle-first, she slammed into Vhagar's gaping maw, throwing the larger dragon off her path. The collision was like thunder in the air, the sound of scales and bone crashing together echoing through the storm. Both dragons reeled from the impact, spiralling in the sky, their forms twisted in a violent struggle as they plummeted from the heavens.

For a moment, they seemed weightless, like leaves tossed about in a gale, their massive bodies buckling and capsizing as they lost control. Vhagar, once so fearsome and prevalent, was forced into an ungainly descent, wings flailing as she tried to recover her balance and safeguard her rider. Silverwing, though smaller, was relentless, her own wings stretched wide to slow her fall, her screech piercing through the roar of the storm.

From far above, Lucerys could do nothing but watch in helpless terror, the clash of the dragons above unfolding in a chaotic dance of survival. His breath caught in his throat. What he had witnessed would haunt him till his dying breath.

Three desperate shouts rose in the air.

"Sister!"

"Aemma!"

Aemma’s piercing, hopeless scream echoed in Luke’s ears as Aemond resurfaced from his reckless dive, now reining in the immense form of Vhagar, who had steadied with lethal grace beneath him. Aemond grunted, prepared to berate his wife from atop his dragon for such rashness.

But then he noticed Silverwing—far below, plummeting ever faster toward the turbulent seas, a pale streak against the darkness, spiralling out of control. Her familiar trill had vanished, ruined by the roaring gales.

Confusion gripped him, suspicion withering, only to be replaced by a creeping dread. His grip on the reins tightened as he pieced together the gravity of his mistake. Something had gone terribly wrong, not just in the chaos of the battle but in the very fabric of his choices.

And then, the realization struck with the force of a dagger to the heart. His mind raced back to what he had truly seen in that final moment—Silverwing’s saddle, empty.

"Aemma!" His yell was gobbled by the thrumming roar of his dragon.

It was over Shipbreaker’s Bay, the histories tell us, that Princess Aemma Velaryon, Queen Rhaenyra’s heir and dearest daughter, plunged to her death, swallowed by the unforgiving sea below. She was but sixteen years old. Her body was never recovered.

To this day, no one knows for certain whether it was her desperate haste to protect her brother that caused her to forget to fasten her harness or if it was the wrath of her husband’s vengeance, a grim twist of fate that claimed her life. The darker tales whisper of betrayal—that Princess Aemma was murdered, felled by the very hand sworn to protect her, the hand of her husband, Aemond Targaryen, whose thirst for blood ran deeper than his vows.

Regardless of which tale you believe, one truth remains clear: the light had dimmed on both sides of the Targaryen war. With Aemma’s death, the last beacon of hope, her ambitions, and her courage, all were lost to the salt and sea.

I promise I'm working on the next part—or do I?

39 notes · View notes