#valaena x corlys

[diva-calderu]

Dragons Galore Verse

For @writingsofwesteros

[nightingale2004]

What I think HOTD Ships would name their children

Jacegon: Jaehaera and Jaehaerys (twins), Valerion, Visenya, Aerea, and Rhaenar

Lucemond: Rhaegar, Rhaellyra, Vaenaera, Laenor, Valaeria, Aerys and Aenys (twins), Maegelle, Alyssa, Saera, Corlys, and Aemara

Baelaena (Baela x Helaena): Laena and Maella (twins), and Naerea

Rhaemund (Rhaena x Garmund): Valaena, Danaera, Orea, Rosalyn, Jeyne, Baeryssa, and Rhaenyssa (twins)

Joffron (Daeron x Joffrey): Aemon, Gaemon, Aelix, Naerys, and Aethan

[kckt88]

Scorched Hearts IV

Summary:

'We loved with a love that was more than love - Edgar Allen Poe'

Viserys has passed and the Greens have usurped the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra's grief causes her to suffer a devestating loss and Valaena resolves to see Aemond despite the risk.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Secret Relationship, Child Loss, Grief, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Oral Sex, P in V, & Blood.

AEMOND x O.C Niece

Word Count: 5540

A.N - Going over old ground but it needs to be done.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole

Valaena stood on the balcony attached to her chambers, gazing out at the turbulent sea beyond Dragonstone. Her thoughts were far away, lost in the memory of Aemond.

She absentmindedly touched her stomach, her fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of her dress, when a distant sound pulled her back to the present—the roar of an approaching dragon.

She looked to the sky, catching sight of Meleys, circling above Dragonstone. The dragon dipped lower and disappeared into the cliffside entrance beneath the castle.

Rushing from her room, Valaena made her way through the winding corridors until she found her mother and Daemon standing by the painted table in the Great Hall.

Just as she arrived, a guard, Ser Laurent, entered, his face grave.

"Princess Rhaenys has just arrived and requests an urgent word," he announced.

Rhaenyra nodded, her expression growing tense as she beckoned Valaena to stand beside her. Valaena quickly took her place, her heart beating faster with each passing second.

Moments later, Princess Rhaenys entered the room, her face solemn.

Rhaenyra was the first to speak, her voice steady. “Princess Rhaenys, might we hope for news of Lord Corlys’ recovery?”

Rhaenys took a deep breath, gathering herself before delivering the devastating news. “Viserys is dead. I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra. My cousin, your father, possessed a kind heart.”

Valaena’s eyes widened in shock, her body going still as the words sank in.

Viserys is dead.

She instinctively reached for her mother, placing a comforting hand on her arm as Rhaenyra’s composure crumbled.

A heavy silence followed. Rhaenyra’s hand moved to her rounded stomach as tears spilled from her eyes, rolling down her pale cheeks.

Valaena could feel her own throat tighten as the weight of her grandsire's death settled deep within her.

“There is more,” Rhaenys continued, her tone grave. “Aegon has been crowned as his successor.”

The words hit like a storm. Valaena gasped, her voice trembling. “What?”

“T-They crowned him?” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice broken, as if she couldn’t believe what she had just heard.

Daemon, standing beside Rhaenyra, was quiet for a moment, his face tight with restrained fury. “How did Viserys die?” he asked quietly.

“I could not say,” replied Rhaenys, her voice laced with sorrow.

“How long ago?” Daemon pressed.

“A day passed, perhaps two. I was made a prisoner in my quarters while the Queen made her preparations—” said Rhaenys.

Valaena was already reeling from the revelation.

Aegon, crowned King? Viserys dead?

Daemon, ever the warrior, gripped the edge of the painted table, his knuckles white. “Viserys has been slain.”

“Alicent demanded that you declare for Aegon,” Rhaenyra said bitterly, tears still streaming down her face.

“She did,” Rhaenys confirmed, her expression hardening. “I refused her.”

“Yet you are alive,” Daemon snapped, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“The High Septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit. I witnessed it myself just before I fled on Meleys,” Rhaenys explained. “T-They crowned him before the masses, so that the people would see him as their rightful king.”

Daemon’s fury exploded, his voice filled with venom. “That whore of a queen murdered my brother and stole his throne, and you could have burned them all for it!”

Rhaenys, her face set, replied firmly. “A war will be fought over this treachery, to be sure, but that is not my war to begin.”

Valaena, trying to process the enormity of the situation, turned to her mother, concern etched on her face. "Mother are you alright?"

Before Rhaenyra could respond, she grimaced in pain, clutching her stomach as a fresh wave of anguish coursed through her.

“D-Daemon-” she gasped, her hand pressing to her belly, her face pale.

Rhaenys, alarmed, stepped forward. “I brought you this news out of loyalty to my house. You should leave Dragonstone at once. The greens will come for you, Rhaenyra, and your children,” she urged, her voice strained with urgency.

But Rhaenyra barely heard anything she said, her eyes widening in alarm as she suddenly doubled over, gasping in pain. She quickly gathered up her dress, her hand flying between her legs.

“The babe-the babe is coming,” Rhaenyra gasped, staring at her blood-soaked hand.

Valaena stood nervously at the edge of the room, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched Maester Gerardys speaking in hushed tones to the older midwives gathered around her mother.

"Her term is far from complete," Gerardys muttered, his brow furrowed with concern. "This should not be happening."

Rhaenyra, hunched over in pain, snapped at him. "It is fucking happening."

One of the older midwives, a woman who had been through countless births, stepped forward, her voice calm despite the chaos. "Keep your head about you, Princess. Come, let us help."

Elinda, tried to reassure Rhaenyra. "We’ve done this five times before, Princess. Keep your spirit, and the sixth will be no different."

But Rhaenyra, overwhelmed by the pain and fear, pushed them away, her voice trembling. "Get off, get off, get off, get off!"

"Mother, please," Valaena begged, her voice filled with worry as she moved to her mother's side. "Let them help you."

Rhaenyra didn’t listen. Tears streamed down her face as another wave of pain overtook her. "Ow, ow, ow," she cried, hunching over, her whole body trembling.

Valaena reached for her mother’s hand, holding it tightly, desperate to offer some comfort.

Just then, Jace and Luke entered the room, their young faces filled with concern as they stood by Maester Gerardys.

Rhaenyra, still struggling through her labour, looked at her sons, her voice thick with emotion.

"Your grandsire, King Viserys, has passed."

Luke gasped in disbelief. "V-Viserys?"

Rhaenyra nodded, her tears mixing with her pain. "The Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne. Aegon has been crowned king."

Jacaerys, always the bold one, stepped forward, his voice tense. "What is to be done about it?"

Rhaenyra, barely able to catch her breath through the agony of her labour, snapped, "Nothing yet."

Jace frowned, his brow furrowed. "And where is Daemon?"

Rhaenyra shook her head, frustration and anguish mingling on her face. "I don’t know. Gone to madness. Gone to plot his war."

Jace, brimming with determination, turned to leave. "Leave Daemon with me."

"Jace!" Rhaenyra called out, trying to stop him, but her son ignored her, too consumed by the news of war.

"Jacaerys!" shouted Valaena, trying to catch her brother’s attention.

Rhaenyra, her face pale, looked to her son. "Whatever claim remains to me, Valaena is now its heir. Naught is to be done but by my command."

Jace, hearing his mother’s words, paused for a moment before nodding. He left the room, Luke trailing behind him, both of them grim-faced and determined.

Rhaenyra’s labour worsened, her cries filling the room. She screamed for Daemon, but he did not come.

Her pain seemed unbearable as she collapsed to the floor, and Valaena, her heart breaking, knelt beside her mother.

"Mother, please," Valaena pleaded, her own tears spilling over. "Let them help you."

Elinda, stepped forward again. "You should not do this alone," she urged, but Rhaenyra, too far gone in her agony, ignored them all.

With a final, anguished scream, Rhaenyra began to push. "Get out, get out!" she wailed, her body trembling violently. Valaena stayed by her mother’s side, holding her hand tightly, her own face streaked with tears.

Rhaenyra, gasping for breath, turned to her daughter, her eyes wild with desperation. "Valaena- help me-it’s coming."

With shaking hands, Valaena moved forward, positioning herself to catch the babe as it came. Her heart raced, fear and sorrow overwhelming her as her mother pushed again.

The babe slipped into her hands with a wet squelch, followed by a rush of blood and fluid. But as Valaena looked down, she froze.

The babe was still, unmoving. And more than that—it was not like any babe she had ever seen. Its skin was covered in scales, and it had tiny, malformed horns on its head. It looked like a half-breed between a human and a dragon.

Valaena’s hands trembled as she held the lifeless form, staring down at the twisted body of her baby sister.

"It’s a girl," she whispered, her voice cracking. Tears filled her eyes as she gently cradled the babe, her heart shattering.

Rhaenyra, despite her exhaustion and pain, reached out her arms. "Give her to me," she whispered, her voice soft and broken.

Valaena hesitated for only a moment before carefully placing the stillborn child into her mother’s arms.

Rhaenyra held the babe to her chest, rocking back and forth as tears poured down her face. She began to hum a lullaby, the sound fragile and filled with immeasurable sorrow.

Valaena knelt beside her mother, her hands stained with blood, her mind numb from the shock and grief. She barely noticed when the door opened, and Daemon entered the room.

His face, usually so composed, was stricken with grief as he crossed the room and knelt beside Rhaenyra.

He wrapped his arm around her, resting his head on her shoulder as they mourned together in silence.

Valaena stood up slowly, retreating to give them space, her heart heavy with the weight of all they had lost.

Valaena rushed from the room, her breath hitching as she fought back the sobs rising in her chest.

Her vision blurred with tears as she stumbled down the stone corridors of Dragonstone, barely aware of her surroundings.

When she reached her chambers, she slammed the door shut behind her and leaned heavily against it, her body shaking with grief.

She looked down at her hands, still covered in blood—the blood of her mother and stillborn sister. The sight made her stomach turn.

Desperate to rid herself of the reminder, she rushed to the basin near her bed, frantically scrubbing at her hands until her skin turned red from the effort.

But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she still felt the weight of the loss, the blood on her hands like a stain she couldn't erase.

Her strength faltered, and she collapsed onto her bed, burying her face into the pillow. The sobs she had been holding back finally broke free, wracking her body with each breath.

Her heart felt like it was being torn in two—the death of her grandsire, still fresh in her mind, and now the loss of her baby sister.

Minutes passed, or perhaps hours—time lost meaning in the storm of her emotions. Eventually, the tears slowed, leaving her with nothing but an aching emptiness.

Valaena lay still for a while, staring at nothing, her body heavy with exhaustion. But even as the pain lingered, a single thought pushed through the haze: she needed to see him.

She knew she shouldn’t—she knew it wasn’t wise—but she couldn’t face this grief alone.

She needed Aemond.

Wiping the last of her tears, Valaena stood up and moved to her desk. Her hand trembled slightly as she pulled out a scrap of parchment.

She stared at the blank page for a moment, then quickly scribbled Īlva dīnagon (Our place).

Her heart beat faster as she readied herself, quickly changing out of her blood-stained gown and into her riding leathers.

The familiar weight of the leather against her skin brought her a measure of focus, though the pain still gnawed at her insides.

Once she was dressed, she folded the parchment and slipped it into her hand before leaving her chambers, her steps urgent.

She made her way through the winding halls of Dragonstone to the rookery, her mind spinning with thoughts of him.

The grief, the anger, the pain—they all swirled together, but through it all, she knew Aemond was the only one who could give her comfort. He had to.

At the rookery, she handed the message to the maester on duty, her voice tight. “Send this at once-and tell no one of its destination”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and hurried away, making her way down the winding stairs that led deep into the caverns below the castle.

Her destination was Silverwing's lair, where her dragon waited for her. As she descended further into the depths of the caverns, the familiar hum of her bond with Silverwing pulsed faintly in the back of her mind, a connection she desperately needed now more than ever.

Valaena reached the lair, her breath catching as she caught sight of Silverwing, the great silvery dragon resting in the shadows.

Valaena ran her fingers along Silverwing’s smooth scales before the dragon lowered her shoulder, allowing her to climb into the saddle.

Taking a deep breath, Valaena took hold of the reins and leaned forward “Sōvēs” (Fly).

Silverwing rumbled in response, her massive form shifting as she began to move, her claws scraping against the stone floor of the cavern as she lumbered forward.

The ground trembled beneath the dragon’s weight as she made her way to the cave’s entrance.

Once outside, the cool night air hit Valaena’s face, but the brisk wind did little to clear the storm of emotions brewing inside her.

With a powerful beat of her wings, Silverwing leapt into the air, sending dust and loose rocks scattering in all directions.

The dragon soared upward, her vast wings slicing through the night sky. Valaena gripped the reins tightly, the wind whipping through her hair as they ascended higher and higher.

Valaena knew that reaching out to Aemond could be a mistake. The Greens had usurped the throne, and with her mother now the rightful queen, the chasm between their families had widened beyond repair.

War loomed on the horizon, and bloodshed seemed inevitable.

But still, Valaena couldn’t stop herself. She needed to see him, to feel his presence one last time. Maybe it was foolish—maybe it would change nothing—but she had to face him.

Even if it was only to say goodbye.

Valaena landed softly on the ground as she slid down Silverwing's wing membrane, her boots sinking slightly into the soft earth with a muted thud.

She ran a hand along the dragon's shimmering scales, her touch gentle as she pressed her forehead to Silverwing’s side.

"Gaomagon urnēbagon riña," she whispered (Keep watch, girl).

Silverwing gave a low, rumbling chirp, her large eyes blinking slowly as she settled in for her vigil.

Taking a breath, Valaena moved towards the cabin. The small, secluded hideaway held a bittersweet familiarity.

She took the key that she always kept hidden in one of the  saddlebags and slid it into the lock with a soft click.

The door creaked as she pushed it open, the scent of the forest mixed with old wood greeting her.

Inside, the cabin was quiet and dim. The hearth was cold, but a small stack of leftover logs sat by the fire pit.

Valaena knelt and carefully piled the wood into the hearth, her movements slow and deliberate as she picked up the flint.

The familiar scrape of stone against metal filled the room, followed by the sudden spark that caught the dry kindling.

Slowly, the flames took hold, flickering to life and bathing the cabin in a warm, soft glow.

Valaena stood and shrugged off the top layer of her riding leathers, her body aching with exhaustion and sorrow.

She moved toward the bed, her hand trailing along the rough-hewn wooden furniture before climbing beneath the thick fur blanket. The warmth wrapped around her, but it did little to ease the chill in her heart.

She couldn’t help but wonder if Aemond would come.

Would he heed it? Or had he realized the truth—that their love, whatever it had been, was now doomed?

The Greens had taken everything from her family, stolen her birthright, and shattered any hope of peace.

The fire crackled softly as she leaned back into the furs, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Her mind raced with thoughts of Aemond. What could they possibly be to one another now? The chasm between their families, was now too vast to bridge.

She closed her eyes, her breath shaky as she whispered a silent prayer to the gods, hoping Aemond would come.

Valaena was startled awake by the deafening roar of Silverwing outside the cabin, her heart racing as the sound of her dragon’s distress reached her ears.

She threw off the fur blanket, jumping out of bed, and rushed outside into the cold night air. Her eyes went immediately to the sky, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the massive, form of Vhagar circling overhead, her deep, resonant roar shaking the very ground beneath Valaena’s feet.

Silverwing reared up, her wings flaring in response, the gentlest of dragons ready to defend her rider if necessary.

Valaena raised her hand, her voice steady but urgent. "Umbās! Silverwing, Lykirī!" (Wait, be calm).

Her loyal dragon obeyed but moved protectively forward, her keen eyes locked onto Vhagar as the massive dragon descended.

When Vhagar landed nearby, the earth trembled beneath her immense weight, and the air seemed to vibrate with the presence of the ancient dragon.

"Sȳz riña," Valaena murmured softly to Silverwing, praising her dragon for staying calm despite the threat of Vhagar's arrival (Good girl).

She cast one last glance at the sky to make sure no other dragons were approaching before she retreated into the cabin.

Valaena tried to prepare herself for the conversation she had imagined in her head, rehearsing the words she would say.

But when she heard the door open behind her and Aemond's familiar voice calling her name, all those carefully crafted words dissolved like mist.

Without thinking, Valaena turned and ran straight into his arms, her sobs breaking free as Aemond held her tightly, his strong hands soothing as he hushed her gently.

"She's gone," Valaena choked out between her sobs.

Aemond pulled back slightly, his brow furrowed with confusion. "Who?" he asked softly.

"Visenya," Valaena whispered, her voice trembling. "The babe-my mother’s babe was stillborn."

Aemond’s expression softened with understanding, and he sighed, his grip on her tightening. "I’m sorry for your loss," he said, his voice heavy with sincerity.

Valaena looked up at him, her hand rising to caress his face—but in a sudden surge of emotion, she slapped him.

The sound of the blow echoed in the small cabin, and Aemond staggered back, his eye wide with shock as he shoved her away from him.

"What was that for?" he demanded, anger flashing in his voice.

"For usurping the throne," Valaena spat, her eyes blazing.

Aemond’s face darkened, his lips curling into a scowl. "Aegon is the firstborn son. The crown belongs to him," he retorted sharply.

Valaena scoffed, her anger bubbling to the surface. "Just because he's a male? Do you honestly believe having a cock is a true qualifying factor?" she snapped.

"That is the world we live in," Aemond shot back, his voice tight with frustration. "A son inherits over a daughter."

"And what about me?" Valaena demanded, her voice shaking with fury. "I’m my mother’s heir over my brother. Is that meaningless too?"

"That was your mother’s choice," Aemond replied coolly.

"Yes, and my grandsire chose my mother to succeed him—not that drunken whore Aegon," she fired back, her eyes narrowing.

"He changed his mind," Aemond insisted, his voice growing more defensive.

"According to who?" Valaena demanded, stepping closer to him.

"My mother-she attended him in his final moments” Aemond said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Valaena shook her head, her eyes filling with tears once more. "My grandsire steadfastly upheld my mother’s claim for over twenty years. He dragged himself from his sickbed to defend her just days ago, and now you expect me to believe that he suddenly changed his mind. Do me a favour, Aemond."

"It’s irrelevant now," Aemond muttered, turning away from her. "Aegon is king."

"Hardly," Valaena scoffed. "Crowning him in the Dragonpit does not make him a king."

"In the eyes of gods and men, it does," Aemond said with cold finality.

"There you go again—men, men, men! I’m sick of hearing about them!" Valaena cried, her voice cracking with emotion. "Pathetic creatures who think they’re entitled to everything when, in fact, they are entitled to nothing."

Aemond’s eye narrowed, his voice low and hurt. "So, is that what you really think of me?"

Valaena paused, her fury draining away as she met his gaze. "No," she whispered, her voice softer now. "You were everything to me."

"And what am I now?" Aemond asked, his tone a mix of pain and desperation.

Valaena shook her head, unable to answer. "I don’t know," she whispered. "What do you want to be?"

Aemond stepped closer to her, his voice low and pleading. "I want to be with you. Like before."

Valaena’s heart clenched, her eyes filling with tears. "We can never be like we were before," she said sadly.

"I don’t want to lose you," Aemond whispered, his hand reaching for hers.

Valaena pulled away, her voice trembling. "What choice do we have?”

“Otto wants me to fly to Storm’s End,” said Aemond, his voice rough with frustration. “To offer my hand in marriage to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters”

Valaena felt her heart lurch in her chest, her throat tightening with emotion. She blinked back tears, her hands trembling as she whispered, “There is something I need to tell you.”

Aemond’s gaze sharpened, the faintest hint of alarm creeping into his features. “What is it?” he asked, stepping closer.

Valaena swallowed hard, her eyes downcast as the words spilled from her in a choked rush. “I’m carrying your child.”

The silence that followed her confession was deafening. Aemond stood frozen, his breath catching in his throat. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Valaena nodded, tears spilling over as she spoke. “Maester Gerardys confirmed it, before we travelled to King’s Landing.”

Aemond’s expression softened as he slowly reached out, his hand trembling as he pressed it against her stomach.

“You knew then” he said, his voice thick with disbelief, “and you never told me?”

Tears welled in Valaena’s eyes as she shook her head. “How could I, Aemond? What difference would it have made?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his frustration returning. “I could have beseeched Viserys. Told him of our relationship, of our child. He could have ordered our marriage!”

Valaena wiped at her tears, her voice laced with a bitter sorrow. “It wouldn’t have mattered. He would still die, and any plans he made for us would have been undone”

“Valaena-” muttered Aemond.

 “What am I to do, Aemond?” Valaena asked, her voice breaking. “Rid myself of our babe, and you go on to marry your chosen Baratheon bitch while my hand is offered to Cregan Stark or Dalton Greyjoy for an alliance? Are we to forget what we had until we inevitably face one another on dragon back, and fight to the death?”

Aemond’s eyes darkened, and he shook his head fiercely. “No,” he said, his voice low with intensity. “I will not let this happen.”

Valaena turned away from him, her heart breaking. "Just promise me one thing. I-If I am to die, I-I would rather it be by your hand, I-I wish for your face to be the last thing I gaze upon-"

Aemond roughly grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him, his eye blazing with emotion. "Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that again-" he growled.

"What are we to do?" Valaena whispered, tears streaming down her face. "We can’t be together, and yet, I can’t bear the thought of you with someone else."

Aemond’s hands cupped her face, his voice fierce with determination. "I will not take another. I want you, only you, forever."

Before Valaena could respond, Aemond’s lips crashed into hers in a passionate, desperate kiss.

Aemond pressed his forehead against Valaena's, their breath mingling. “Marry me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with urgency.

Valaena gasped, eyes wide with disbelief. “What?”

“Marry me,” Aemond repeated, the intensity in his gaze unwavering. “Tonight. Right here. Right Now”

“But how?” Valaena asked, her heart pounding in her chest.

Without a word, Aemond reached for the shard of dragon glass that hung from the necklace Valaena always wore, his fingers gently brushing her collarbone as he grasped it.

“In the tradition of our house,” he murmured, holding the sharp, black stone between them. “We need nothing else.”

Valaena hesitated. “But it won’t be recognized by the Faith,” she said, though her resolve was weakening, her heart already leaning toward him.

Aemond shook his head, his hand cupping her cheek. “I don’t care. I want you.” He dropped his hand to rest against her stomach. “I wish to show my commitment to you, to our child.”

“But what about—” Valaena began to protest, the weight of everything outside the cabin crashing in.

Aemond cut her off with a fierce kiss. His lips stole the breath from her, leaving her momentarily dazed.

When he pulled away, his voice was firm but gentle. “I do not wish to discuss anything else at this moment. Right now, I want to make you, my wife. Everything else can wait.”

Valaena’s heart ached, torn between her mind’s logic and her heart’s desire.

But she found herself nodding, the truth of what she wanted burning brighter than the uncertainties.

Aemond’s lips curved into a smile. He brushed a thumb across her cheek before whispering, “Remove your clothes.”

Valaena raised a brow. “I’m pretty sure that’s not part of the ceremony.”

“It is now,” Aemond grinned mischievously, already pulling off his own clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor beside the fire.

Valaena shook her head but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her as she began to shed her own layers, feeling the warmth of the fire wash over her bare skin.

Once they were both bare, Aemond had her sit in front of the fireplace, the glow of the flames casting a soft light over them.

Aemond rummaged through one of the drawers, and with a triumphant noise, he pulled out a goblet, wiping the rim quickly before sitting down across from her.

“Are we really doing this?” Valaena asked, still amazed by the moment they found themselves in.

“Yes,” Aemond said, his voice low and steady. “We are.” He handed her the shard of dragon glass. “Do you know the words?”

Valaena nodded, her pulse quickening as she accepted the glass. She took her turn in cutting Aemond’s lip with the shard.

They exchanged looks, never breaking eye contact as Aemond cut her lip in return. Together, they marked each other’s foreheads with the sacred symbols of their house—fire and blood.

Aemond unflinchingly drew the shard across his palm, his blood flowing freely. He offered the shard to Valaena, and without hesitation, she did the same.

They joined hands, allowing their blood to mix, their fates sealed together.

Aemond’s voice was steady as he recited the ancient words of their house. “Hen lanoti ānogar, Va sȳndroti vaedroma, Mēro perzot gīhoti, Elēdroma āirza sīr, Izulī amapā perzi.” (Blood of two, joined as one, Ghostly flame and song of shadows, Two hearts as embers).

Valaena’s voice trembled slightly, but she held Aemond’s gaze as she answered, “Prumī lanti sēteksi, Hen jenȳ māzīlarion, Qēlossa ozundesi, Syndroro ono jēdo, Rȳ kīvia mazvestraksi.” (Forged in fourteen fires, A future promised in glass, The stars stand witness, The vow spoken through time, Of darkness and light).

Their mingled blood dripped into the goblet. Aemond drank first, his lips stained with the red liquid, and then he offered the goblet to Valaena.

Without hesitation, she drank, the taste of their shared blood a potent reminder that they were now bound, forever entwined by fire, by blood, by love.

The vows complete, they sealed their bond with a kiss, their blood mixing once more as their lips met, their fate sealed in that timeless tradition.

Aemond pulled away only slightly, his forehead resting against hers, his breath mingling with hers.

“Now,” he whispered, his voice husky, “-we shall consummate this marriage.”

He kissed her deeply, their shared passion igniting once more as he gently laid her back onto the soft fur rug in front of the fire.

He covered her body with his as he sucked and licked at the delicate skin of her neck, leaving red marks in his wake.

Valaena moved her head to the side and moaned loudly as she felt Aemond’s teeth nipping at her skin.

“I love you-I love you so much” breathed Aemond as he trailed a hand slowly down her body.

Valaena audibly gasped when she felt Aemond’s fingers rubbing her folds.

“O-Oh Aemond” exclaimed Valaena as her husband slipped a finger inside her, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Always so warm-so wet for me” muttered Aemond as he added another finger, making sure to use his thumb, sweeping it against her pearl.

“I don’t want to wait-please husband take me” whispered Valaena, as she wrapped her legs around Aemond’s waist, holding him as close as she could.

Aemond took his cock in hand, running the head along his wife’s warm wet folds, before he pressed inside her, inching forward slowly.

As his hips finally met hers, he rested for a moment, savouring the feeling of her wrapped around him.

“Issa gevie ābrazȳrys” whispered Aemond (My beautiful wife).

“P-Please Aemond” whimpered Valaena.

Aemond began to move with a slow, deep grinding. His movements deliberate and calculated.

“Gods be good,” panted Valaena.

“Fuck. You were made for me, my wife. You were made to fit my cock in this sweet cunt of yours.” breathed Aemond as he increased the pace of this thrusts.

“A-Aemond. Please.” exclaimed Valaena as she brings her hands up to his shoulders, clinging to him as his thrusts shift her up and down, her back rubbing awkwardly against the rug.

Aemond makes a strangled sort of sound and lowers himself onto Valaena even more, kissing her passionately.

His rolling against hers, his cock is still thrusting in and out.

Valaena kisses him back, now threading her fingers through his long silky hair, her nails scraping against his scalp, just the way he likes it.

“ñuhon” muttered Aemond (Mine).

Valaena can feel herself clenching around him as his cock keeps hitting the same spot inside her.

“Ooo Aemond-f-faster. P-please”

Aemond lets out a loud groan as he begins to move faster pounding into her, the sound of their skin slapping together echoing around the cabin.

“Aemond-Aemond-”

“You’re so fucking perfect-” growls Aemond.

“Y-Yes. P-please” moaned Valaena squirming, the heat shooting across her abdomen as her pleasure peaks, and she explodes, her cunt tightening around Aemond.

Aemond lets out a long low groan, his movements becoming erratic. His cock throbbing as he spills his seed inside her.

Aemond’s hips finally stagger and stop. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, not wanting to move away from her.

A lone tear trickled from his eye, his cock having gone soft inside of her, but he had no desire to pull out.

He just wanted to stay, like this. Just for a little while longer, the feel of her heartbeat and the warmth of her breath was soothing to him.

Aemond lay on his side behind Valaena, propped up on one elbow, his hand resting protectively on her stomach.

The flickering light of the fire bathed their bare skin in a soft glow, casting long shadows that danced across the cabin walls.

Valaena stared into the flames, her mind racing, her heart conflicted. "What's going to happen now?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond, with a slight smirk, shifted his hand slightly over her belly. “I don’t suppose you fancy coming to King's Landing and declaring for Aegon?” he teased.

Valaena immediately scowled, turning her head slightly to glare at him. “Betray my mother? And be used as leverage to force her into submission? No thanks.”

Aemond chuckled lightly, his smirk widening. "Was worth a try."

Valaena huffed, rolling her eyes but unable to suppress a small smile at his dry humour. “Why don’t you declare for my mother then?”

Aemond laughed, though there was a trace of bitterness in his voice. “Same reasons apply.”

 “How are we ever going to be together?” whispered Valaena, her voice breaking slightly as the reality of their circumstances weighed heavily on her heart.

Aemond pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder, lingering there as he thought. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, filling the long silence between them.

He remained quiet for a while, his mind working through the gravity of the only option left to them.

Eventually, he spoke, his voice low and measured. “There is but one way for us to be together now.”

Valaena tensed slightly “How?” she asked, her breath catching, fear and hope warring within her.

Aemond’s fingers traced soft circles over her skin, his gaze steady as he met hers. “Do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” she whispered, her hand moving to rest atop his, their fingers entwining over her stomach.

TBC

[witchofhimring]

Aemond Targaryen x Reader HOTD AU (what if women had the same rights as men?)

In this AU women have the same rights as men which changes the history of Westeros. In this story the reader comes from an island off Westeros and marries into the Targaryen family.

I do not know if I will make a book of this concept by I will make headcanons and one shots. Certain aspects will be changed from the books.

This list includes OC's. The next post about this AU will cover Reader's children and grandchildren.

Queens:

Visenya the Conqueror

Parents: Aerion Targaryen and Valaena Velayon

Spouce(s): Aegon Targaryen

Children: Maegor Targaryen

Reign: 1 AC-44 AC

Birth: 29 AC

Death: 44 AC

Canon changes: Rules in her own right and rides Balerion instead of Vaeghar.

Maegor the Strong

Parents: Visenya Targaryen and Aegon Targaryen

Spouce(s): not decided (I will chose at a further date)

Children: none

Reign: 44 AC- undecided (TBA)

Birth: 12 AC

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is the heir to the Iron Throne. No wars with the faith or nephews. This changes the political landscape of Westeros.

Rhaena the Black Queen

Parents: Aenys Targaryen and Alyssa Velaryon

Spouce(s): Aegon Targaryen, Androw Farman

Children: Aerea Targaryen, Rhaella Targaryen

Reign: TBA

Birth: 23 AC

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Becomes Queen in her own right, is Maegor's successor.

Jaehaerys the Old King

Parents: Aenys Targaryen and Alyssa Velaryon

Spouce(s): Alysanne Targaryen

Children: Aegon Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen, Aemon Targaryen, Baelon Targaryen, Alyssa Targaryen, Maegelle Targaryen, Vaegon Targaryen, Daella Targaryen, Saera Targaryen, Viserra Targaryen, Gaemon Targaryen, Vaelerion Targaryen, Gael Targaryen

Reign: TBA-103 AC

Birth: 34 AC

Death: 103 AC

Canon changes: Succeeds his elder sister. Makes Rhaenys his heir.

Rhaenys the First

Parents: Aemon Targaryen, Jocelyn Baratheon

Spouce(s): Corlys Valeryon

Children: Laenor Velaryon, Laena Velaryon

Reign: TBA

Birth: 74 AC

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Becomes Queen

Laenor the Lazy

Parents: Rhaenys Targaryen

Spouce(s): Rhaenyra Targaryen

Children: Jacaerys Targaryen, Lucerys Velaryon, Jeoffrey Velarion

Reign: TBA- 120 AC

Birth: 93 AC

Death: 120 AC (presumably)

Canon changes: Becomes King. In the books Laenor is born in 94 AC however as he is the elder sibling in the show I moved up his date of birth to be older than Laena.

Rhaenyra the Dragon

Parents: Viserys Targaryen, Aemma Arryn

Spouce(s): Laenor Valeryon, Daemon Targaryen

Children: Jacaerys Targaryen, Lucerys Targaryen, Jeoffrey Velaryon, Aegon Targaryen, Viserys Targaryen, Visenya Targaryen

Reign: 120 AC- TBA

Birth: 97 AC

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Becomes Queen by succeeding her husband.

Daemon the Black

Parents: Baelon Targaryen, Alyssa Targaryen

Spouce(s): Laena Targaryen, Rhaenyra Targaryen

Children: Baela Targaryen, Rhaena Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen, Viserys Targaryen, Visenya Targaryen

Birth: 81 AC

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is consort of Laena and ruling with his wife.

Jacaerys the First & Baela the Just

Parents: Laenor Velaryon, Rhaenyra Targaryen

Spouce(s): Baela Targaryen, Agatha Hedrow (OC)

Children: Viserys Targaryen, Vaeserion Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen, Aelyanna Targaryen, Amara Targaryen, Visenya Targaryen, Edwin Targaryen (all are OC'S)

Reign: TBA-TBA

Birth: 144 AC

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Becomes King, co-rules with Baela. Marries a second time to Agatha Hedrow (OC).

Parents: Daemon Targaryen, Laena Targaryen

Spouce(s): Jacaerys Targaryen

Children: Viserys Targaryen, Vaeserion Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen (all are OC'S)

Reign: TBA-TBA

Birth: 116 AC

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Becomes Queen

Viserys the First (OC)

Parents: Jacaerys Targaryen, Baela Targaryen

Spouce(s): Daenerys Targaryen

Children: Rhaenyra Targaryen, Alicent Targaryen, Baela Targaryen (all OC's)

Reign: TBA-TBA

Birth: TBA

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is an OC.

Daenerys the Golden Queen (OC)

Parents: Aemond Targaryen, Y/n Blackhalt

Spouce(s): Viserys the Second

Children: Rhaenyra Targaryen, Alicent Targaryen, Baela Targaryen (all OC's)

Reign: TBA-TBA

Birth: TBA

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is an OC.

Daenerys the Golden Queen

Rhaenyra the Second

Parents: Viserys Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen

Spouce(s): TBA

Children: A son (more children may be added)

Reign: TBA-TBA

Birth: TBA

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is an OC.

Female heirs:

Y/n of Blackhalt (the reader)

Parents: TBA

Spouce(s): Aemond Targaryen

Children: Daenerys Targaryen, Vaella Targaryen, Jaehaerys Targaryen ,Elarion Targaryen, Hardin Targaryen, Elara Targaryen, Vissera Targaryen, Viserys Targaryen, Alice Targaryen

Birth: TBA

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is an OC.

Alys Strong

Parents: Lyonel Strong (mother unknown)

Spouce(s): none

Children: Aelon Strong (OC)

Birth: TBA

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is an OC.

Cassandra Baratheon

Parents: Borros Baratheon, Elenda Caron

Spouce(s): TBA

Children: TBA

Birth: TBA

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is Lady of Storm's End.

Laena Velaryon

Parents: Corlys Velaryon, Rhaenys Targaryen

Spouce(s): Daemon Targaryen

Children: Baela Targaryen, Rhaena Targaryen

Birth: 94 AC

Death: 120 AC

Canon changes: Is Lady of the Tides

Baela Targaryen

Profile above. Baela was made Lady of the tides after her mothers death and the title was passed on to her second son.

Consorts:

Aegon and Rhaenys

Parents:

Spouce(s):

Children:

Reign: TBA-TBA

Birth: TBA

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is consort instead of ruler.

Parents: Aerion Targaryen and Valaena Velayon

Spouce(s): Aegon Targaryen

Children: Aenys Targaryen

Birth: 25 BC

Death: 10 AC

Maegor's Queen has yet to be decided

Androw Farman

Parents: Marq Farman

Spouce(s): Rhaenys Targaryen

Children: none

Birth: 32 AC

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is consort to the Queen.

Alysanne Targaryen

Parents: Aenys Targaryen, Alyssa Velaryon

Spouce(s): Jaehaerys Targaryen

Children: Aegon Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen, Aemon Targaryen, Baelon Targaryen, Alyssa Targaryen, Maegelle Targaryen, Vaegon Targaryen, Daella Targaryen, Saera Targaryen, Viserra Targaryen, Gaemon Targaryen, Vaelerion Targaryen, Gael Targaryen

Birth: 36 AC

Death: 100 AC

Corlys Velaryon

Parents: Corwyn Valeryon (mother unnamed)

Spouce(s): Rhaenys Targaryen

Children: Laenor Velaryon, Laena Velaryon

Birth: 53 AC

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is the Queens consort.

Rhaenyra Targaryen

View profile above. Rhaenyra served as consort for several years before becoming Queen Regnant.

Agatha Hedrow (OC)

Parents: TBA

Spouce(s): Jacaerys Targaryen

Children: Aelyanna Targaryen, Amara Targaryen, Visenya Targaryen, Edwin Targaryen (all are OC'S)

Birth: TBA

Death: TBA

Canon changes: Is an OC.

Daenerys Targaryen

View profile above. Daenerys served as consort for several years before becoming Queen Regnant.

Rhaenyra the Seconds consort is not yet decided

[9383hff3839]

So, what I’m getting from watching this episode is that Corlys has no Targaryen ancestry? When he was conversing with Alyn, Corlys stated that his mother was probably a dragonseed, thus, making him and Addam able to claim dragons. It made me raise an eyebrow, since Daemon (Corlys direct ancestor) and Valaena Velaryon (Rhaenys, his wife’s, direct ancestor) are full siblings and have the same mother, who’s a Targaryen.

At first, I and a few others doubted that the Velaryons and Targaryens were still related since, someone (I can’t remember who; in universe) stated that Rhaenys and Corlys marriage was the first parring between a Targaryen woman and a Velaryon man, completely ignoring Valaena’s Velaryon parentage, but people assured us that it was mistake on the writers part. This was in an old Reddit thread.

This is in the books though, since Alt Shift X said in his most recent live stream that it’s not known if he even still descends down from Daemon. I didn’t even think about that, somehow.

Or maybe Corlys thinks his Targaryen blood is way too distant to consider it and he thinks that the dragonseeds auditioning are bastards either from Jaehaerys, Aemon, Baelon, Vaegon, or any other Targaryen family member that hasn’t been mentioned yet from a more recent generation (i.e. Hugh Hammer, since his mother is Saerara Targaryen) and he assumes it’s the same case for the Hull brothers.

I hope this whole thing makes sense.

[motherodysseus]

Ptolemaea - Chapter 1

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Original Stark Female Character (Alysanne Stark)

Warnings: Violence, language, sexual innuendo, length of text (lol)

Summary: Lady Alys remains behind as her brother rallies support from the lords of the North. On her nameday, a tourney for her hand ensues, one she intends to win. But danger is around every corner. Will she survive long enough to unite with her Velaryon cousins?

Author's note: Sorry this took so long. Turns out, editing your own work is liable to engender insanity!!! This one is a bit of doozy in length (I swear, I cut plenty), but hey, there was a lot to set up! Could I have split it into two chapters? Maybe. But where's the fun in that!? Besides, we have a Rogue Prince to meet. I hope you enjoy, and, as always, your comments, thoughts and feedback are most welcome!

“My lady, we must hurry. Your Uncle will be cross if he finds you’ve been away too long. We were only supposed to take a ride, after all.”

Alys rolls her eyes. Mikken Reed is a kind boy, if not a bit irksome. House Stark’s newest ward, the future heir of Greywater Watch is young, only having nine summers on him, and tiny yet; he does not even clear her chest. This has not deterred the boy from latching onto her skirts, thinking himself her gallant knight and protector. Alys is quite capable of protecting herself, but she is happy to indulge him. Usually. Here in her meadow, however, the real world and all its accompanying burdens have no place. This makes his reminder most unwelcome. 

Found in the heart of the Wolfswood, the glade is dotted with wildflowers and the occasional oak and rowan tree. A brook cuts through like a vein, water trickling over the stones and strewn branches from trees long since fallen and rotted away. The sweet perfume of honeysuckles and primroses, and the dew that coats them each morn, are Alys’s favorite scent, second only to the winter rose.

Alys was but eight summers when she discovered this place, after running away from her lessons with Muña. At the time, she had no interest in learning to sew, or to dance, or to play the harp, or to manage a household. She’d much prefer to be in the training yard with her brother – a place she was barred from, on the unfortunate account of her being a girl. 

Alys was never one to care for rules, especially ones that made little sense. While the boys would practice at swordplay with Vayon Cassel, master-at-arms, she would sneak into the armory to fetch a bow, and teach herself how to shoot. Each time she was caught, she would be brought before her father. She’d beg and plead with him, but the yard was no place for a lady, he said, sending her from his solar back along to her mother, with red knuckles and a sore heart.

Indignant and embittered, Alys decided to prove herself.  She stole a bow and quiver full of arrows, had Nan the cook make her a picnic, saddled her pony Wynafryd – a beautiful black courser gifted to her by her Uncle Corlys – and galloped straight out of the safety of the Keep’s walls. 

Once she found this place, she built a shelter from fallen branches she found along the forest line, weaved a crown of wildflowers and named herself Queen of the Wolfswood. She held a coronation feast for one, gorging herself on the treats Nan provided. 

It took her parents a night and day to find her. When the Lord and Lady Stark finally laid eyes upon their wayward daughter, they were shocked to find the little kingdom she had created. 

“There is no denying it, my lord husband,” Valaena said, dropping down from her horse and scooping Alys into her arms, hugging her close as she brushed brambles from her dress. “Your daughter has the wolf’s blood in her. Or perhaps this is not our daughter at all; rather, some little fae creature we have on her hands. Tell me, riñitsos, are you a changeling or mine own daughter?”

“I’m no changeling, Muña. I am your daughter, the Queen of the Wolfswood! See?” Alys asked, pointing to her crown, slightly wilted and askew, tangled in her mass of dark curls from a night spent abed the soft grass. Valaena laughed again, peppering her face with kisses.

Rickon dismounted so that he could join his wife and daughter in a much-needed embrace; the search having frayed his nerves. “Aye, that you are, Your Grace. But a Queen cannot simply disappear without informing her loyal subjects.” Alys scrunched her face, turning from her father to hide in the crook of her mother’s neck.

Rickon brushed the back of her head softly, reaching in between mother and daughter to cup her cheeks and bring her eyes back to his. “You had your mother and I worried sick, Alysanne. You must swear to me never to run off like this again.” 

Alys’s lips quivered, but she did not back down. “I will swear it, but only if you swear you will allow me to train, Papa. Else, I shall be forced to make my home out here, and you shan’t look upon me again.”

Rickon locked eyes with Valaena over Alys’s head. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You drive a hard bargain, little wolf. After you serve your punishment, I’ll see what I can do.”

Alys, true to her word, served her punishment without complaint. She swore a full commitment to her lessons with both mother and Maester, and suffered through two moon turns without riding or sweets, nor playing with Holly, her closest companion. Not that Holly was interested, for she was quite cross that Alys would dare to run off without bringing her along. Nothing could mend the rift until Alys agreed to make a blood oath, swearing to never again adventure without her. The scar is still visible on her palm, and it is one she cherishes. By sharing blood, they were made sisters. Alys, though she loved her brothers dearly, had always wanted a sister.  

Her father, true to his own word, allowed her to train – though she never was welcome in the training yard. He would make time each week to take Alys and Holly out to the meadow. He taught them how to carve their own bows and string them, and trained the two how to shoot himself. When their skills surpassed his own knowledge, he sent for an archery instructor from across the Narrow Sea, swearing him to secrecy so the girls could continue to learn.

Shaking herself from her reveries, she looks back to the boy. “Oh, a pox on my uncle, Mikken! And what have I told you? You need not call me ‘my lady’ or ‘Lady Alys’ outside the Keep. Here, I am simply Alys.” She turns to face her fiery-haired friend. “Now, Holly, what say you? One more round of roving marks?”

“I say the little lord makes a point. No time left for all that – let’s aim once more for the target and then make our way back to the Keep.”

“Fine,” Alys huffs. “First one to hit the center gets their pick of dessert from the kitchens?”

“Challenge accepted, your Ladyship,” she says, leaning in with an exaggerated bow.

Holly herself never much cared for the pageantry of lords and titles, preferring to poke fun whenever she could. They are not her way, for she was born North-of-the-Wall to a wildling mother. When Holly’s mother was put to the sword, the Lady Valaena protected the girl, insisting she join her daughter’s household. Holly never forgot the kindness, even if she often forgot herself in the face of nobility and their “silly Southern customs.” 

Bennard thought Holly a bad influence, attempting to separate them when he took over the regency of Winterfell. But the Lady Valaena stood firm. “Woe be to any man who would tear apart sisters,” she said, “whether they be borne or made.”  

Bastard, thinks Alys, Should he ever try to take her from me, I’ll show him what a Lady is truly made of.

The girls nock their arrows, aiming for the mounds. “Mikken, count us down,” Alys insists.

“But, my lady, we will get in trouble if– ”

“‘Tis not an invitation to argue, Mikken! And what did I say about titles? Now, if you would please count us down.” 

“Yes, my lady – I mean, Lady Alys. I mean, Alys!” Mikken squeaks, as his hands twist the reins of their horses. Poor lad. I am too harsh. It is not fair to unleash my nerves upon him. 

“Loose your arrows on one! Three, two…”

Alys takes a breath, and eye falling shut as she narrows on the target. 

“One!” Mikken shouts. Alys has already released her quiver, as has Holly; neither girl is above a bit of treachery when they compete against the other. Their arrows whistle through the air. Alys squints, holding a hand over her brow to shield herself from the sun’s glare, attempting to follow their trajectory. She loses sight for but a moment, until she hears the telltale thwap-thwap. 

“I cannot tell from here, it’s too far to see clear, and the arrows too close to call a winner,” Holly says. “Should we send your little squire to check?”

Alys considers it, but the sun is nearing its midpoint; they are cutting it close. “Nay, I think he has suffered enough this morn. Let us make our way back. You may choose the dessert; I care not.”

“You care not because you know Nan is already preparing all your favorite sweets,” Holly says, bumping her shoulder. “Oh to be a Stark girl on her name day!” She declares, twirling about in some mockery of a dance, pulling Alys along with her. 

“Almost name day!” Alys says, giggling as she joins in. She turns and twirls with head upturned to the sun, following the tune of the brook behind her and the magpies overhead. There is a bite in the air, despite the fact that it is the twentieth day of the sixth moon of the year. Under the warmth of the sun, however, she can close her eyes and pretend that summer will last forever. Or, for a little while longer, at least. 

As she steadies, reality finally forces itself upon this once inviolable space. Her stomach twists, mood blackening instantly. If all does not go to plan, this could be my final name day as the ‘Stark girl.’ Steeling herself, Alys puts on a smile, giving Holly a little shove as she makes her way back to the tree line. 

She approaches Mikken. Up close, she can mark the strain her words put upon him in his creased brow and his slim shoulders that now rest firmly next to his ears.

She bends down to meet him. “Mikken, I owe you an apology for the way I spoke. It was unbecoming and cruel; I’m sorry for it. I know that you were only trying to look out for me.” 

His bottom lip juts out, eyes fixed firmly on his boots. Alys places a hand to his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “You know, it takes a brave man to stand up to those in power when he knows they are in the wrong. You will make a fine knight one day, and an even better Lord. It is an honor I do not take lightly, to watch you grow into both.”

“Do you truly mean it?” he whispers.

“I am not in the habit of saying things I do not mean, Mikken,” Alys whispers back conspiratorially. At this, he cracks a smile. “There he is,” Alys says, knocking his chin so that she can see his eyes. “Now, what say you to a little race back to Hunter’s Gate? Whoever makes it through first, can have the first bite of sweets. I heard a rumor that there will be apple tarts and stewed plums.”

Mikken brightens at this, and rushes to untie the horses. 

“You are good with him, Alys. Your mother would be proud,” says Holly, who has snuck up to her side. Gods, she’s silent as a wraith when she wants to be.

“Thank you for saying so. Though, I wonder if she would be proud of the spectacle I shall be forced to make of myself tomorrow,” she muses, turning back toward the clearing. 

Holly grabs her hand, the scars upon their palms brought together. It is a gesture of comfort, and she relishes in it. She knows me better than I know myself, as all sisters do.  “Aye Alys, she would be proud, and you know it. These are nerves talking, not reason.” 

“Perhaps,” is all Alys could muster. 

Holly studies her closely, but decides not to push. A first. She takes Alys’s bow from her, and goes to hide it in the brush alongside her own. Task complete, she turns back to her friend. “Come, if you think I shall let you win this race because you’ve decided to mope, you’re sorely mistaken.”

This jab is enough to make Alys smile. “Pray tell, Holly – when have you ever let me win?”

Holly ponders for a moment. “I’m certain there was a time or two, but I can’t recall them just now. Now, will you mount or will you give me a head start?” she asks, as she takes her palfrey’s reins from Mikken. 

“Take it, Holly, for you shall need it anyhow!” Alys crows. Holly laughs as she mounts her horse, whom she named – Gods, of all things –  Squirrel. Alys did attempt to reason with her, pointing out the absurdity of such a name, but Holly would not be moved. “'Tis is a funny name for him, but it fits. Squirrels are quick and agile. Is he not those things, too?”

Alys takes one last look upon her meadow. She cannot help but feel that today is an ending of sorts. She sighs, turning to Mikken. He hands her riding gloves over. Newly made for her, they are black as night, as is the rest of her new wardrobe. It may be her name day tomorrow, but she is still deep in mourning. 

Mikken is bursting with energy. He bounces on the balls of his feet, anxious to join the race. It is his eagerness that deals a final blow to Alys’s melancholy. “Come, I’ll help you mount.” 

She approaches Wynafryd, now as tall as any Lord’s war horse. Folding her hands together, she bends down to give him a boost. He scrambles into the saddle as Alys places a foot in the stirrup, launching herself behind him. She bundles Mikken tightly to her front, reaching around him for the reins. 

“Are you settled, Mikken? We have ground to make up, it seems.”

“Aye, Lady Alys! Make haste!”

She chuckles. My, is he not an imperious little lordling when competition is afoot. She gives Wynafryd a gentle kick, and clucks at her. “Onward, girl!” They race through the wood, Mikken whooping all the way. 

As soon as Hunter’s Gate comes into view, Alys spots Holly. That hair could be seen miles away, kissed by fire as it is. She leans in, forcing Mikken to do the same. “Come on, girl!” she shouts as she nudges the horse into a gallop, pushing her full tilt towards the gate. 

It is not long before they overtake her, barreling through the gate a few yards before she does. Really, it is not fair, even with the extra weight. Squirrel may be quick but he is no match for Wynafryd, in size or speed. Mikken’s cheer is contagious. Alys’s cheeks hurt from grinning, flushed as they are from activity. She slows Wynafryd to a trot, making her way past the kennels and kitchen, around the Library Tower, and toward the stables. 

She leads her horse into the paddock, as the stable boys rush in to aid her dismount. She passes Mikken down first, before swinging her leg over and leaping to the ground. Holly and Squirrel enter the paddock soon after.

“It was a close race, Alys. One of these days, Squirrel will overtake Wynafryd, I’m certain of it.”

“Aye, and the pigs will sprout wings and take off in flight,” Alys snorts.

Mikken interrupts them. “May we go to the kitchens now, Lady Alys?” 

Alys rolls her eyes, but her smile does not abate. “Aye, Mikken, we may. Run along ahead, and tell Nan I’ve sent you. You were first through the gate, which means the first sweet is yours.” The boy does not need to be told twice; quick as a rabbit, he runs back toward the kitchens. 

“It seems you’ve had an eventful morning, my lady.” Alys turns to see Maester Lymon leaning against the paddock fence, green eyes twinkling. A genial old man, Lymon is like another father to her. He is a grounding presence in her life, always encouraging her learning and supporting her throughout any trial. The Citadel may not allow women into their ranks, but her Maester does not share their qualms about the fairer sex. 

“That I have, Maester. How did you know I was gone?”

His tone is firm, but his eyes remain warm. “I didn’t, that is until I saw you flying through the gate from my solar; like a bat from the seven hells, no less.” 

Alys pulls her gloves from her hands, and makes her way to him. “I had no choice – Mikken would have been aggrieved if we had not won the race. Apple tarts were on the line, so he cannot be blamed for it.” 

Lymon laughs. “No, I suppose he can’t. You, however, can. We still have much to discuss ahead of our guests’ arrival. I’ve come to escort you to the Library so that we may talk logistics. Perhaps the boy will be kind enough to save you some sweets for when we are finished?”

“I think it unlikely,” she grumbles. My respite is at its end, it seems. “Holly, go on ahead to the kitchens without me. And do try to ensure Mikken does not take advantage of Nan’s good nature to eat his weight in sweets – Vayon will be cross with me if I’ve slowed down his newest recruit.”

“Aye, I can try, but I’ll make no promise of it,” Holly says, handing Squirrel’s reins to the stable boy and making a quick escape. She doesn't mind the Maester, but she was never one for lessons. “I’ll learn by doing, not by reading,” she said once, never returning to be taught thereafter. 

Alys and Lymon walk in an amiable silence as she takes in the din of the grounds. Nearing noon, Winterfell is alive with activity, its inhabitants bustling about in preparation for their incoming guests. The stable boys are bucking hay, and burly men roll barrels of ale toward the Great Hall. Maids flitter about, bringing fresh linens and candles to the Guest House, gossiping all the way.

It is Lymon who breaks their silence. “I’ll not ask where you were, my lady, but may I make the rather safe assumption that you were preparing for tomorrow’s contest?” 

“Aye, you may,” she concedes.

“And did you consider the risks, should you have been caught?”

“Aye, I did.” She pauses, before continuing in a hushed tone. “I found the necessity outweighed the risks. Besides, Bennard has been quite occupied these last few days, preparing to welcome my future husband, ‘whomever he may be,” she scoffs. “As if we are all unaware of his preference.”

Lymon hums in agreement. “We shall speak more on it in the Library.” Alys nods– it would not do to have one of Bennard’s lickspittles overhear. He banned her several summers ago from training, after all. If he were to be made aware of my rebellion, especially before the contest; well, it simply would not do. 

The pair climb the steps outside the tower. She allows Lymon to go first so that she may keep an eye on him. Now reaching an age where stairs become a struggle, he takes them slowly, grumbling as his bones creak. I worry for him. If I manage to succeed tomorrow, it would be best to take our lessons in the Maester’s Turret, or mayhaps the Glass Gardens; the warmth would be better on his joints. 

They arrive at the top, entering into the cavernous space which holds a thousand and one tomes, covering every inch of the rounded walls. She runs her fingers over the weathered spines, inhaling deep. The smell of leather, old parchment and dust soothes her. 

The Maester also shares her love of this place, if not for the sheer delight in the library’s collection, then for the privacy it provides. No one enters this tower but the two of them. Bennard and his degenerate sons are far from learned, having preferred the training yard as most Northern second sons – and sons of second sons –  seem to. It is one of the only places within Winterfell in which they may speak freely.

Lymon does not beat around the brush. “‘Tis a dangerous game you play, my lady. I worry for you. With your brother not yet returned from Last Hearth, there is no one here who may protect you, should you fail.”

“Come now, Maester – have you such little faith in your favorite pupil?” she asks, attempting a jape. It falls flat. Lymon grunts as he sits at the table, chains clinking. He motions her to join him before unfurling a parchment that holds a map of the North. He reaches into the wide sleeves of his robe, pulling out game pieces. Nay, not game pieces – they are direwolves. 

“Let us review again, Lady Alys. We’ve secured allegiances for your brother’s cause from Houses Reed, Karstark, Manderly, Mormont, the Flint’s of Widow’s Watch, Hornwood, Cerwyn and Forrester,” he states, positioning a direwolf piece over each of the respective holdfasts. “I think we can assume he will succeed with House Umber, for they have always answered the call.” He places a direwolf over Last Hearth before moving back to his sleeve, this time pulling from them not direwolves, but sheep.

“But that leaves several houses in Bennard’s camp,” he says as he scatters the sheep across the map, “the strongest and most dangerous being House Bolton. Should Lord Bolton’s son Mervyn succeed in the tournament tomorrow, it would not be a shock if your Uncle were to force you to marry him that very night, to ensure their allegiance to his cause.”

Alys huffs. “First – it is simply inconceivable that I would marry a man named Mervyn. Besides, Mervyn will not succeed. I am sure he is fine with a bow, but I am better. Second – the other houses attending who are sworn to us would not stand for it.” Her voice is confident, but the direction of this conversation is beginning to unnerve her.

“‘The houses will not have a choice in the matter,” Lymon hisses. “Your brother took his most loyal men with him to ‘settle disputes amongst the great houses.’ Bennard is not stupid, he knows that Cregan is rallying support. Without the men, or your brother to lead them, they will not interfere. You also risk insulting those who have sworn fealty, should you beat their sons in this contest. The lords are loyal, but they are also prideful. If they take offense, Bennard will fan the flames.”

Alys rubs her hands down her face, groaning. “That is unfair! It is not as if I asked for any of this!” She regrets the childish words, for they incense the Maester instantly. 

“You did ask for this, Alys! You did!” His palm slams against the table, several pieces tumbling.

“Maester –”

“No, do not deny it! I know your hand was forced, Alys. To attempt to announce an unagreed-upon betrothal at your lady mother’s funeral was, is, a travesty. But you stood up in front of Gods and men at that feast, and offered your hand to whichever lord could best you on the archery field. Rather than practice logic, as I have taught, or patience, as your lady mother taught, you reacted with your emotions. You asked for this.”

Tears prick her eyes. How is it that a proper scolding can make me feel as if I am not but a tall child? Lymon is not one to raise his voice, and it pains her to have aggrieved him so. It also pains her that he is right. 

“I apologize, my lady,” he mutters. “I did not mean to shout.”

Alys waves him off. “‘Twas not undeserved.” 

She twists her mother’s signet ring, staring at the carving of her entwined sigils. I cannot tell if this grounds me, or if it upsets me. I wish she were here with me, she would know what to do. “So what you are telling me is in either scenario – win or lose – we still lose. Do I have that correct?”

“Yes, that’s the long and short of it,” Lymon sighs. 

Alys swallows. “Well, fuck.” 

The curse shocks them both, for Alys seldom uses profanity. Lymon snorts, and the sound alone is enough to send her into a fit of giggles. They tumble together headlong into hysterics. As soon as one wrests control back over their senses, they make eye contact and the fit begins anew. It only ends when they are firmly out of breath, sides pinching and tears streaming. 

“Is there not a chance that they might be impressed by me?” Alys asks, wiping her eyes and righting herself. “For winning back mine own hand, which was already supposed to be mine by rights?” In truth, she knows the answer, but is desperate enough to ask.

“I suppose a small one,” Lymon considers. “Several houses have, or have had, ladies lead them. And most still recognize your father’s word as, if not law, then bond. But – whether we agree with them or not – most still see a lady’s place as in the home. Wedded, producing heirs,  keeping house; not besting boys in the art of war. Or, one of the arts, at least. We will have to count ourselves lucky if they perceive it as a rebellion against your uncle –”

“Which it is,” she counters.

“Yes, but it is as likely, if not more so, that they will take offense. We can’t presume that they will see it for what it truly is: a disavowal of Bennard’s unlawful hold on Winterfell,” he concludes.

Frustrated, Alys drops her head into her hands, fingers tugging at her hair. She wishes to growl, to scream, to rip at her hair or slam her fists on the table. To do anything to act upon her feelings. Instead, she takes a deep breath, then another, working to calm the tumult of her emotions. Perhaps one more breath would do. 

She sets her hands back on the table, folding them together to keep from fidgeting. “Is there any other option?” she asks. “Any possibility of getting through this unscathed?” And unwed?

“There is one. You will not like it,” says the Maester, lips drawn thin. 

“Tell me.”

“You run. No, do not interrupt,” he insists before Alys can speak. “I know you have been in near constant contact with the Lady Laena and your Aunt, the Princess Rhaenys, since your mother’s passing. I am the one who sends your letters, after all. I took it upon myself to send my own raven to your Uncle, Lord Corlys, making him aware of your plight – something you neglected to share with him, or any of them, it would seem.” 

Aye, because until this moment, I assumed that I had this in hand. Arrogant, mayhaps, but it is the truth. Lymon must find her silence encouraging, for he pushes on.

“He and the Princess Rhaenys have agreed to take you in as their ward. It is not customary, I know, but they are one of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms; soon to be made more so with the wedding of Laenor to the Princess of Dragonstone. They will have the security of the Crown behind them, and they can protect you until Cregan secures his seat. You would also be in a position to advocate for aid, if not from the Crown, then from your uncles. Docking the Velaryon fleet at White Harbor would be a show of force, and discourage the lords that back Bennard against a coup.”

Alys takes in Lymon’s counsel. My Maester has been hard at work, it seems. It is a clever, nay, brilliant plan. But it is an unacceptable one.

Alys sighs. “If I abandon my house, and my brother, what message does that send? And, should I run, what is to stop Bennard from closing the gates to us? A few hundred men can hold Winterfell, even if ten thousand set upon its gates. Winter is Coming; all he’ll need to do is wait us out.” 

She looks upon the signet once more, brushing a finger over the seahorse. “As tempting as it is to call upon the Velaryons, to ask for interference from a Southern house – kin or no – feels tantamount to admitting Creg cannot hold the North. This would bolster Bennard’s claim that he is unfit, unready. My brother would not allow it, nor can I.”

“All fair rebuttals, my lady,” Lymon shifts forward in his seat, looking Alys straight on. “But, so caught up in his efforts to seize power, Bennard has not properly prepared this Keep for Winter – no stocking of grain, nor movement made to repair Winter Town for the inevitable influx of smallfolk. And the Night’s Watch continues to send disturbing reports that your Uncle has all but ignored. Wildlings are attempting to cross The Wall in droves. Those that succeed have been raiding villages in their push southward. They’re desperate, enough so to claim to have seen the Others, not that those wives' tales stop them from losing their heads.” 

A chill courses down Alys’s spine. The Others are ghost stories meant to scare little children; a mere allegory for the coming of Winter itself. In any event, they have been gone for thousands of years, if they existed at all. ‘Tis a monstrous excuse to use to rape and pillage defenseless villages. But what if there is more to it? There may be no White Walkers, but it is possible the wildlings are running from, not toward, something. I shall have to ask Holly. 

Lymon’s voice pulls her from her thoughts. “There is a chance, a high one I should think, that the vassals and smallfolk would turn on him. But to allow yourself to remain here is to risk not only your future, but your very life. If Bennard grows reckless, he will use you as a weapon against your brother. He has always seen you as a tool. And what is a weapon but a tool used to maim; to kill?”

Alys sucks in a breath – this cannot be happening. This is my home. This is my family’s home. And am I to leave as it is torn asunder? Am I to abandon my brother, my kin, my people when they need me most?  Her mind is made up. 

“And what if I am a weapon, Maester? After all, a knife cuts both ways.”

“Alys, I beseech you–”

Alys holds her hand up, halting his speech. “Maester, I am grateful for your counsel; even more so for the care you have shown me. But I will not leave my home and people to be picked over by carrions who call themselves wolves. I have made my bed, and I mean to lie in it. I will write to my Aunt and Uncle to thank them for their hospitality, but to inform them that it is unnecessary. For I am a Stark; I belong to the North.”

Lymon slumps in his seat. “As you say. But I urge you, do not hasten to send that raven. Wait until the tourney ends, at least.” 

Alys nods as she rises from her seat. “I should go. I must prepare for the welcome feast, and Bennard expects me to greet my suitors.” 

“Tread carefully, my lady,” says Lymon as she reaches the door. The double meaning is not lost on Alys. She quickly exits, turning the conversation over in her mind as she picks her way down the stone steps. Unsettled and disquieted as she is, she allows herself to be led by instinct. Rather than turn toward the Great Keep as she ought, her feet move forward, straight into the Godswood. 

Alys sighs; it is as if a stone has been shed from her shoulders. In the forest, she is as free as a snow shrike, alive and unfettered; but it is here in the Godswood where she finds true peace. 

The three acre grove is as old as the land itself. It smells of damp earth and pine, with only the sound of crunching needles underfoot and the caw of ravens for company. She walks deeper, trees rising and tangling around her as she makes her way through.

Her feet stop as they alight upon their chosen destination – the Heart Tree. The world quietens here, for this is where the Old Gods keep house. Its weeping eyes are ever watchful. Carved into the snow white bark by the Children of the Forest eons ago, many have sworn to feel them follow. This never unsettled Alys – those eyes make her feel seen, held, safe. 

Alys keeps the Old Gods, just as every Stark has. Nameless and faceless, they are found in the twisting of roots, the bends of streams and sturdiness of stones; in the eyes of the Heart Tree, too. 

Still in her riding leathers, the chill of the afternoon cuts through easily, but she scarcely feels it. Dropping to the grove’s floor, she makes her home where she always does — curling in between the roots of the tree, hand gripping the root. She closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the tree as she listens to the wind moving through its branches, blood-red leaves rustling as they reach for the heavens. 

Time suspends itself as she begins to pray. She prays for her brother’s swift and safe journey home. For Holly and Mikken, for her Maester. For her Mother, Father, and brother since passed. For the health and safety of the Northern folk. For an easy Winter. For herself.

Once her prayers are complete, her mind drifts. She is so tired – tired of fighting, tired of fearing, tired of feeling too big to be small and too small to be big. She is simply tired. Her body seems to agree, for her eyes droop, and consciousness slips away. 

She dreams, though it feels as real as breathing. In her dreams, she is a wolf. She runs through the forest on unsteady legs, as if she were but a pup. She dashes about, sniffing and climbing and bounding through to a clearing. It is her meadow; she recognizes it instantly. She turns just as another pup tackles her, nipping and wrestling and rolling in the grass. They frolic and play until a howl cuts through the Wolfswood.

Alys awakens with a jolt, disoriented. Something has hit her shin. No, not something, someone. Her cousin Benjen stares down upon her, eyes beady and black. His hair is greased back with animal fat, and he is dressed in such finery, it is as if he were a Lord’s heir himself. I suppose he and Bennard like to think so.

He knocks her shin with his boot once more. “Get up. You’re late. Again.” 

She rolls her eyes. “How can I be late to mine own feast, Benjen?” He curses at this. Alys should know better than to bait him, but cannot help herself. “Now cousin, is this how you speak to a lady?”

He kicks her again, harder this time. “I see no lady, just an insolent brat. One who is finally getting what is coming to her. It’ll be a relief to be rid of you,” he sneers.

“So sure of yourself. Fortunately, so am I,” she fibs. He doesn’t need to know I’m out of my wits with nerves. “I’ll succeed, my brother will return, and you will be back to doing whatever it is the first son of a second son does. Shoveling horse dung, I assume.” 

Alys moves to stand — too slowly, for Benjen grabs her by the elbow, squeezing tight as he lifts her. She knows immediately it will bruise, and stifles a whimper. Her cousin has always been a cruel, violent sort. As a child, he would bludgeon animals for sport; kicking cats, strangulating squirrels, beating dogs. Nothing was beneath him. The maester would often chase him from the rookery, for he would try to break a raven’s wings for no discernible reason other than to relish in their agony. Now a man grown, he’s moved from animals to men. And women, it seems. Creg’s absence emboldens him.

“You think so, cousin? You know, Father doesn’t pay close enough attention to you. ‘What time do I have for some halfbreed girl?,’ he says, ‘She is pretty, and she has our name. 'Tis all that matters.’”  

This particular revelation does not surprise Alys. Bennard has never been above othering her or her mother for their Valyrian heritage.

“Father thinks you dotty, yes, but dutiful,” Benjen continues. “A silly little girl whose own father gave her too much freedom. He thinks he curbed that, and that you will go quietly to your marriage bed, even with the stunt you pulled. But I know better, Alys. I watch you running off with your little wildling to the woods, and whispering in corners with your Maester. You are dangerous, as are all girls who do not know their place. But soon, your husband will teach you. ’Tis a shame I am not part Valyrian; perhaps I’d have the honor of breaking you.”

Alys’s stomach drops. She attempts to extricate herself from his grasp, but his grip tightens as he pulls her in. Her nose crinkles as his hot, rancid breath covers her face.

“You know, I’ve spoken to Mervyn of your proclivity for impertinence. He assures me that the Boltons have a particular method for dealing with untamed wives.” He leans closer, whispering into her ear. “Considering the rumors of their continued predilection for flaying men alive, I can imagine it’s quite painful. Do you think he’d let me watch?” 

Alys cannot seem to speak, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. How dare he speak like this in front of the Gods. She remembers the Maester’s scolding. Logic, patience – I must practice them.

“You and Mervyn seem quite confident in his ability with the bow,” she says, forcing her tone into one of casual indifference. “But I hear Lord Manderly’s sons are truly gifted. If the ravens are to be believed, I could be the next Lady of White Castle.” Alys does not know if this is true; it likely isn’t. She doesn’t even know the boys’ names, let alone if they have any skill with the bow. But it’s enough to get what she needs from Benjen.

“Aye, but Mervyn has the distinct advantage of training with the best archery master in the North. You may recall him; he was sent from Winterfell some years ago now, for conspiring to train you in secret.” 

Benjen must see her blanch, for he begins to cackle. “Come along, cousin. You must make yourself pretty for your husband.” He shoves her forward as they make their way to the Great Keep. 

Alys remains in a daze as she prepares for the feast. At once, she is bathed and dressed in a gown of black. It is made of velvet and soft as sin, with trumpet sleeves and a square neck trimmed with ermine and silver brocade. A direwolf belt is swung low around her hip. When she looks upon herself, all she can see is Muña’s lilac eyes boring into her. It is a haunting sight. I look as if I am attending another funeral rite; in a way, I may be. 

Holly attempts to engage her in idle conversation while she plaits her hair, but it is no use. Alys twists her signet and stares off. She thinks more on her dream, wishing it were as real as it felt; how she longs to be as free as that pup. 

So overcome, she does not notice Holly’s look of concern. “You do look lovely, Alys.”

“Thank you,” she mumbles. The girls lock eyes in the mirror, and Holly turns her from the vanity, taking her hands in hers. 

“I wish you would tell me what is troubling you so. Is it the Maester? I’ve told you, too much thinking addles the mind.” Alys lets out a huff, and Holly smiles. “Tell me, what has you all worked up?”

She tells Holly everything — from the Maester’s concern and push to send her to her cousins in the south, to Benjen’s cruel behavior and the information he let slip. Holly listens intently as she unburdens herself. 

“Aye, I can see now why you’re so troubled. This is quite the dung pile we’ve found ourselves in.”

“That I’ve found myself in, Holly.”

She holds up her scarred palm. “Thought you’d learn by now that we’re a package, you and I. Now, let’s talk it through, shall we?” Holly moves to the bed, patting beside her, encouraging Alys to join. “I think the Velaryons are a good fallback. If your mother could sail herself away from the south to Winterfell to marry your father, can we not go the other way? If it comes to that tomorrow, we'll leave.”

“I don’t know if we can, Holly. I’m needed here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell; certain, Bennard does not count. I just – I don’t see how we can leave our home.” Alys’s lip quivers.

“If Bennard, his shite-for-brains sons — I’ll kill Benjen, by the way, and use his bones to pick my teeth — and his shite-for-brains Bolton cronies have their way, Winterfell won’t be home any longer,” Holly says, grabbing her hand. “You don’t belong at the Dreadfort, Alys. You have to think of yourself for once; what use are you dead or hidden away in some rotten Keep? And speaking on the Boltons, so what if he’s been training? So what if he’s good? You’ll be better.” Holly rubs her thumb over Alys’s knuckle to soothe her, just as Muña used to. It serves its purpose— Alys lets out a watery sign and hugs her friend close. 

“Thank you,” she breathes as Holly rubs her back. 

“Don’t thank me. I’m only telling you what you already know; you just got caught in your nerves again. Now, we should get to the feast,” Holly rises, and Alys moves to join her. 

“Oh!” she exclaims. “ I forgot — Cregan left you a gift for your name day. He told me not to let you open it until the day of, but he’s not here, is he? It’s under your bed. Do with that information what you will.” Holly smiles beatifically, as she always does when causing trouble.

“Will you give me a moment then? I have a present to unwrap,” Alys grins. Holly nods, and closes the door behind her. 

She drops flat to the carpet, with no thought or care for her dress, rummaging under her bed. Not once does she think to wait, for she hates surprises. Creg should never have trusted Holly to keep a secret from me, anyhow. 

Her hand alights upon a box, and she slowly pulls it from its hiding place. It's large, and carved from rowan wood, with her House’s sigil burnt into the grain. 

Alys gets up and places the box upon her bed. There is a note attached; one she is tempted to bypass entirely in her eagerness to open her present. Patience is a virtue, I suppose. She sighs, plucking the note from its ribbon. She cracks her brother’s seal to see his scrawl, short and sweet. 

Father told me I’d know when you were ready. Shoot straight. 

Your brother, 

Creg

She sucks in a breath. Father told me I’d know when you were ready. Hands quaking, she opens the box.

Inside is the most wonderful sight she’s ever seen – a beautiful bow and quiver set, made to size. The bow itself is bone white, carved from weirwood; Alys would recognize it anywhere. The arrows are carved from the same, with its feathers a startling crimson, akin to the leaves of the Heart Tree. But it is the arrowheads that truly dazzle, for they are not of any metal she has encountered. In truth, she only recognizes it from her lessons, for they are dragonbone. So sharp, they would draw blood at just a touch. She picks up the bow, testing the string's tension, the weight of it, how it feels in her hand. It’s perfect, it's perfect, it’s perfect. 

She does not know how her father came into possession of such a treasure. Dragonbone is not an easy material to come by, nor an inexpensive one. And to have a perfectly carved weirwood bow – it is an honor he’d entrusted her with it. He believed in her, as did her brother; her mother, too. They may not be with her, but they are behind her, as they always have been. She does not know whether to laugh or cry. For the first time in an age, she feels hope; not just hope, but a sense of surety. Holding the faith of her family in her hands, Alys knows now what she must do, and how she can win.

She attends the feast, light as air. Nothing can spoil her good humor – not Benjen’s leer, nor her uncle’s very presence, which often serves to put her off her appetite. In truth, she is ravenous, nearly inhaling her roast pheasant and potatoes. 

Soon, the minstrels begin to play. Alys takes care to dance with each Lord’s son. Lord Manderly’s boys, Jonnel and Joseth, prove exceptional dancers, even if they’re impossible to tell apart. She takes Mikken for a spin on the floor, much to the delight of everyone present. She even allows Mervyn a dance; when his hand moves too low to be proper, she steps on his feet with particular verve. Here’s hoping it cripples him, but I would settle for a lost nail.

When she retakes her seat at the head table, dessert is being served. There are apple tarts and stewed plums as promised; even the rare lemon cakes make the rounds. Once full, she sits back and watches the hall. Many of these men are allies and competitors in one; some are outright enemies. It matters not to Alys. She smiles at them all – for she is a wolf, and she does not fear sheep.

“It seems you have made some peace with your lot, niece,” Bennard slurs. A drunkard and a fool, may the Others take him. 

“I was always at peace with my lot, Uncle,” Alys sniffs. “It was ensuring that I marry a man worthy of me that put me on edge over the prospect.” 

“Well, you have a peculiar way of choosing that man. Not that you should be choosing at all, but your father will get his way, as he always does,” Bennard glowers as he sinks deeper into his cups. “Archery, pah! I know you think yourself a savant because Rickon indulged you as a child, but you will learn the truth of it tomorrow. The Boltons are a powerful family, and you will be lucky to join their house when Mervyn proves himself.” 

Alys bites her tongue, once again remembering Lymon’s counsel. “As you say, Uncle.”

“As you say, Uncle,” Bennard mocks. “Do not be impertinent, especially in the face of my generosity. This feast and tourney cost me a pretty copper, as will your dowry. You ought to be grateful.” 

Her blood boils, but she tamps it. Best to let it fester so that I may use it on the field tomorrow. 

“Of course, Uncle. I am ever so grateful,” she says through her teeth.

Bennard hums again, too drunk to notice her ire. “Good. Now, to bed. You must look fresh-faced for your husband tomorrow. Men like their women pretty, after all. They also like them demure. I suppose I shall leave it to your husband to teach you the latter, if it’s not a lost cause already,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Begone from my sight, Alysanne.” 

Alys squeezes her fists, nails cutting into her palms. Yet, she arises gracefully as her mother taught. She bids her Uncle and cousins a good night, though she does not mean it. Benjen runs his tongue over his teeth, like a bloodhound who caught the scent. Ignoring him, she beckons to Holly, and they leave the Great Hall. 

She helps her undress in silence, untying her stays while Alys works at her plaits. With mere hours left until dawn, she knows she will sleep little. Holly offers to stay with her, but, as it might be her last night abed alone, she declines. I should enjoy the space while I am able. They bid one another good night, and Alys buries herself under the covers. 

She tosses and turns for what feels like an age, until sleep finally claims her. Again, she dreams she is the wolf. She is warm, safe, cuddled against fur. She turns her head, to see the same grey pup that had tackled her, now fast asleep. Perhaps the mother is on the hunt. She gets up, stretching her tiny limbs, and makes her way from the den, dirt soft under her paws. She looks up at the moon, and howls. 

As dawn breaks, Alys arises from her bed. Despite the chill, the rooms remain warm. Not for the first time is she thankful for the ingenuity of Bran the Builder. Piping water from the hot springs into the stones for certain has saved me a toe or two. 

She dresses slowly in her leathers, somehow managing the stays herself. She then places her mother’s signet upon her smallest finger, and her archer’s ring upon her thumb. Once finished, she sits at her window, watching the sun rise.

Holly and the maids enter not long after, bringing tea and food to break fast. Alys forces down some bacon and bread, despite her scant appetite. She watches in the mirror as Holly tames her hair into an intricate five strand plait.

“Do you like it?” Holly asks.

“More than like it,” Alys says, marveling at her handiwork. “It almost looks as if it is a chain.” 

“Aye, that was the aim. For you will not break this day, I know it in my heart.” Alys warms at her steadfastness and faith, sending a prayer of thanks to the Gods for bringing Holly into her life.

They sit in silence for a time, and she lets Holly inspect her new bow. “It is impossible to fail with a bow as nice as this. You can feel the love that was poured into its making, and yet there is something deadly in it. It will protect you, I think.” 

“I think the same,” Alys says. Too soon, there is a knock upon the door, and she begins to shake. “You may enter.” 

It is Mikken, and for this kindness she is thankful. Better than my cousin, that is for certain. “Lady Alys, it is time,” he says. 

Alys takes a deep breath, and tries to calm her trembling hands. “So it is. Mikken, will you stay with Holly and me? I could use a lad like you to keep an eye on my back.”

Mikken sputters. “I would be honored, Lady Alys, but perhaps someone bigger would be best?”

“No, sweet boy, you misunderstand. I want someone whom I trust to stand with me, and that’s you. Consider it part of your training if you must, but in truth, I would just appreciate you there as my friend.”

She watches the blush creep up his cheeks. “I’d be honored, my lady!” 

“Good, now, let us make haste. I would not put it past Bennard to start without me in an attempt to void my participation.” She takes her bow from Holly and straps the quiver to her back. Stealing one last look in the mirror, she’s pleased to find she cuts an unearthly and imposing figure. Let these men shiver when they see me. 

Flanked by Holly, Mikken and several guards – sent by Bennard no doubt, to ensure I do not run – they march from the First Keep and through to the North Gate, outside which an archery field is constructed. At least a dozen mounds are set in a line. Alys breaks into a grin. Mere target practice. Not roving marks, nor splitting the wand. Bennard underestimated me. Good. 

The archers check their names upon the roster, and Alys does the same. The Maester was right, many of the most noble houses of the North have sent a son to participate. She sends up another prayer before making her way to her designated marker. Mervyn is to her left, and a Manderly – Jonnel? Or is it Joseth? – to her right. And the line goes down, faces blending. 

She walks the paces, gauging the distance between marker and target. She crouches down, and picks up grass and leaves, crumbling them to see which direction the wind blows. She heads back to her marker as she stretches her arms, ignoring the eyes upon her. Finally, the trumpets sound.

“Esteemed lords, ladies and guests! Thank you for your attendance on this day; the day my beloved niece turns seven and ten!” Bennard shouts from his spot on the dais. He has made himself and his sons little thrones to sit upon, above all the other lords and vassals. Alys rolls her eyes. They look foolish. 

“The Lady Alysanne is now a woman grown, and it is time for her to choose her bridegroom. And so she has; the one who succeeds her in this tourney shall be the lucky man! Not too hard of a task for such strapping Northern men, I should think.” A cheer rises from the crowd, and she can feel the eyes of all the archer’s boring into her. Let them think they have me. “Now, at the crier’s call, let our tourney begin!” 

Alys nocks her arrow, breathing deep as she closes her left eye to aim at the target’s eye. The first arrows loose at the crier’s call. She hits near dead center. It must be the nerves. She sneaks a peek at her competitors – only a few have come as close as she has.

One by one, round after round, the men are eliminated. The crowd, who had once cheered for her future husband, now turn their love to their Lady, becoming more raucous as each arrow is loosed. Alys does not dare to look upon her Uncle. She can feel his ire well enough, and does not need the distraction. 

Finally, the last Manderly boy – Jonnel, if the crier is to be believed –  is eliminated. “You are a worthy opponent, my lady. I am undeserving of the honor of your hand,” he says, placing a kiss upon her knuckle. She smiles and thanks the man before he makes his way back to his brother. 

Only her and Mervyn remain at the butts.

“He may be undeserving of your hand, Lady Alys, but I certainly am more than up to the task,” he scoffs. “I shall even give you my sword as well, as many times as you ask for it and more.” Her rage is set aflame by his words, hotter than dragonfire – so hot, it burns cold. I am going to enjoy this.

The crier calls for them to nock once more. Inhale as you pull, exhale as you release, easy as breathing. She hears him shout loose, so she does. The arrows whistle through the air, and she knows before it  lands it will be dead center. She looks over at Mervyn’s target, and his is centered. But not like mine. They send a judge – Lord Mormont, by the looks of it – out to check. Another – Lord Ryswell  – joins him. The crowd hushes as they deliberate. Coming to an accord, they summon the crier.

“The Lady Alysanne Stark is our winner!” the crier shouts, and the crowd is insensate. They stomp and cheer and cry for Alys, so loud she can scarce hear herself think. She turns to Mervyn, whose mouth is agape.

“It seems your sword is unworthy of my sheath, Bolton,” she quips over the din. “I wish you and your future lady wife luck; Gods know she’ll need it!” She laughs as Holly and Mikken barrel into her, bundling her in an embrace as they jump up and down. 

She looks over their heads – the lords and their sons are shocked, but do not seem angered by the result. Relief begins to set in, until she hears a commotion coming from the dais.

“No, no, no! This is not how this was supposed to go!” Bennard yells as he stomps toward her, mouth foaming. He rips her from Holly and Mikken’s grasp. “You little ingrate! Worthless fucking trollop!” 

Before she can react, she hears a crack as her head whips violently. Blood pools on her tongue, tainting her mouth with the taste of copper. He’s hit me. Gods, he’s truly hit me. 

The crowd is silent as he grabs her plait, twisting painfully. “You disgust me, you halfbreed whore. Your flagrant disrespect is at an end. I command you to marry the Bolton boy this very night. I don’t care if I have to hold you at sword point to see it done!” His spittle flies in her face. 

“Everyone knows that marriage will not be valid in the eyes of Gods and men, as no marriage under threat of the sword is,” she says, voice projecting loud enough for the crowd to hear. “I’ve won, Uncle, fair and true; this contest is at its end. A Lord would take it gracefully, but you are no lord. The real lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North rides from Last Hearth, to take his rightful place on the Winter Throne. I’m certain he will be fair when he metes out the King’s justice.” She smiles menacingly as blood coats her teeth. 

He shrieks as he throws her to the ground, kicking her once, twice, thrice in the gut. She coughs, curling into herself in agony. The crowd, regaining its senses, hisses and jeers. The hair-raising sound is enough to pull Bennard from his rage. He turns back to find the Lords in the North looking upon him with disgust, and a crowd so enraged they are near riot. 

“Guards! Take the Lady Alysanne to her rooms and bar the door. If she is to act a child, she will be treated like one.” The guards hesitate. “Now!” Bennard shouts. The crowd grows restless as the guards grab her under her arms and drag her back to the keep. She’s begun to grow faint, so she does not hear what Bennard says to try to appease them. Whatever it is, she hopes he fails.

Once she is unceremoniously thrown into her rooms, she begins to laugh. It hurts, terribly, but she cannot help it. Her wretch of an uncle proved as foolish as she always thought. Perhaps the Lords would have been upset at her winning, if they had not been made indignant at her ill treatment. Their beloved Lord Rickon's only daughter, beaten by her uncle in front of Gods and men. And the crowd, filled with small folk and all manners of vassals, loathe him. Now, they all see him for what he truly is. A usurper cunt.  

She forces herself up, and gingerly makes her way to her bed. She does not bother with the door, knowing that it will be locked, with guards posted outside it. She does not know what has happened to her bow, and can only pray that Holly or Mikken managed to save it from her Uncle’s wrath. 

Consciousness begins to ebb and flow – like the tide. I should have taken the Maester at his word and fled to High Tide. She swears she hears Lymon attempt to gain access to her, but cannot tell if she is dreaming. If it happened in truth, he is clearly denied. Perhaps Bennard means to starve me, or hopes I bleed out internally.  She goes back under, and comes to when it is long since dark. 

She winces as she attempts to rise. Her ribs and stomach are especially sore, so movement must be made carefully. Once standing, she creeps to her window to look out at the moon. By its placement, she guesses it's the hour of the owl.

Suddenly, she hears a quiet scuffle at her door. She panics, searching for anything in her room that can be used as a weapon. She pockets a letter opener and grabs an iron candlestick for good measure. 

Alys braces herself as she hears the lock click. The door opens; all she discerns are shadows and black cloaks. She raises the candlestick, preparing to fight to the death. Then, a hood drops, revealing long, fire kissed hair. She crumbles in relief, and Holly catches her before she hits the floor. 

“By the gods, Alys! What did you mean to do with this thing, and in your state?” Holly asks, pointing to the candlestick. 

“Hit you with it,” she wheezes, “though I’ll admit, I am not in the best fighting shape. Had hoped I’d get a second wind, but alas.” 

Holly shakes her head, busying herself with cataloging all her injuries. Alys looks over her sister’s shoulder, trying to decipher just how she took down the guards. It seems she did not succeed by herself. Mikken holds open the door as the two Manderly brothers pull the unconscious guards inside. Nan the cook steps gingerly over them, basket in hand, with Vayon Cassel and his son Rodwell taking position at the door, which Mikken quietly closes behind him. 

“What is this? I don’t understand,” she says. “Where is Maester Lymon?”

“They locked him in his turret, but not before he gave us marching orders,” Holly says. “We’re getting you out, tonight. First to White Harbor, then on a ship to High Tide. Your Aunt and Uncle have been informed of your arrival. Seems the Maester had a contingency plan.”

“He tends to have several,” she quips, wincing. Holly rolls her eyes, before turning back to the Manderlys. “Ribs bruised, not broken. Severe bruising on the abdomen, but doesn’t seem fatal. It’ll be painful, but we’ve got to go by horseback.”

“Aye, I’ll go prepare them now,” says – Joseth? – before making a quick exit. 

“Holly, how do we know we can trust them?” she asks. 

The remaining Manderly brother kneels before her on the floor. “My lady, my house is loyal to the one true Lord of Winterfell, your brother Cregan. We owe everything we are, our lives and our very home, to House Stark. Beyond house ties, I am here of my own accord. I would pledge my life and loyalty to you, my lady, if you will have me. Allow me, as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, to swear fealty to you, so you know me to be loyal and true.”

Alys is overwhelmed by the gesture. “Your kindness and loyalty are noted, Ser, but I cannot accept. Your father would be most aggrieved to lose a son and heir in service to a Lady.”

“I am but the second son, my lady. My brother Joseth is the heir, with another brother who can play spare until he takes a wife and begets a son.” 

Flabbergasted, all Alys can think is: Oh, so this is Jonnel. “Are you certain, Ser?”

“More than anything. Will you permit me?” he asks, reaching for her hand. She acquiesces. 

“I, Jonnel of House Manderly, offer my services to the Lady Alysanne of House Stark. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” 

Alys swallows, overcome by the earnest show of devotion. I shall cherish his loyalty always. For he is my sworn shield, and I protect what’s mine. 

“I, the Lady Alysanne of House Stark, vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise, Ser Jonnnel.” He beams at her for but a moment, before acting upon his vows. 

“We must move quickly, my lady,” Jonnel says. “Your cousins have been locked in their rooms, and your Uncle drugged with milk of the poppy. Enough to put him to sleep for a few hours, but no more.”

“And the lords of the North? What of them?” she asks, watching as Holly quickly packs the necessities.

“The lords have seen all they needed to this day; enough to look the other way at your leaving,” says Jonnel. “The vassals, too, are in an uproar. Your brother can expect their support. Aye, your Uncle will not have an easy time of it once he awakes.”

Alys attempts a smile, bruised cheek smarting. “Good. That’s good. What of the guards?”

“Since tonight’s feast was canceled, the Maester thought it smart to have me send the remaining barrels to them directly," says Nan, speaking up from her place in the corner. "I happened to agree – good autumn ale like that shouldn’t be wasted. Outside of these lads, most are too drunk to stand. Though I suppose they’re not standing, neither.” 

Alys, with help from Jonnel, walks to her, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “Thank you, sweet Nan. I will not forget this kindness.” 

“You are our Lady. No matter where you go, Winterfell is always with you,” the cook says, wiping a tear from Alys’s eye. “Now, I’ve packed provisions. Should be enough for the journey there. But you all need to move now, there’s not much darkness left.” 

Mikken steps in front of the door, distraught. “I’m coming, too, for I promised to protect you first! I know I failed, but I won’t again, I swear it!”

Alys's eyes water. “You did not fail me, Mikken. You could never,” she says, gentling the boy. “But I have a new task for you. I need you to protect Nan and the Maester until Cregan or I return. They’ll need you more than I will, and I can trust no one else but you.”

The boy begins to cry, and rushes to hug her. She tries not to flinch, not wanting to hurt the boy further. “I don’t want you to leave,” he hiccoughs.

Alys stiffens her lip, hugging him back. “I do not want to leave you either, sweetling, but I must. We’ll be reunited soon, you’ll see. Can you be brave for me until then?” She feels him nod. “Good lad.” 

He wipes his eyes, and moves to Nan’s side. Alys turns to them one last time, offering a parting wave before Holly bundles her in a black cloak and Jonnel hurries them from her rooms. Vayon and Rodwell fall into step behind them. Quiet as ghosts in the crypt, they move through the Keep. They reach the stables with no interference, where Joseth and a stable boy have their mounts prepared. 

Jonnel lifts Alys into Wynafryd’s saddle. Holly grabs a bow and quiver, one set of two, from the saddle bag – my bow, Gods be praised. She passes the bow to her before strapping the set she nicked from the armory to her back. The rest of the group races to mount their horses. If anyone spots them from Brandon’s Tower, they raise no alarms. 

Alys looks up at the Maester’s Turret. It is dark, so she is unable to discern any movement through the window. She gives a wave anyway, hoping that Lymon can see. She pours her gratitude, and her grief, into the gesture. He knows, he must.

In a flash, they are out the East Gate and barreling into the hills outside. Avoiding the Kingsroad and camping will make the journey safe, but long. With her injuries, it will be many days until they reach the White Knife, and more yet before entering the safety of White Harbor. 

Alys ignores her pain as best she can, making it a few hours before it becomes unbearable. As dawn starts to crest, they stop to set up camp. They share some bread and mead amongst them before Alys must rest her eyes. Jonnel offers to take first watch, and the others are happy to oblige.

In a trice, Alys is jostled awake. “Quietly, my lady,” Jonnel whispers. “There is something in the tree line. Prepare yourself.” She moves stand. As Jonnel unsheathes his steel, she moves to grab her bow. Body laid low, she does not even know if she has the strength to nock an arrow, but the weight is a comfort in her hand. 

The leaves rustle further, putting everyone on high alert. Finally, they break, out of which come two of the largest wolf pups she has ever seen.They are fighting; no, they are wrestling. One grey, one black, they playful pair are clearly siblings. Alys sucks in a breath. 

“They are direwolf pups,” Vayon whispers under his breath. “The sigil of your house, my lady.”

“Impossible,” Rodwell says. “Direwolves haven’t been seen south of the wall in at least a century.”

Until now. Alys quietly moves forward, so as not to startle them. She hears a chorus of “Be careful, my lady,” and “Alys, stop.” Shushing them, she squats low, holding open her palm. The wolf pups stop, and cock their heads. The grey one is more leery, preferring to watch, but the black comes right up to her hand, nudging it before rolling over to expose her belly. 

“Hello, my girl. Have you been waiting for me?” Alys coos. The wolf pup’s orange eyes cut through her. I dreamt you. You’re mine, and I’m yours. She rubs her pup’s belly, watching her tongue lob as she smiles.

Alys turns back toward her companions, ignoring their shock. “Joseth, Vayon, search the wood for any sign of the mother. Based on the feel of this one, it has been some time since she ate. I assume the mother is dead, but we must be sure.” Joseth and Vayon nod, and make their way into the tree line. “Holly, check to see if Nan packed some milk for the first night’s journey. If she hasn’t, we’ll stop at the next town. They look nearly weaned, but it's best to be safe.” 

“Alys, you can’t mean to keep them!” she hisses.

“Holly is right, my lady,” says Jonnel. "A direwolf is no pet. Even a pup can tear a man’s arm clean from his shoulder.”

“I do not mean to keep them, Ser. I only mean to keep the one. Rodwell,” Alys says, turning toward the lad, “come closer so that you make the grey pup more familiar with your scent. When your father returns, you both will take it toward Last Hearth. You should meet my brother along the way. Present it to him, for it is his by right.”

“Alys!” Holly exclaims. 

“I dreamt them, Holly,” Alys says firmly, tone brokering no argument. “They are the sigil of our house. They are meant to be ours; mine and Creg’s.”

“You dreamt them?” she whispers. Alys nods. Though perturbed, Holly complies. 

Alys picks up her pup, who burrows into the embrace. She grabs some meat from the provisions, and gives her a bite before gently laying down to rest. She trusts Jonnel and Holly to ensure her orders are followed.

Her pup curls up against her on her mat. She smiles, petting her back. “You’ll be called Frenya,” she whispers as the direwolf snuggles in closer. “We will always protect each other, you and I. Always.”

Alys shuts her eyes. When she dreams, this time it is not of wolves, but of the sea. 

[alittlebitluna]

The Old, The True, The Brave

Battle of the Seven Kingdoms Round II

Thank you so much for first place in Round I!

:: The Set :: {x} Your house sigil in the set {x} 3+ aesthetic pictures to do with the geography {x} 2+ pictures of what your House is famous four {x} Have your house name in the set {x} Have a picture of a castle 30::30

:: The Description :: {x} What is the name of your house? Velaryon

{x} What is their motto? The Old, The True, The Brave

{x} What is their sigil? A silver sea-horse on a sea-green field

{X} Where is your house located? Driftmark, an Island in Blackwater Bay

{X} Tag the mod: @natasha-maree13 {X} Include the hashtag: #botskround02 20::20

:: The Story :: {x} Fill this out: |house name ✦ Velaryon

|founded ✦ prior to 114 BC in Old Valyria

|geography ✦ Driftmark is an island in Blackwater Bay, west of Dragonstone, it has a long point. It is damp and dreary like it's neighbouring Dragonstone, but not on an active volcano. The island houses two castles, the seat of House Velaryon, Driftmark, and High Tide, built by Corlys Velaryon some point before 106AC. It was later burned during the dance of the dragons and is currently in ruins. Driftmark (the island) is also home to the towns of Hull and Spicetown. Spicetown was also destroyed in the Dance of the Dragons and has not been rebuilt since.  

|sacred weapon ✦ none

|religion ✦ Faith of the Seven

|blood ✦ blood of the dragon

|current head ✦ Viserys Velaryon

|current heir ✦ Jaecaerys Velaryon

|allies ✦ Greyjoy, Targaryen (historically, I've yet to get around to plotting with the present day ones), Estermont (strained)

|enemies ✦ Mormont

|best known for: ✦ Naval prowess (supplanted Ironborn naval supremacy when they arrived from Valyria, it's been more even since) ✦ Dragons

|house history {try and add some detail please} ✦ House Velaryon are an ancient and proud house of Old Valyria. They came to Westeros some time before their close Valyrian allies, House Targaryen, and were amongst the first to pledge fealty to the conquerors without any protest. In fact (canonically), the mother of the Conquerors; Visenya, Aegon, and Rhaenys Targaryen, was Valaena Velaryon. A number of Velaryon's served on Aegon's council, and their close relationship and inter-marriages continued over the three centuries of Targaryen rule. A number of Velaryon Queen's have sat next to the Iron Throne, and the Velaryon's were Dragonlords like their fellow valyrians in Westeros. Amongst their known dragonriders were Ser Laenor Velaryon and Ser Addam Velaryon, who both rode the Dragon; Seasmoke and Lady Laena Velaryon rode Vhagar, a dragon which originally belonged to Visenya Targaryen, sister-wife and Queen of Aegon the Conqueror. During the War of Shadows, they sided with House Targaryen, but bent the knee when their side lost. 40::40

:: Bonus :: {x} Have a picture of a member of your house not the heir or the current head {x} Use your house words as the title for your set 10::10

:: Total :: 100::100

:: Group Link :: https://www.polyvore.com/battle_seven_kingdoms/group.show?id=214877

:: Contest Link :: https://www.polyvore.com/cgi/contest.show?id=677686

[kckt88]

Scorched Hearts III

Summary:

'We loved with a love that was more than love - Edgar Allen Poe'

It's time for the petition to decide who will be the heir to Driftmark, and tensions rise as blood spills.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Secret Relationship, Death, Violence, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Oral Sex, Rough P in V,

AEMOND x O.C Niece

Word Count: 5955

A.N - Going over old ground but it needs to be done.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole

The tension in the throne room was palpable as Valaena stood alongside her family, her heart pounding in her chest.

On one side stood Rhaenyra, regal and composed, Daemon at her side, his expression unreadable but sharp, and her brothers, Jacaerys and Lucerys.

Rhaenys and Baela were standing just off centre their hands clasped together.

Across from them, Alicent Hightower stood with Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond.

Valaena’s gaze flickered over Aemond for a moment as he stood as still as stone, his arms folded behind his back, his single eye locked onto her, his expression unreadable.

At the centre of the room Vaemond Velaryon, bold and confident, waiting for his moment.

Overseeing it all from the Iron Throne was Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King.

The murmurs in the room began to die down as Otto rose from the Iron Throne, his voice cutting through the air.

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds, we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark,” he announced “As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters. The crown will now hear the petitions. Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon-”

Vaemond stepped forward, bowing his head respectfully to Alicent before turning to Otto, his voice filled with conviction.

“My lord Hand. The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas."

As he spoke, Valaena’s hand instinctively tightened into a fist at her side. She could feel the weight of the stares from the court—whispers of legitimacy and bloodlines swirling in the air like an invisible storm.

Vaemond continued, his voice growing more passionate. “-I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

Before he could go further, Rhaenyra stepped forward, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “As it does in my children, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir.”

Valaena felt a surge of pride as her mother spoke, but Vaemond's eyes flickered with barely concealed disdain.

“-No,” Rhaenyra continued, her tone sharp, “you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition.”

Otto raised a hand, cutting off the exchange. “You will have your chance to make your own petition, Princess. Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.”

Rhaenyra stepped back, and Valaena instinctively reached out, placing a comforting hand on her mother's arm. As she did, her eyes drifted back to Aemond.

He stood still, watching her, his face still unreadable. For a brief moment, the world outside the two of them faded, but then Vaemond's voice pulled her back.

"My lord Hand, this is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the continuation and the survival of my house and my line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor- the Lord of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides.”

The silence in the room was heavy as Vaemond finished, the weight of his words settling over the court.

Otto nodded. “Thank you, Ser Vaemond. Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Jacaerys Velaryon.”

Rhaenyra stepped forward “If I am to grace this farce with some answer,” she began, her voice carrying through the throne room, “I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago, in this very—"

Suddenly, the great doors of the throne room burst open with a loud creak, and a voice echoed through the hall: "King Viserys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Every head in the room turned toward the doors as King Viserys entered, frail but determined, hobbling forward with the help of his cane. The murmurs in the room ceased entirely, replaced by silence.

The throne room was suffocating with tension as King Viserys hobbled toward the Iron Throne, every step he took a visible struggle.

Wheezing, gasping, and groaning, he gripped his cane with white knuckles, his body bowed under the weight of his years and illness.

As Otto Hightower descended the steps of the Iron Throne, his expression was strained, the Hand clearly uncomfortable with the king’s sudden decision to preside.

Viserys, however, would not be deterred.

“Move aside Otto. I will sit the throne today,” Viserys rasped, his voice unyielding.

Otto nodded curtly. "Your Grace," he said, stepping aside with a strained smile.

The entire court watched in silence as the king shuffled toward the steps of the throne. Viserys looked up at the imposing seat, his face twisted in pain yet filled with determination.

The climb was torturous, each step taking every ounce of strength he had left. His body trembled as he ascended, and a member of the Kings guard rushed forward to assist him.

But Viserys, with as much dignity as he could muster, shook his head.

“I will be fine,” he said, though his voice wavered with effort.

Just as he reached the final step, the golden crown slipped from his head, clattering loudly on the stone floor.

Viserys sighed in frustration, bending slightly to retrieve it, but before he could reach it, a gentle hand grasped his arms and picked up the crown for him.

“I said I’m fine—” he began, turning with a fierce expression, but his voice caught in his throat as he saw who had come to his aid.

It wasn’t one of his guards but Valaena.

“Come on, Grandsire,” she said softly, her violet eyes—the same shape and shade as her grandmother Aemma’s—filled with understanding. “Slow but steady.”

For a moment, Viserys simply gazed into her eyes, his heart stirred by the likeness to the wife he had loved and lost.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he allowed her to help him to the throne. With her support, he finally collapsed into the Iron Throne, breathing heavily but victorious in his effort.

Valaena with careful grace, placed the crown back on his head, smiling warmly.

She moved to step away, but Viserys stopped her with a wheezing breath. "My sweet girl, my only granddaughter-" His voice was hoarse but filled with affection. “-Thank you”

Valaena turned, her heart warmed by the tenderness from her grandfather. “You are welcome, Your Grace,” she said, bowing.

Struggling for breath, Viserys fumbled with a ring on his finger before pulling it off. His voice was frail as he extended the ring to her.

“I want you to have this-It once belonged to my Aemma. S-She would want you to have it-”

Valaena blinked in surprise, glancing down at the ring before accepting it with reverence. She slid it onto her finger, feeling the weight of the legacy that came with it.

She then leaned closer to her grandsire, whispering softly, “Mother needs your help-”

Viserys gave her a faint nod of understanding. Valaena stepped back, descending the stairs gracefully to rejoin her family.

All eyes followed her, whispers rippling through the room as she passed, but she paid them no mind.

Viserys wiped a trembling hand over his face, gathering his composure. “I must-admit-my confusion,” he began, his voice thick with exhaustion. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession.”

His eyes roamed the room before settling on Princess Rhaenys. “The only one present-who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.”

Rhaenys stepped forward, her voice resolute as she spoke. “Indeed, Your Grace. It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son, Jacaerys Velaryon.” Her eyes flicked to Vaemond as she continued. “-His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him.”

She took a breath before adding, “As a matter of fact, Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Viserys smiled faintly, nodding. “Well-the matter is settled. Again.” His voice, though weak, carried finality. “I hereby reaffirm Prince Jacaerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

But Vaemond’s face twisted with fury. “You break law-and centuries of tradition,” he spat, his voice seething with rage, “To install your daughter and granddaughter as heirs to the Iron Throne. Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon.”

He turned, his voice rising in anger. “No. I will not allow it.”

Viserys’ eye darkened as he sat forward. “Allow it?” he snapped. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

Vaemond turned, his face contorted in disgust as he pointed a trembling finger at Jacaerys. “That is no true Velaryon! And certainly no nephew of mine!”

Rhaenyra stepped protectively in front of her son. “Go to your chambers,” she said firmly to Jace, her voice cutting through the tension. “You have said enough.”

Viserys, his voice sharp with authority, declared, “Jacaerys is my true-born grandson. And you are no more than the second son of Driftmark.”

But Vaemond could not contain his rage. “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—”

“-Say it” Daemon interjected, his voice like ice, a deadly invitation hanging in the air.

Vaemond’s eyes locked onto Daemon’s, and his mouth twisted into a sneer. “Her children-are bastards,” he spat with venom. Then, turning to Rhaenyra, he roared, “And she is a whore!”

The room gasped, horrified. Viserys, his face a mask of fury, began to rise from his throne, unsheathing his dagger.

“I will have your tongue for that!” he growled, his frail body shaking with rage.

But before Viserys could act, there was a sudden, swift movement—Daemon stepped forward in one fluid motion, and the room was filled with the sickening sound of steel slicing through flesh. Vaemond’s head tumbled to the ground, his body collapsing to the floor with a heavy thud.

The hall erupted in shocked gasps as blood pooled around the corpse. Daemon, calm as ever, smirked as he wiped the blood from Dark Sister on the hem of his clothes.

“He can keep his tongue,” he said casually, his voice dripping with amusement.

Otto’s voice cut through the stunned silence, “Disarm him!” he ordered.

Daemon merely shrugged. “No need.”

Valaena’s gaze was fixed on Vaemond’s headless body, her heart pounding in her chest, her hand hovering over her stomach.

She slowly looked over to Aemond, who stood across the room, smirking in approval, clearly impressed by Daemon’s display.

When their eyes met, Aemond’s smirk widened, his amusement and satisfaction clear.

Later that evening the air was thick with tension as Valaena took her seat next to Aemond at the long banquet table.

Jace and Luke, exchanged confused glances as they took their own seats across from her, but Valaena ignored them, her mind focused elsewhere.

Beneath the table, she felt a hand slip into hers. She glanced at Aemond, his expression as stoic as ever, but the firm grip of his hand spoke volumes.

Her heart quickened, and she gave his hand a subtle squeeze in return, feeling a quiet comfort in his presence.

Moments later, the heavy doors to the hall creaked open, and Viserys was carried in. The entire room stood in unison, waiting as he was gently placed at the head of the table.

Once seated, they all followed, retaking their places, Aemond’s hand once again finding hers beneath the table.

“Wine Princess?” asked a maid.

“No thank you-just water” replied Valaena. The maid bowed slightly before she left the table, returning moments later with a cup of water.

“How good it is, to see you all tonight” Viserys rasped, a pained yet heartfelt smile on his weathered face.

Alicent, seated beside him, folded her hands in prayer. “Prayer before we begin?” she suggested, her voice soft yet firm. She bowed her head, and the others followed, though Valaena kept her eyes open, watching the scene unfold.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love,” Alicent began, her voice carrying over the silent room. “May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

Across the table, Valaena caught Daemon rolling his eyes at the mention of Vaemond. Her lips twitched into a smirk, and when Daemon noticed, and he shook his head in amusement.

Viserys, still smiling, then continued, “This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses.” He raised his cup with trembling hands. “A toast to the young Princes-and their betrothed.”

“Hear, hear,” Daemon said with a grin, raising his cup, and Valaena followed suit, her gaze flicking momentarily to Aemond, whose eye remained fixed on her.

But the air shifted when Aegon leaned over toward Jace, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as he reached for a decanter of wine.

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman. You do know how the act is done, I assume?” Aegon’s tone dripped with mocking amusement. “At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that. If you want, I can provide you with a demonstration.”

Jace’s face flushed with anger, and he snarled back, “You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

Aegon laughed, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Ask Aemond,” he said with a wink. “Judging from the noises coming from his chambers last night, I taught him well.”

The jest hung in the air, and while Aemond scowled in irritation, but Jace’s gaze flicked curiously toward Valaena, who had lowered her head, her cheeks a faint shade of pink.

Jace’s eyes narrowed slightly, his mind clearly turning over the implications of Aegon’s words, but before he could speak, the sound of Viserys struggling to stand shifted everyone’s attention.

The King rose shakily from his chair, gripping the edge of the table for support. “It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table,” Viserys began, his voice raw with emotion. “The faces most dear to me in all the world, yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.”

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached behind his head and unclasped the golden mask that had been concealing his disfigurement.

The mask landed on the table with a dull clunk, and Valaena, still holding Aemond’s hand beneath the table, felt her breath catch in her throat.

Half of her grandfather’s face was rotted away, his eye gone, and his cheek nothing but decayed flesh.

She squeezed Aemond’s hand tighter, feeling his grip return just as firmly. His expression remained unchanged, but she knew he was glaring at his father, perhaps feeling the weight of unspoken resentment for the man who had failed to protect him in the past.

Viserys’ voice, though frail, was filled with the weight of decades of leadership. “My own face, is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king, but your father. Your brother. Your husband and your grandsire. Who may not, it seems walk for much longer among you.”

Valaena felt Aemond tense beside her, and she could sense the silent storm brewing within him, his hatred for his father’s words barely contained.

Viserys continued, his voice growing softer. “Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances, if not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

Valaena glanced at Aemond, his hand still tightly gripping hers beneath the table. His jaw was clenched, his eye glaring at Viserys with a mixture of frustration and unspoken sorrow.

She could feel the depth of his anger, the silent war that raged within him at being denied the recognition and love he had once so desperately craved from his father.

As the dinner progressed, the tension in the room ebbed and flowed with each passing toast.

Valaena noticed the look of shock and contempt on Otto’s face as Alicent, in a rare moment of sincerity, raised her cup and declared, "Rhaenyra will make a fine queen." The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with implication, and Valaena could almost feel Otto’s displeasure burning from across the table.

Alicent, however, remained composed, but her father’s disapproval was unmistakable.

Next to her, Aemond sat in silence, his plate untouched.

Concerned, Valaena leaned in and whispered, “Are you ok? You’re not eating.”

“I’m fine,” Aemond replied, though his tone was curt, his jaw set.

He let go of her hand under the table and placed it on her thigh instead, the weight of his touch sending a ripple through her.

Valaena returned her attention to her own food, but felt her stomach roll at the smell of the lamprey pie, so she pushed away her plate and instead took a sip of water.

Further down the table, Aegon leaned in close to Baela, his voice low but dripping with arrogance. “I, um regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” he said, his words laced with mockery. “But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

The air snapped with tension as Jace slammed his fists onto the table and stood abruptly, his eyes blazing with fury.

Aemond, ever his brother’s protector, rose immediately. But Jace, forced a smile and raised his cup.

“To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond,” Jace said, his voice cool yet heavy with underlying menace. “We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.”

Aegon huffed “To you as well,”

Viserys, oblivious to the mounting tension, nodded approvingly at Jace. “Well done, my boy,”

Helaena, ever the strange and soft-spoken one, suddenly stood, raising her glass awkwardly. “I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena,” she said, her tone as detached as ever. “They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you-except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

Valaena’s eyes narrowed in a glare at Aegon, who rubbed a hand over his face, clearly embarrassed by his sister’s blunt honesty.

Helaena, however, smiled sweetly and sat back down as if she hadn’t just revealed the stark reality of her marriage.

Viserys, trying to lighten the mood, called for music. Soon, a sweet melody filled the hall, easing the tension just enough for the moment.

Jace, rose from his seat and approached Helaena, offering her his hand. She accepted with a shy smile, and the two began to dance.

Aemond, watching the scene unfold, stood and offered his hand to Valaena. She eyed him curiously, but when he gave her a small nod, she accepted, letting him lead her to an empty space in the hall.

As the music continued, the world around them seemed to fade, leaving just the two of them moving together.

Aemond twirled her gracefully, and when he lifted her off the floor, a soft laugh escaped her lips, filling the air with a rare moment of joy.

They danced, oblivious to the curious eyes watching them, as if they were the only two people in the room.

When the music ended, Valaena, slightly breathless, smiled and thanked Aemond before Jace, angrily stormed over grabbing hold of her arm and forcefully pulling her away from Aemond who took a step forward but stopped when Valaena shook her head.

“What was that?” snarled Jace.

Valaena gave him a casual shrug as she wrenched her arm out of his grasp “He asked me to dance. I couldn’t exactly refuse.”

Before the conversation could continue, Viserys grew visibly tired, and the guards moved to take him back to his chambers.

The moment he was carried out, Aegon stood abruptly and walked over to Valaena, his grin wide and insufferable.

“Seen as you danced with my brother, it’s only fair you take a turn with me,” he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

Valaena hesitated, noticing Aemond who had resumed his seat was clenching his jaw. But she couldn’t exactly refuse without making a scene, so she took Aegon’s hand reluctantly.

As they danced, Aegon leaned in close, his voice low and taunting.

“If you think my brother has good moves, you should try mine,” he whispered.

Valaena’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Aegon smirked. “How long have you been fucking my brother?”

Valaena laughed, brushing him off. “Are you drunk?”

“Not drunk enough to lose my wits,” Aegon replied with a sly grin. “That was you I heard with him last night-”

“You know nothing,” Valaena said, twirling around him, trying to maintain her composure.

“I know more than you think-” Aegon shot back, his tone sharp. “I take it none of your family know about you and Aemond”

“Clearly the wine has addled your senses uncle,” Valaena muttered, her patience wearing thin.

Before Aegon could respond, a loud banging interrupted them. Aemond had risen from his seat, his cup in hand, his expression dark and unreadable.

“Final tribute,” Aemond declared, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “To the health of my nephews, Jace and Luke. Each of them handsome, wise-hmm-strong.”

“Aemond,” Alicent warned, but he ignored her, his gaze fixed on Jace.

“Come,” Aemond continued, his smirk widening. “Let us drain our cups to these two Strong boys.”

Jace, his face flushed with anger, snarled, “I dare you to say that again.”

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment,” Aemond replied, his voice laced with mockery. “Do you not think yourself Strong?”

Jace lunged forward, punching Aemond in the jaw. Chaos then erupted as Luke tried to intervene, but Aegon grabbed him, slamming his head into the table.

“Jace!” Rhaenyra shouted, rising from the table as Alicent yelled, “That is enough!”

Valaena, seeing Aegon manhandling her brother, rushed over and grabbed a handful of his hair, wrenching him away from Luke.

Aegon retaliated by grabbing her and shoving her back, but Valaena, lurched forward and punched him in the side of the head.

Alicent seized Aemond, pulling him aside. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?” she demanded, her voice filled with frustration.

Aemond, his face impassive, simply smirked. “I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother. Though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs.”

As Jace broke free from the Kings guard, ready to charge Aemond again, Daemon stepped in, his voice calm but commanding. “Wait, wait!” he said, halting everyone in their tracks.

Rhaenyra, her voice sharp, said, “Go to your quarters. All of you. Now.”

Valaena stepped away from Aegon, her chest heaving with anger as she glanced at Aemond one last time before she followed her siblings out of the room.

Valaena moved quietly around her chambers, packing her things into a worn leather satchel. Her hands trembled as she stuffed clothing and personal items inside.

As she picked up her hairpins from the vanity, she heard the familiar creak of shifting wood behind her. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“My mother has said that we are to sail back to Dragonstone,” she said flatly, focusing on the task at hand.

A moment later, she felt the warmth of a hand settle on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, moving to the vanity again to gather her remaining things.

“You are upset with me,” Aemond said quietly.

Valaena’s jaw tightened as she stuffed the hairpins into her satchel. “I know you have no love or care for my brothers, but did you not consider the harm you would do to me with that toast of yours?”

Aemond stepped closer, frustration simmering in his voice. “It was your brother who angered me. He dared to laugh at my expense.”

Valaena turned sharply to face him, her eyes filled with hurt. “So, in your anger, you decide to ridicule me?” Her voice trembled with accusation.

Aemond’s expression softened, his hand reaching up to cup her face. “No. Not you. Never you.”

Valaena pulled away, removing his hands from her face as her heart ached. “I can take the whispers and the stares of others, but I cannot take it from you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond reached for her again, but this time, she stepped back, her eyes refusing to meet his. “Please don’t turn from me,” he said softly, his voice laced with desperation. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

Her fingers fiddled with the buckles of her satchel as she tried to steady her breath. “How can you scorn my brothers but claim to care for or even love me when I share the same blood as they do?”

Aemond’s expression darkened with old memories. “They used to tease me, as you well know. You suffered the same.” His voice carried a heavy bitterness.

“Yes, I did,” Valaena replied, her tone sharper than she intended.

“All I ever wanted was a dragon,” Aemond continued, his voice growing distant as he looked back on his childhood. “After you were taken to Dragonstone, and word came that you had claimed Silverwing, that gave me hope. I thought, like you, perhaps I wasn’t meant to have an egg, that maybe my dragon was already grown.”

Valaena paused, her hands stilling on the satchel as she remembered. “I was always meant for the sky,” she said softly, her eyes far away. “I could hear her calling for me. And when we flew together, our hearts were as one.”

“That’s all I ever wanted,” Aemond confessed, his voice thick with emotion. “When I claimed Vhagar, I sensed her loneliness. I know too well how it feels to be alone. She accepted me, and the joy of our first flight—” His voice faltered, the pain of the memory clear. “—was ripped away when your brothers and cousins attacked me.”

Valaena closed her eyes, guilt washing over her. “I tried to stop them.”

“I know,” Aemond whispered, stepping closer. “When I fell into the dirt, blood pouring down my face, I could hear you screaming. And then you came to me.” His voice softened as he remembered that night. “You tore pieces of your nightgown and pressed them to my face to stop the bleeding. You took my hand. Do you remember what you said?”

Valaena’s breath hitched as a tear rolled down her cheek. “Yes. I remember.”

Aemond’s voice was low and reverent, the weight of their shared memory hanging between them.

“Iksan lēda ao,” he whispered, his gaze fixed on her. (I’m with you)

Valaena’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes filled with more tears as she looked up at him.

“Are you with me Valaena?” asked Aemond.

“Va moriot,” she whispered back, her voice trembling. (Always)

In an instant, Aemond surged forward, his lips crashing against hers in a fierce, desperate kiss. Valaena melted into him, her hands clutching at his tunic as if holding on to him was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested against one another, their breath mingling as they stood in silence.

Aemond’s voice was raw with emotion as he whispered, “I’m sorry. I never meant to cause you harm. I love you.”

Tears spilled freely from Valaena’s eyes as she whispered back, “I love you too.”

For a moment, the world outside their small space seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them.

Aemond pulled back slightly, his fingers still resting on Valaena's cheek as he searched her tear-streaked face, his gaze filled with urgency. "How long do we have?" he asked softly, his voice laced with an edge of desperation. "Until you have to return to Dragonstone?"

Valaena swallowed hard, her heart heavy with the weight of their impending separation. “My mother could come for me at any moment,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if speaking the truth out loud would make it happen faster.

Aemond’s jaw clenched, as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured, “We best be quick then.”

Before she could respond he spun Valaena around and pressed her face against the wall, with one hand on the back of her neck and the other quickly pushing down his breeches and smallclothes.

“I said we needed to be quick” rasped Aemond as he nudged her ankle with his foot, signalling for her to open her legs wider.

His body covered hers as he sucked and licked the delicate skin of her neck, leaving red marks in his wake.

Valaena moved her head to the side and moaned loudly as she felt Aemond’s teeth digging into her skin.

Not having the time to properly prepare her, Aemond spat into his hand reaching down to run it up and down the hard length of himself, eyeing Valaena with an animalistic hunger, a smirk on his lips as she bent forward for him.

He rucked up the dress she was wearing and pulled aside her smallclothes as he guided himself to her entrance, she barely had a moment to adjust before he is pressing his cock forcefully inside and stretching her brutally, causing her to cry out.

“TAKE IT!” spits Aemond.

Valaena can’t think of anything but the intense pounding thrusts that greet her, causing her to wail and moan, causing the tears form in her eyes, before running down her cheeks.

Aemond sets a brutal pace, his hips crashing into hers, his fingers digging into her hips as he pushes and pulls her against him.

His cock reaching deep inside her, the sting of being stretched by him now giving way to a pleasurable ache.

Then he withdraws from her and spins her around, lifting her into his arms, his mouth pressed against hers as he quickly thrusts back inside her.

“YES! YES! AEMOND!” screams Valaena as she claws at his back.

“FUCK!” shouts Aemond as he feels her cunny clenching around his cock.

“P-Please. Oh Please. Yes-yes” babbled Valaena ignoring the pain in her back as the force of Aemond’s thrusts kept slamming her into the wall.

“That’s it-” encouraged Aemond his gaze rooted to the place where they were joined, transfixed by the sight of her cunt stretched around his cock.

“Oooh-please-please” muttered Valaena.

But then, his thrust begin to slow, and he withdraws from her, making her whimper in frustration.

But Aemond ignores her as he lays her on the chaise and falls to his knees.

Sliding his hands up her legs, bunching the fabric of her smallclothes in his hand before he rips them from her body.

“P-Please-” whined Valaena as she felt his hard cock sliding against her folds.

“Hmm” growled Aemond as he sheathes himself inside her again.

“God. Yes. Aemond” moaned Valaena as he began to thrust in and out of her in deep achingly slow thrusts.

“Your cunt is dripping, it's so beautiful” sighed Aemond.

Slowly thrusting back and forth. Over and over, withdrawing further each time, until his cock entirely withdrew from her warm wet entrance.

“Tell me you want me-“ growled Aemond as he ran the head of his cock through her wet folds.

“I want you” exclaimed Valaena

“Tell me you need me” whispered Aemond as he sheathed himself back inside her.

“I need you-“ muttered Valaena as one of Aemond’s hands slid up her body and wrapped around her throat.

Aemond smiled and then began to fuck her in earnest, his fingers digging into the flesh of her throat, using her as leverage as he repeatedly plunged his cock into her cunny, over, thrilled to hear Valaena’s moans of need echoing around the chambers.

His thrusts, brutal and unrelenting.

“Come for me-” breathed Aemond.

Valaena screamed as her desperately needed peak exploded from her body, making every limb tremble as her body bucked around Aemond’s cock.

“That’s it baby, take it. Take all of me-good girl”.

“A-Aemond-”

“I-I’m going to-come” exclaimed Aemond, the tension in his abdomen was about to burst.

“Yes-yes-” whined Valaena.

 “FUUUCCCKKK” roared Aemond as he exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he finally spilled his seed inside her, collapsing against her, breathing hard.

Aemond lay atop Valaena on the chaise, his heart pounding as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath coming in heavy, heated bursts.

Then, suddenly—a sharp knock at the door.

They both jumped, Valaena gasping as Aemond immediately pulled his softened cock from her and scrambled to fasten his breeches. His fingers fumbled with the laces as Rhaenyra's voice sounded from the other side of the door, calm yet commanding.

"Time to go, Valaena,"

"Just a second!" Valaena's voice was a breathless rush as she hurriedly smoothed out her dishevelled dress, her heart racing.

She glanced at Aemond, who, despite his usual composure, looked equally startled, still fastening his clothes.

The door handle turned with a faint creak, and the door opened slightly. Valaena’s heart leapt into her throat as she saw the sliver of light spilling into the room, but then Daemon’s voice rang out through the gap.

“Is she ready yet? If we’re leaving, we need to go now,” Daemon said, his tone impatient.

“Almost,” Rhaenyra replied.

Valaena cast a desperate glance at Aemond, her voice barely a whisper. “Quick!”

Aemond’s eye darted to the slowly widening door, then back to her. Without a word, he leaned in and pressed a swift but tender kiss to her lips, his fingers lingering on her cheek for a fleeting moment before he slipped away.

With quiet precision, he moved to the secret passage hidden in the shadows of the room, disappearing just as the door began to open wider.

Valaena exhaled shakily, her hands smoothing her dress one last time as she grabbed her satchel. She turned just as her mother finally stepped inside, her smile warm but faintly tired.

"Ready?" her mother asked, her eyes softening when they met Valaena's.

Valaena nodded, offering a small smile in return. "Yes. I’m ready."

Rhaenyra glanced behind her at Daemon, who continued grumbling under his breath about the treachery in the Keep. “Come. Your brothers are waiting.”

With one final glance toward the secret passage, Valaena steeled herself, clutching her satchel a little tighter. She could still feel the lingering warmth of Aemond’s kiss on her lips as she followed her mother, her heart heavy with the knowledge that the time they shared had come to an end—at least for now.

TBC

[writingsofwesteros]

https://href.li/?https://cdn.isselecta.com/2017-09/a-good-hump-day-involves-you-me-5_1500.webp

This screams any of the au's that includes Corlys x Rhaenys x other!! I'm currently obsessed with them x Alicent and them x artyssa arryn. And them x Valaena. God they go way too well with a third I swear.

!!!

Don't they! I VOLUNTEER !! Imagine Laenor married another but he died..and apparently there is an old law where the father can take the widow if there is no heirs...

[writingsofwesteros]

I'm wheezing rn X"D picturing the arguments between 5'10'' Rhaenys, 6'3'' Corlys and Valaena's little 5'3'' smol firecracker attitude. I can so see her being one of those women that is a tiny ball of crazy, and half the red keep guards are scared of her and that glare and sharp tongue of hers. Corlys and Rhaenys are the only ones she allows to make her feel small during disagreements and other activities oops.

!! ALL OF THAT! You know she's so not impressed and Daemon has teased her about her height when they were closer.

Corlys and Rhaenys are the only ones she allows to make her feel small during disagreements and other activities oops. YES!