#viserys i x original female character

[reignof-fyre]

Upcoming fic:

Allyria Hightower - Daughter of the High Tower, Lady of the Royal Court, Queen-Consort of the Seven Kingdoms.

Otto never imagined that the destruction of all of his ambitions would come from his own household.

Especially from his own daughter.

Or, after overhearing her younger sister and father scheming, Allyria decides to change the game and puts herself in the king's path.

[flowerisevil]

Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen reader where she is Rhaenyra’s sister and daughter of Viserys and Aemma, she is pregnant when they visit King’s Landing and she has the baby so Alicent calls her as she does with Rhaenyra and Gwayne gets furious about it even more when Alicent insinuates that their son is not Targaryen so from then on he is team black.

Devotion

Gwayne Hightower X female reader Targaryen

A/N: I hope its okay that I use an original female character and i don't if i understand your request right but yeah here it is I hope you enjoy. Happy reading mwa!

Disclaimer: grammatical/typographical errors ahead, englisn is not my first language.

Warning: mention of blood, child birth, cursing, and no use of Y/N. Please tell me if I miss anything.

//

The married couple returned in Kings Landing from Oldtown for the King's funeral, the second born princess Targaryen along side her husband and her growing belly arrived at King's Landing, the princess was expecting to see her elder sister Rhaenyra only to hear that she had already departed with her family to Dragonstone.

"Your sister s-she is rather not very pleased to be here" the Queen explained of her sister's departure with her new husband Daemon.

"How is your pregnancy daughter?" Alicent asked, changing the topic.

The princess rub her belly as she smiled "It is great though a bit struggle happens"

Gwayne her husband held her hand that was caressing her stomach, as he joined their conversation "My wife pregnancy is very delicate, it is her first pregnancy and the maesters said her body needs a lot of rest"

Otto nodded in acknowledgement "I am happy for the both of you, you seem to grow fond of each other"

The couple smiled, they did indeed. "We truly did and Daeron in Oldtown is one of our witnesses" Gwayne chuckles, the poor boy was tired seeing the two couple always on each other like what a newlywed partners would do.

Alicent sighs at the mention of her youngest son "and how is he? Daeron?"

"He is doing good, a boy full of wit, a good sword fighter" the princess explained ".....he is very kind your grace, a soft hearted child, his heart has a space for animals" she added, her youngest half brother was a great boy, far away from them. He is a chivalrous boy.

"I should talk to the both of you outside, may I?" Alicent turned to them, the couple simply nodded as all of them walked outside the chamber.

"I wish for your wife to give birth here in Red Keep" Alicent said, the princess frowned but before she could give reaction her husband spoke first.

"I wish my child to be born in Oldtown, why you must decision for that?"

Alicent looks resigned to her brother's fire backs.

"It is an order from your Queen" was all the Queen say before she entered the room, shutting the door before them.

Gwayne's clenched fist softened as she caress it. "We shall give it to them for now Gwayne, there's nothing we could lose for giving them a small favor"

Gwayne rolled his eyes "Oh please that is my sister, and I am a Hightower I know how one thinks"

Gwayne was never unknown to the small resentment his sister Queen had for his wife, even before Alicent was a young lady she had always envied the younger princess, the princess was smarter, kind, beautiful, she was like a glowing light walking through the halls of the Keep, everyone pleased her, and when she was on the right age for marriage she was married to him, the heir to Oldtown and a knight. She had the life his sister was deprived of.

And he knew Alicent has some plans behind this little show of hers.

And he was not wrong.

His wife give her the favor, she gave birth between the walls of Red Keep, her screams and groaned echoed all over the Keep, they can hear her dragon Silverwing roaring for her rider.

"Lord Gwayne you shall not enter, you should be somewhere else or perhaps on the training grou-" the servants shuts when his collar was tigtly gripped.

His wife birth was no jest, the Maesters had informed them before her birth that her body was weak, and she might be carrying a boy for having such a hard labor.

"Don't you understand my wife's condition? She needs me, let me in" Gwayne scowled but his request was denied as the servants pulled him away from the room.

One of the Maesters came out, his face full of worry "My Lord, the princess"

"How is my wife?"

"The princess...she is trying her best my Lord but I must be honest with you, I have both a good and bad message to deliver" the Maester exhales before he continued. "The good one is that the princess is able to push half of the babe's body"

Gwayne wanted to smile, he will finally have an heir and child that he had hope would taken the look after his beautiful wife but knowing that the news has a bad new to come, he can't help but worry for his princess.

"And what is the other one?"

"The babe was rather in an unfortunate position, in birth the head of the babe should be the first thing to come out but in her condition it is unfortunately the other way around"

"You mean my baby's head is still stuck inside of her?"

The Maester nodded "and it is quite dangerous my Lord, we might lose the babe"

Gwayne nodded but frustration covered his face, what would happen to his wife and child?

"Unless my Lord you wish to cut open the princess to save-" the Maester wasn't able to finish his words as he stumble on the ground from Gwayne's singld punch.

"You will do no such thing, what you will do is save my wife from that horrible state whatever it takes, my wife shall come out of that room fine and alive, you hear me?" He command, his knuckled has some blood stained from punching the man.

The Maester nodded and walked back inside the room, Gwayne sat on the cold floor, they will have to save his wife one way or another.

"Your father wish to see you Ser Gwayne" one of the guard approached him and spoke.

"I do not wish to leave my wif-"

"The Lord Hand wants me to tell you it is urgent" the guard continued, Gwayne groaned out of frustration, slowly standing up and walked to his father's office.

On the other hand the princess was lie down on the bed, blood was everywhere.

"Your grace, another push please you are doing well" one of the midwives encourage. Another scream filled the room, stained tears on her cheeks.

The nursemaid and midwives encourage her more, as she continued pushing out the babe inside her, her situation was hard to watch, as they looked at her filled with concern for the princess, she looked tired and breathless. Some of her handmaidens that was present was tearing seeing their princess crying out from pain.

Another scream filled the room once again.

"It is a boy!" The Maester finally announced. Holding a baby boy on its hands, the room filled with cheer as they ran to the princess, immediately handing her help, some wash their sweat, some clean her up.

She smiled as she saw her son being washed and wrapped, she was still shaking but she insisted to hold her child. A boy...an heir for her husband.

The cheering stop as they all looked at the door opening revealing a concerned servant "M-my princess...the Queen s-she uh"

"What of the Queen? Speak clearly"

"She said that she wish to see her grandchild, and you aswell, she wish for you to deliver her grandchild to her" the servants finished, murmurs, shock gaps and whispers filled the room, looking concerned for the princess.

The princess sigh, so this why she wants her to stay here? To have something to play with?

She stood up, legs shaking, her whole was is shaking rather, the nursemaids guide her to carry her newborn son.

"Princess....you're body is still trembling, you shall not walked around the castle or els-"

"Who are we to deprive the Queen a sight of her grandchild" she smiled weakly, as she embrace her son and start walking through the Halls, her whole full of sweat and blood still dripping on her legs.

The news arrived Gwayne's ear, one of his men bargen inside his father's office sending the news of his wife's succesful delivery, Gwayne stood up and left the room fast, his knight walk fast closely to him.

"But my Lord the princess has already left her delivery room, the servants said she immediately left as soon as she gave birth" his man informed.

Gwayne stopped his footsteps.

"They said her Grace had asked for your wife's immediate presence after her birth"

That mad woman. Gwayne was so done of his sister, she is nothing but a horrible Queen, he let her and their father do whatever they have wanted in this castle, corrupting the King, ruining the life of his wife's older sister but he would not let him take advantage of his wife's kind nature.

Gwayne ran as soon as he saw her walking through the halls, his mouth opened but no words came out as he saw her state. Trembling, body covered of sweats and bloodstains, her dress was not very appropriate to see, and his fist clenched as he saw the path of blood dropping from her legs as she walk. Was this is the sigh his Queen sister wish to see?

She wasn't suppose to even raise a finger after her horrifying birth but now she is walking around carrying their babe. He ran to them and cautiously held her back.

"My wife, where are you going?" He tried to sound calm to not show any hint of frustration and anger on his voice.

"Oh ask your dear sister, my love s-she wish to see our child" her voice was hoarse it sounded to frail almost like a whisper from all the screaming she made.

His jaw clenched, he looked at his men and ordered him to bring a nursemaid as soon as the nurse came he told her to carry their child inside the room.

"Gwayne but the Queen-"

"I would have the talk with her, you shall not worry she will be able to see our child when the right time has come, and that right time is when you finally have a rest and sleep" his voice was soft but full of authority, he slowly lower himself to carry her in bridal style.

His eyes cannot lie and his wife can see it, she see right through him. The anger she can almost see what she is plotting inside his head.

The princess lean on his chest. "Do not let anger took over you Gwayne, talk to her nicely"

Oh he would definitely do have a nice talk with his cunt sister.

"Please Gwayne, I would not wish you to be in trouble"

"She took advantage of you darling, how do you wish me to react when I see you trembling as blood drip from your legs walking through this long fucking halls of castle nothing but fragile? Do you wish for me to celebrate?" Gwayne sarcastically spoke, he hated her wife for being a too much proper but he also loved her the same way.

"I kinda wish you do, I gave you a boy. An heir" she smiled, her eyes sparkles as she look over the maid who was carrying their child, Gwayne smiled looking over the babe.

"I am happy more than happy actually, but I would not want to put you in that situation again"

"It is normal state they said"

"Still I would not want to risk you again, I am happy with you no matter with heir or none but now I have a young version of you, I would have more very reason to go home and wake up everyday"

She was his life, she made him whole, losing her would be a big tragedy to him, the day he vowed to her that he will love her with all he can offer, he did not just love her, he stayed and place his faithfulness to her.

As he slowly placed his wife om their chamber, he send her handmaidens and Maester to look after her, clean her and check if she need something to be mend.

He barged inside the council room knowing they will be their, the members looked at him, Otto spoke first breaking the silence.

"My son, as far as I remember you do not have a seat in this room to attend to"

Gwayne scoffs, as he eyed for his sister. "Is this your plan? Why you wanted my wife to give birth here? To make her suffer?"

"It is the King's dying wish"

"Oh I believe is it? Just like how his dying wish is to fucking crown Aegon as his heir, despite your son being brainless smug"

"To say that such thing to the prince is treason, what is it that makes you so angry Gwayne?" Otto tap his son shoulder but he immediately pull back.

"Your Queen, made my wife walk through the halls right after she gave birth to our child, have I not told you that her pregnancy is risky? Yet you made her walk instead of giving her the time to regain her energy"

Alicent snapped a look at him, the two children of Otto Hightower faced each other. "I wish to not harm her, I simply wish to see her and my grandchil-"

"Is that really it? Or perhaps you are so envious of seeing my wife live the life you wished you had?"

A deafening silence filled them, the members each switch looks between the Queen and Gwayne Hightower.

"You shall not touch my wife anymore and so is our child, we will leave here as soon as she recover" Gwayne discussed. Otto approached his son.

"What about your army? we need them incase Rhaenyra declares war after we declare Aegon as King" Otto explained.

Gwayne chuckles, the audacity of his father to think that he will give him his army.

He did not answer them instead walked out the room, he will make sure what they did to the princess will be delivered to the future Queen Rhaenyra.

//

She arrived at the chamber, she was welcomed by the sight of his beautiful wife holding their child, he slowly walked to them sitting on the edge of bed beside his wife.

"We will leave here tomorrow, I can and will not go another days with those cunts around you and our son" Gwayne spoke, caressing his wife's silver white hair, he sighed as he continued to reveal another thing.

"They plan to make Aegon King"

The princess turned her face to him, her face was confused hoping she heard him wrong.

"They know Rhaenyra is the heir, the future Queen of the realm our father made it known before he died, he declared her as his heir" she explained, she and Gwayne were both there as she was declared the rightful heir to the throne.

"I know but those two said it was the dying King's wish, I do not believe."

"We shall go to Dragonstone and send words to Rhaenyra..." She trailed, something in her was nervous what if Gwayne would not side with her?

"Yes we must, as soon as possible my love and make it clear to your sister that we bend our knee for her" Gwayne leaned his forehead to hers, his gaze moves to their son.

The boy had her eyes, lilac gaze, he had his nose and lips.

This is all what Gwayne had asked and wished when he married his wife, a whole family but with the upcoming war he knows they will have to be extra careful.

He will bent the knee for Rhaenyra but his wife and son's safety would remain a top of his list.

[flowerandblood]

The Lost Haven (7/16)

[ modern mafia • Aemond x niece • female ]

[ warnings: uprotected sex, incest obviously, smut, the angst, manipulation (partly unintentional), violent description of suicide attempt (blood), injection of a sleeping drug, violence, imprisoning, uncomfortable conversations, bad, bad things ]

[ description: The vacation from eight years ago still haunts his memories and doesn't let him forget what happened between him and his niece, the daughter of his sister and Harwin Strong. Their paths separate and he immerses himself in his father's mafia world until the day she calls him for the first time since those events. Sexual tension, dark, dangerous, withdrawn, thirsty Aemond. ]

Author’s note: As promised, this is another, this time official modern version of The Fall from the Heavens. In this version, Daemon is not related to the family, but is simply Rhaenyra's husband and the leader of the second gang, Alys and Larys are also not related to each other, but Larys is Harwin's brother. I will partly refer to the original series, hiding some easter eggs, and some will be a completely new, fresh plot. As in every universe, only Aemond calls her Rhaenys and this is not her real name (she is unnamed character and the others also do not know that he calls her that). There will be a lot more brutality and angst in this version, so watch out. You can read this as a standalone story.

Series & Characters Moodboard Aemond & Rhaenys Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

He could have become a father.

Could was the key word in his life: he could do a lot of things theoretically, but for the most part the line between what was accessible to him and what was not was clearly drawn.

He couldn't escape the world that was consuming him.

He couldn't change who he was.

He couldn't marry his niece, at least in the light of social morality.

But he could become the father of her child because she hadn't taken the pill.

This news thrilled him so much that for a moment he forgot that his own father was dead.

And the complications that came with it.

Looking at his body in the morgue, he thought that perhaps a good thing had happened: Viserys looked sick and tired, his face expressing relief.

He was with his first wife now, the one he really loved, he thought with regret, and felt a squeeze in his heart, seeing his niece's face in his mind then, as she laid beneath him, panting loudly, seared, warm and wet only for him.

He grunted, shifting from foot to foot, recognising that he shouldn't be thinking about it right now.

Only Rhaenyra, Helaena and his mother wept over his body.

Neither he nor Aegon shed a single tear.

The next day he felt excited like a small child and terrified at the same time: it was the first time he was to see the University from the inside, to talk to the professor and on top of that, to see her, again.

If it worked out, they would study together.

Perhaps they would even go on excavations, just like when they were children.

Maybe there was some part of their lives that they could get back.

He texted her that he would come and was relieved when he spotted her silhouette waiting for him in the car park. As soon as he stepped out of the car he felt uncertainty and fear, wondering if this was a good idea.

What if his grandfather found out?

If he was putting her and himself in danger?

He involuntarily reached into the pocket of his jacket, wanting to soothe himself with a cigarette.

"There's no smoking allowed on University premises." She said, furrowing her brow, making his hand drop in a gesture of helplessness and impatience.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Yes. Let's go. We'll find my professor in the teachers' common room, he's just having a break between lectures." She sighed, ignoring his tone and demeanour, moving ahead.

He had to admit that the whole campus impressed him: the lawns and the huge park around which the gigantic nineteenth-century brick building towered were full of students sitting on the grass, reading books and talking to each other.

They had no worries except their exams, he thought regretfully, concluding that they didn't even know how lucky they were.

The conversation with the professor was overwhelming for him: he had never been able to find himself talking to strangers, even less so when he couldn't leave or defend himself when he heard a difficult question.

The man sitting in front of him was not a man transporting cocaine by ship, but an old man with big glasses who was telling him that if he were able to participate in the excavations, part-time studies would be possible for him.

"Well, if that's the case, then please prepare yourself for the exams. Then we'll see what comes of it." Said the professor and stood up, nodding, letting them know that their meeting was over.

"Is that it?" He asked in disbelief, looking at her with big eyes, wondering if it was a joke, but she only smiled.

"Yes." She replied. "Thank you, Professor."

As they left, he felt discomfort at the thought that he didn't know how to act. He guessed that he had interrupted her class and should leave, but that meant there was no telling when he would see her again.

He wanted to simply spend some time with her, but he didn't know how.

"If you'd like, I'll wait and drive you home." He said offhandedly, glancing at the poster hanging on the wall right next to him, hiding his hands in his trousers so she wouldn't see them tremble.

She blinked and looked at him, surprised.

"No need. Mum will pick me up." She muttered quietly, as if embarrassed. He felt an unpleasant sting of disappointment at her words and in a subconscious reflex he wanted to hurt her because of it, if only a little, to be sure she felt what he felt.

"They pick you up and drop you off like a little girl?" He asked with a sneer, glancing at her, but the smirk disappeared from his face when he noticed the way she looked at him.

She was angry and bored.

"Ever since someone put a rape pill into my drink, yes." She said coldly, and he froze, thinking he was an awful person.

How could he forget about it, say something so ill-considered after what had happened to her?

He suddenly realised how it worked in his mind, how he reacted involuntarily to pain wanting to automatically cause it to another person, even if they didn't deserve it.

This thought terrified him.

Some part of him wanted to make it up to her, to prove that there was a part of him that wanted to change.

"Do you know who did this? I can take care of it. For your comfort." He asked, feigning indifference, involuntarily scratching his chin, unable to look her in the face.

"Larys Strong."

He looked at her, furrowing his brow.

"What?"

"I already told you. He was telling me about my father."

"But it wasn't him who put it into your drink, it was one of his people, right?"

"He asked me if I wanted a drink. I said no. Then he ordered water for me. I took a few sips from it and struggled to get to the bathroom."

He looked at her, feeling how slowly a picture that seemed to him to be just scattered shards suddenly came together, the fact that Larys had dragged her there was never supposed to be an accident, and his grandfather knew about it.

This is the last time you interfere in their affairs.

They hoped she'd call for Daemon.

That, knowing his explosive nature, there would be a shootout in which they would kill her step-father before Viserys died, so that he and his half-sister's businesses could then be easily taken over.

"Son of a bitch." He hissed out, feeling that he was breathing heavily through his mouth, that his hands were clenched into fists, that his heart was pounding like mad.

Only after a moment did he realise that his niece was looking at him with big eyes, horrified that what was happening in his mind had not escaped her attention.

"Don't interfere. Go home." She said, making him feel a squeeze in his heart for some reason.

"And when are you going to teach me?" He mouthed, realising only after a moment that he sounded like a little boy. She shook her head, as if she didn't understand what he was saying.

"What?"

"For the exams. I need you to help me. How do I reconcile what I have to do at night with studying if I don't know where to start?"

He watched as she sighed heavily and ran her hand over her face, praying that she would agree, that she would not abandon him, that she would not leave him in the dark room that was his heart.

His little lamp.

Yes, he thought, feeling a pleasant, gentle warmth in his chest.

That's what she was to him.

"Okay. Okay, I'll help you. I'll pass you the study books somehow." She decided at last, distraught and tired, making him swallow loudly with relief as he looked down at her.

He wanted to touch her.

He wanted to embrace her, to kiss her, but it seemed inappropriate.

Not after what he'd done to her.

"Can I touch your hand?" He asked in a trembling voice, feeling like an idiot, a weak, quivering child begging for a moment's attention, a moment's tenderness.

She looked at him in a way from which his throat tightened with affection, her hand extended towards him made him grasp it in his own.

He watched, breathing hard, elated as his fingers entwined with hers in a pleasant, soft embrace, her skin warm, smooth and soft, exactly as he remembered it.

He felt both moved and aroused at the same time by this sight, by the feeling of her bare body in a way that was not purely sexual, yet so intimate, private, reserved only for someone close to her.

"Walk me out." He whispered.

To his delight, she didn't let go of his hand until they reached his car. He couldn't find the words to say goodbye or thank her for what she'd done, feeling only shame, so he just got in the car and drove away.

He knew it was wrong.

He knew it was wrong and he couldn't stop.

The forbidden fruit tempts most, he remembered her words and swallowed hard, driving ahead in silence, wondering if that was indeed all this was about.

The thought that maybe not terrified him, because it meant that there would be no moment in his life when he could let her go, allowing her to live at last.

It meant that he would devour her, choke her in his own darkness.

The next day, everyone was nervous: the meeting with the notary was going to be groundbreaking. Otto was certain that Viserys had divided his wealth equally between each of his children, which would mean that Rhaenyra's share would also belong to Daemon.

"I don't think he would leave his daughter the brothels or the clubs where the crimes took place to avoid burdening her. This means that a real estate company and our money laundering business could fall to her. We will have to make steps to take it over, peacefully or not." Said his grandfather when he spotted him standing by his car alone having a cigarette.

He nodded, feeling discomfort and uncertainty, not knowing what he should answer.

"You are not yourself since the death of your father. What's happening to you?" Otto asked, looking at him with a raised eyebrow, making him press his lips together in displeasure.

Another fucking interrogation?

"I'm tired." He said coldly, taking a drag on his cigarette impatiently, looking at his family home, wondering if his father would take it away from his mother.

"Where were you the night he died? When Aegon woke up, you were not in the room."

He froze in mid-motion, letting out a loud puff of smoke through his nose, feeling his lower lip begin to tremble, his heart and stomach clenched in fear.

He couldn't remember if he had ever felt peace.

Maybe then, that night, when he felt the warmth of her body and fell asleep beside her, drunk and happy, he thought with regret.

"With my niece."

Otto laughed low, shaking his head.

"This is no time for jokes, Aemond. I don't want you to hide anything from me." He said slowly and calmly, as if trying to explain something to a small child.

He looked at him in a way from which his grandfather's expression changed, twisting in a grimace of shock and disbelief.

"Good God. What did you do to her?" He mouthed.

He grinned involuntarily at his question in a way from which Otto swallowed hard and clenched his eyes.

"Have you completely lost your mind? What has that poor girl done to you, hm? What if she tells her parents, accuses you in front of everyone? For God's sake, you're her uncle." He hissed quietly, stepping close to him and looking around, as if he wanted to make sure no one could hear him.

For some reason his dismay, his disgust, his disappointment gave him satisfaction.

The fact that he was arousing such feelings in him and other people seemed to him the most natural state he knew.

"We were just talking. About the past and the future." He lied, knowing that his grandfather didn't believe him, that he'd seen in his gaze what he'd done to her, what he'd done to her twice, and how fucking pleasurable it had been for him.

He decided that he wouldn't try to explain to him that she had peaked with him each time.

He wouldn't believe him anyway.

"We'll talk later." He hissed as his mother, Helaena and Aegon came out of their house, saying they were ready.

When they arrived Daemon and Rhaenyra were already waiting for them inside in a large, spacious office with windows overlooking the great city skyline. The notary greeted them, offered them coffee and tea, and then showed them to their seats.

He tried not to look at Daemon, feeling his gaze on him, knowing what he thought of him and that he had every right to do so.

He felt bad about it, but fuck, he wanted to be close to her and have a family with her.

He wanted to be able to love her.

Just her, just this one time in his life.

Was he asking for so much?

The notary, in the presence of the lawyers of both parties, unsealed the envelope in which was secured his father's last will, which he knew he had consulted with his grandfather.

Nevertheless, he felt anxious, felt the cold sweat on his back, a complete, tense silence all around them.

And then he began to read.

"I, Viserys Targaryen, present my last will as follows. I bequeath our family home to my wife, Alicent Targaryen, which will belong to her until her death, and then pass according to her will to one of our children. I bequeath all my other estates and properties to my children Aegon, Aemond, Helaena and Daeron to be shared equally between them. All of my investments and all premises under my business that I owned I pass to my daughter, Rhaenyra."

He stared at him dully, feeling as if he had gone completely deaf, his heart beginning to pound like mad as his hand clenched into a fist, his grandfather beside him twisting in his chair, shocked.

"This is some kind of misunderstanding." Otto said, on the other side Daemon laughed out loud, hiding his face with his hands.

He mocked them, he thought.

His father had mocked them for the last time.

He didn't understand why he felt tears burning under his eyelids, why his lips were trembling, why he expected anything else.

His appreciation, his trust, a gesture that would indicate that he understood what he was doing to ensure the well-being of their family.

Did he really think that he was taking money out of people by force, that he was cutting their faces to please his grandfather?

Yet it meant nothing.

Everything he did, everything he became apparently only made his father disgusted.

Because he was disgusting.

They all were.

"Unbelievable. We're not going to leave it like that. I'm sure this is Daemon's doing. FUCK!" Growled his grandfather, sitting in the passenger seat beside him, slapping his palms against the dashboard of his car.

He drove ahead, feeling a complete emptiness, feeling neither disappointment nor anger, wondering if he should pull over and hit one of the trees.

He wanted his father to see him as a cold, unbreakable man, one who would always defend his and his family's interests, one who could make sacrifices.

And he didn't even notice it.

All the wicked things he did turned out to be worthless.

He destroyed himself for nothing.

He had nothing.

In his mind, in his heart, in his wallet.

A fucking property by the sea.

"We will attack their family. If our clients find out, no one in the industry will care about us. We have to show strength, we have to act." Otto said, and he swallowed hard, feeling the cold sweat on his back.

We will attack their family.

We have to act.

His grandfather called a meeting in his office, which was to be attended by him, his brother and his mother. He paced around the room gesticulating, speaking quickly, Aegon as well as his mother sat in their seats flooded with tears.

He thought they looked pathetic.

"We need to give him a warning. Force him to come out with another, more acceptable offer for us." Said Otto, circling the room with his hands placed on his hips, analysing everything.

"You saw him. He laughed. He knows that he won." Mumbled Aegon, all swollen from crying.

Otto stopped and pressed his lips together.

"Leave me and Aemond alone." He said finally, making him freeze, his heart pounding like crazy.

Some premonition told him what he would want from him even before it left his mouth.

He was not mistaken, and as soon as his mother and brother left, his grandfather began to speak.

"Does Rhaenyra's daughter trust you?"

He stared dully ahead, answering him with a protracted, uncomfortable silence, feeling like throwing up for some reason.

"Aemond."

"No."

"No, what?"

"Don't drag her into this."

His grandfather pressed his lips together, leaning over him, resting his hands on his armrests.

"She's been dragged into this for a long time. If we don't take our chances, someone else will." He said calmly, making him feel an unpleasant sting in his heart.

"You knew."

"What?"

"That Larys had plans for her."

"I knew that he would act. Daemon's presence on the scene isn't to his liking."

"He put a fucking rape pill into her drink." He said coldly, clenching his hands into fists.

"It wasn't about rape there, at least that's my opinion. However, now, if he sends his people to her University, I cannot vouch for what will happen to her. With us she will be safe. We would lock her in a room in our house for a few days and treat her with respect as if she were our guest. My issue is with Daemon and Rhaenyra, not with her. Her harm is not my desire."

He looked at him, feeling a void in his mind, no longer knowing for himself what he thought of this, what was right and what was not.

"Are you going to let everything you've worked so hard for be taken away from you? For this man to laugh in our faces? What are we to use to maintain the estates your father left you? Even if we sell some of it, how many years will it last? We have to think about our future. I trust you to do the right thing."

He pressed his lips together, swallowing hard, thinking with disbelief that if he didn't, the part of himself that he had lost, that he had killed to become who he was, would turn out to be a sacrifice in vain.

Some part of him naively wanted to believe that she would understand.

"Only me and Helaena will have access to her room. I will be by her side the entire time, and my duties for that period will be taken over by someone else."

Otto smiled in a way from which he felt discomfort in his stomach and nodded, patting him on the shoulder.

"That's my boy."

He looked at his phone, at the message he'd sent her while sitting in his car two streets from her house, wondering how he could be doing this to her.

She wanted to help him change, she made an attempt.

Perhaps she was pregnant.

Hundreds of feelings mixed in his head, fear, grief, disgust, sadness, hatred and despair devoured him from the inside, forming one black mass from his thoughts.

She's not coming, he thought with a strange calmness.

She was not naive.

Daemon had certainly warned her not to trust them.

He'll return home and tell his grandfather that it just didn't work out.

But what will happen to them then?

They will have nothing to buy new goods with, or they will buy them, but they will have to raise their prices.

They will stop being competitive in the business.

They will lose customers.

They will go out of the game.

They will cease to count.

They will have no way to pay the police.

They will go to prison.

He shuddered, hearing rustling and someone's footsteps, his eyes big when he saw her breathless, flushed figure, her dark, loose hair in disarray.

She looked so beautiful.

He opened the door, unable to believe that she'd run away for him, just for him, watching as she pulled her backpack down quickly and handed it to him.

"Take this and get out of here." She muttered, but he only looked at her lips, parted in accelerated breath, soft and full.

He thought with horror that he wanted to feel her.

He wanted to be reassured.

He wanted to make love to her.

"– come here –"

"– I have to –"

"– come –"

"– I –"

"– it won't take long –"

Her gaze full of warmth, affection and trust, her parted lips, her hand that allowed him to pull her closer made him feel like his cock would explode with desire.

"– good girl – such a good girl –" He praised her when she sat on his lap at last, closing the door behind her. He slided his hands to his belt, panting hard, releasing his fat, long erection, leaking with desire at the mere sight of her.

He could only watch in disbelief as she took off her shorts, wordlessly allowing her to guide the thick, glistening head of his manhood against her slit, all pulsing with heat, slowly sinking it into her body.

He gasped at the ease with which she welcomed him into her warm, moist interior, how simple and proper it seemed.

It made him forget for a moment who he was and what he was supposed to do.

All that mattered was her, her face, her eyes, her forehead pressed against his, her warm buttocks under his fingers, her swollen, sweet lips, her slick tongue invading between his teeth, her little cunt that convulsed around his throbbing cock in ecstasy.

"– fuck – fuck, baby –" He muttered, unable to express otherwise how good she made him feel, why his hips were pounding into her so fast and so greedily, why he couldn't slow down, why he wanted it so desperately.

"– ah – G-God –" She mumbled, making him gasp, pleasant, tickling warmth in his lower abdomen.

Her soaked pussy squeezed and sucked him inside, making him pant loudly into her puffy lips, feeling his whole body grow hot, in some subconscious, natural reflex returning to where he felt good, where he felt safe: back deep, deep inside her.

He knew it wasn't just about sex: there was too much tenderness in in their movements, the touch of their hands too thoughtful and too gentle, too soft, their embrace too close, too intimate, their moans too helpless, too vulnerable.

"– Aemond –" She mewled into his throat on the brink of orgasm, bringing her clenching, moist, fleshy walls to the point where he felt a squeeze in his testicles, indicating that he was close too.

"– do you hear it? – do you hear how well you take me? – only you – fuck –" He gasped, listening to what he was doing to her, to his own niece, how loudly her sweet, little cunt clicked as he rooted into her again and again, how perfect she squeezed his cock, how warm she was, how wet she was, for him, only for him.

"– where? –" He muttered, wanting to be more responsible this time, slamming into her with a quick, sharp, deep thrusts of his hips, helplessly chasing his own fulfillment that he so desperately needed.

He didn't want to hurt her.

Never.

"– here – right here, uncle –" She breathed out and something in her words, in the way she said them made his body quiver as he reached his peak inside her, panting hard along with her. He gasped, resting his head against the backrest, trying to be quiet, feeling their bodies pulsate and shiver against each other.

He snuggled her face to his neck, feeling a wonderful pleasure and relief as his warm seed filled her insides at last, her scent, her closeness, her hot, pulsing interior calming him.

It felt so good.

So right.

"– I think I'm in love with you –" He whispered in a trembling voice, stroking her bare buttock with one hand, sliding the other between the seat and the gearbox, feeling the needle syringe under his fingers, from which he slipped the cap.

I'm sorry.

He heard her draw in a loud breath at his words, but he didn't let her answer.

He was afraid he would change his mind then.

"– forgive me –" He mumbled in trembling voice, heartbroken, her body tensed all over as he jabbed the needle into her neck and let the sleeping drug spread through her insides.

She whined quietly, terrified and surprised, reminding him of a small, innocent animal. He embraced her, feeling the remedy take effect after a moment, and her body relaxed in his embrace, a faint, weak cry escaping from her lips.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

"– shhh – shhh, sweet girl –" He hushed her tenderly, feeling his whole body tremble as tears of shame, disgust and regret ran down his cheeks along with the knowledge of what he had just done to her, his soft manhood still pulsing deep inside her.

He used her because she trusted him, because she wanted to help him, because she really cared about him.

He sobbed quietly, closing his eyes, and cuddled his face against her neck, feeling her fall asleep, thinking that he wanted to take it back, that it was a mistake, a mistake, a mistake, that he just wanted her to forgive him.

Maybe he could carry her home?

Leave her at the gate and run away?

But what if someone found her unconscious, what if she fell ill from the cold, what if someone abused her in his absence, hurt her?

He realised that there was no way back.

Despite this realisation, he treated her body with gentleness and tenderness: he lifted her and slid out of her slowly, placing her shorts over her hips, laying her on the seat beside him, fastening her seatbelt. He took the unruly strands of hair from her face with his trembling hand, looking at her through tears, whooping with his own cry.

He thought she would never forgive him for this.

When he got home he went inside through the back door, carrying her in his arms, cradling her to his chest. He told his bodyguards that no one was to disturb him, ordering them to inform his grandfather that everything was sorted out.

"Aemond?" He heard his mother's voice behind him and stopped in half-step, looking at her over his shoulder with big eyes.

His mother was looking at him with her mouth open, disbelief and horror in her gaze.

"– Aemond – what is she doing here? –" She muttered, placing her hand on her chest, trying to calm herself down, breathing loudly as if she were going into some kind of panic attack.

"– we'll sort it out, Mum – don't worry –" He whispered. His mother furrowed her brow and shook her head.

"– you kidnapped an innocent child –" She said with regret and pain from which he felt a squeeze in his throat.

She was disgusted with him.

He understood her.

He longed for her to think of him like that.

He desired to suffer.

"– yes –"

He took her to the room where he had spent his entire youth until he moved into his flat and laid her gently on his bed, sitting down beside her, covering her carefully with the duvet. His hand rose slowly and hesitantly to finally stroke her soft hair, her face calm, immersed in deep sleep.

Vhagar, whom he had taken with him from his place, rose from the floor and ran up to them, sniffing him and the newcomer he had laid in his bed.

"– good girl – you will watch over her with me now, hm? –" He asked, stroking her soft fur.

Vhagar squealed, shifting from paw to paw beside him, concerned, as if she sensed that her sleeping state was not natural, something in her scent, in the drug he had given her made his dog restless.

Even she knew what he had done to her, he thought with regret.

He pulled off his shoes and placed them on the ground, laying down beside his niece, putting his arm around her. He pressed his forehead against hers, inhaling deeply her scent, letting his fingers run over the soft skin of her cheek, thinking that he was surely doing this for the last time in his life.

He felt a sting in his heart at that thought, his eyebrows arched in pain as he pressed her body against his, weaving his hand into her hair, burying her head in his neck, trying to calm himself.

"– I will always watch over you –"

In the morning he was awakened by her babbling: she was mumbling something under her breath, her hand clenched on the material of his black Tshirt, he could feel her trying to stand.

"– shhh – lie down – don't get up –" He whispered in a trembling voice, feeling only horror, only despair, only shame.

She would never forgive him for this.

"– where – mghmm –" She muttered, involuntarily falling into his arms again, recognising him and his scent, her fingers closed on his back, snuggling into him in a tender embrace from which he felt his body begin to quiver.

"– easy – easy, little one –" He said, kissing the top of her head again and again, her hair wonderfully soft and smooth under his hand.

"– what's happened? –" She asked, and he remained silent, as he had no idea what to answer her.

His lack of words clearly worried her, for she raised herself on her arm again: she looked around, her gaze hazy, dreamy, her brow furrowed as she did not recognise where she was.

"– Aemond – what's going on? –" She asked wearily, slowly understanding that something was wrong, her breathing louder and heavier, her eyes large and filled with fear.

He lifted himself onto his arm, moving closer to her, his free hand stroking her cheek as he pressed his forehead to her temple.

"– forgive me –" He whispered in a weak, trembling voice, thinking he sounded pathetic.

She sucked in a deep breath and squealed, covering her mouth with her hand as if trying to stop the sound, her eyelids clenched shut as she cried out loud, bursting into tears.

"– oh, baby –" He muttered pleadingly, kissing her red, plump cheek, embracing her tightly despite her hands trying to push him away. "– it will only last a few days, I promise –"

She pulled out of his embrace, moving away to the other end of the bed, looking at him with wide eyes, catching her head with her hands as if she couldn't believe what was happening, her mouth parted wide in a heavy, terrified breath.

"– I – I let you – you touched me, and then you – oh God – oh my God, no no no no no no –" She whimpered hiding her head between her knees, wrapping her arms around herself as if she was trying to create a fortress, and he could only sit and watch, trying to remember that he needed to breathe.

"– we just need to talk to Daemon – I promise no one will hurt you –" He muttered quickly, but it seemed to him that she wasn't listening to him, plunged into complete hysteria.

"– I helped you – I ran away for you – I brought you books just as you asked – so why did you do this to me? –" She mumbled out, choking on her own tears, her fingers clenched on her hair as if she wanted to rip it out.

He felt like he was drowning, like he was sinking deeper and deeper to the depths with every breath.

"– I know – I know, baby, I'm so sorry – but my father left us no choice – fuck, I know you understand me –" He choked out with difficulty, looking at her hopefully, for some reason naively believing that she would find justification in her heart for his horrible act.

She, however, looked at him dully and froze, her trembling hands raised at the level of her cheeks, her lips parted in a half-breath.

He was sure that she was going to say something, that she was going to shout in his face that she hated him, that he was a monster, a nobody, a disgusting creature, everything that he so needed to hear in order to find himself in the state to which he always returned in the end.

She, however, turned her back to him, hugging her body and face to the wall, tucking her legs under her chin and froze so still.

"– Rhaenys? – please – please, say something – I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear –" He mumbled, trying to touch her calf, but she flinched and moved further away from him, as if his touch had burned her.

He burst into sobs, thinking that her silence, her wordless rejection was worse than any word from her, and he was like a child who longed for the parent he had failed to look at him with a sympathetic eye again.

"– please – please, say something –"

But she said nothing.

For the next few days she did not look at him, she did not answer his questions, and when he tried to touch her she moved as far away as possible, hiding her head between her knees.

He took away her phone out of fear that she would try to contact someone and all the things out of his room that she could use to hurt herself or others.

She ate and drank only the things Helaena brought her.

When he tried to feed her, she would snatch things from his hand and throw them at the wall.

On the one hand he felt rage at that moment, a subconscious need to hurt and punish her, and on the other he felt relieved because he wanted to suffer, because he knew he deserved it.

"– you have to eat –" He sighed, looking indifferently at the big stain of soup on the wall and the shards of the broken bowl thinking it was them.

Like the shards that couldn't be put back together again.

"– what did it feel like, cutting their faces? – did you feel like the Mighty Vhagar then? –"

Her voice, cold and harsh surprised him and made his heart stand in his throat, his body stop breathing for a moment, as if expressing its desire to die of shame.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, feeling that he was trembling, and met her gaze, sad, tired, aloof, embittered.

"– I had no choice –"

Lie.

"– you are lying –" She stated dispassionately. "– I don't want to see or hear you – I want you to pretend that you don't exist, just like you did with me for eight years – you're good at it –"

He lowered his gaze, feeling a complete void in his mind at her words, and got out of bed, kneeling on the floor to pick up the pieces of the broken bowl as if nothing had happened.

The only being she touched was Vhagar.

He watched from the sidelines as these two slowly established a relationship with each other. His niece would reach out to her, lying on his bed, and his dog would lean out and sniff her from afar without touching her, looking at her with big eyes.

Vhagar did not like strangers and was fussy, but apparently her calm approach and the fact that she did not impose herself on her made his dog express interest in her. When she would get up to reach for one of his books on the shelf, Vhagar would rise and follow her, keeping an appropriate distance, looking at her curiously.

She would lie down in her place only when his niece sat back down on the bed.

He first saw them lying together when he came home late one evening. He had shopped for her, bought her favourite sweets knowing that she would not eat them anyway, and when he walked into the room he saw her lying with Vhagar on her dog bed.

She was crying and cuddling into her fur as if she was a big teddy bear, and his dog, despite the fact that she usually got up at the sight of him, just looked at him with big eyes, not moving from her place.

Something about the sight broke him, and although he knelt down next to his niece and wanted to touch her back, he stopped mid-motion when he heard his dog growl at him for the first time in his life.

She knew.

Daemon and Rhaenyra's fury was great: the very next morning after it turned out that she had disappeared there had been an incident at one of their clubs, where his sister's husband had stormed in with her son and several men, threatening to shoot everyone present if he did not find out where his daughter was.

As planned, it was relayed to him that their child was safe and that Otto was waiting for contact from him when he had cooled down to discuss everything calmly.

As proof that they were not lying, they gave him her backpack – the same one in which she had brought him books.

Due to what happened, after his father's body was burned, there was only a short funeral ceremony in the cemetery, attended only by his mother and sister: his grandfather was afraid that Daemon's men, who had been watching them all the time, would lead to a shooting if they appeared there even for a moment.

Despite his niece's reluctance, he spent his days in her presence, sitting on the mattress on the other side of the room where he slept at night. He knew she didn't want to feel him next to her, but he preferred not to leave her alone knowing how frightened she was.

He suggested several times that they could go out together for a walk in the garden, but she didn't even look at him.

She was simultaneously closer and further away from him than ever before.

One night he was roused from sleep by someone's scream: he pulled himself up on the mattress, involuntarily reaching for the penknife in his sweatpants and looked around the room, only after a moment noticing her shivering figure sitting on his bed.

He sighed quietly and swallowed hard, trying to calm himself.

"– Rhaenys? – Rhaenys, what happened? –" He whispered, and she twitched at his words, turning towards him, looking at him with big eyes, all drenched in tears.

"– did you have a bad dream? –" He muttered, but she answered nothing, her lips parted in a heavy breath, her fingers clenched on the sheets.

"– hey – hey, baby – it's okay –" He whispered, rising slowly from his seat, tentatively approaching the bed. She raised her shoulders in a defensive gesture and moved away a little, but when he sat down next to her and raised his arm she didn't push him away.

Slowly he placed his hand on her shoulder and stroked her skin reassuringly, with the other cuddling her face into his neck.

"– shhh – easy – easy, little one – no one will hurt you –"

She was silent, and he prayed that this moment, her warm body in his embrace, his nose snuggled into her soft, fragrant hair, would last forever.

"– I'm not sure I want to live anymore –" She mumbled out finally, startling him, his stomach knotted tight in discomfort and horror.

"– no – don't say that – it won't take long – my grandfather is in contact with your mother – they will soon come to an agreement and you will return home –" He said, forcing himself to be calm, stroking her shoulder and back with one hand, the other combing his fingers through her hair, rocking her in his arms like a small child.

"– you broke my heart –"

Her words, the way she said them, what they meant made him gasp aloud, trying not to burst into a sudden sob of despair and grief.

He had broken her.

"– forgive me – I regret this like nothing else in my life, I swear – I will spend my life trying to make it up to you –" He muttered, tentatively kissing her warm temple, her cheekbone, her ear, everything that was familiar to him, beloved to him, his.

"– I love you – I love you in every sense of the word –"

"– I don't believe you –"

He pressed his lips together, swallowing hard, feeling a sort of high-pitched, trembling squeal come from his throat as if he were a little girl, tears one by one began to run down his cheeks to the top of her head, his fingers tightening on her delicate flesh.

"– I understand it – and I don't dare ask for it –" He whispered with difficulty, sinking his face into her soft, warm cheek, feeling that he was not the only one who was crying.

Her body trembled in the embrace of his arms, her small hands clenched on his shirt in a gesture that testified at once to her anger and her suffering from which his heart was breaking.

"– that feeling I had inside me was the only thing that allowed me to breathe – and you took it away from me –" She howled into the skin of his neck, and he burst out sobbing at her words, not knowing how he could react differently to what she had said.

"– I love you – I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you so fucking much –" He mumbled out in a breaking voice, cuddling her tightly into him, placing loud, wet, hot kisses on her face, her jaw, her neck, her arms, leaving sticky, wet marks on it.

He heard her sigh full of pain and pleasure, feeling with shame that his erection swelled all over and hardened, pulsing painfully under the material of his sweatpants, betraying how much he longed for her, how much he yearned for her.

Her quiet moan surged through the skin of his neck as his broad hand slipped lower, sliding tentatively under the material of her shirt, touching her naked back at last, her bare skin, making them both tremble, breathing heavier and louder.

"– I love you –" He assured her, running his fingertips over the wonderfully smooth skin of her back, making goosebumps appear in the places he ran his fingers over. Her body snuggled into him tighter, allowing him to feel her breasts hidden under her tshirt against his chest.

"– you hurt me –" She sobbed through her tears in a breaking voice, at which his lips clung even harder to her shoulder, his kisses even more greedy and wet as his lips again and again brushed and teased the delicate structure of her skin.

"– no more – I swear – all I want is you –" He breathed out, feeling lust and desire pulsing through every nook and cranny of his body, filling his lower abdomen with a pleasurable, tickling tension from which his heart pounded like mad.

He moaned helplessly when he finally felt her warm, puffy lips brush his neck, her cheeks wet from tears as his hand pressed her closer.

"– please – please, baby, please –" He mumbled out, wanting only to feel her again, without her being just an empty part of an incomplete whole.

However, as his hand tentatively slid from her back to her buttock, she pulled away from him suddenly as if burned, hugging her back to the wall and shook her head.

"– no – no, no, no, you're doing this to me again –" She cried out loudly, looking at him with big, terrified eyes. He shook his head, heartbroken, leaning down, placing quick, warm kisses on her bare knee, stroking her calf with his palm.

"– no, I swear – I want you so badly –"

"– your grandfather told you to do this? – to soften me up so that in case my mother didn't agree he would get shares in her companies through me? –" She blurted out, wrinkling her eyebrows, breathing loudly. He swallowed hard and shook his head again, shocked, understanding how far her lack of trust went and who she now saw him as.

"– no – I was the one who demanded that I could be by your side – that no one but me could bother you – to make sure you were safe –" He muttered, trying to calm his breathing, feeling like his whole face had swollen from tears.

"– I want to go to sleep – I want to go to sleep –" She mumbled out and turned her back to him, hugging herself to the wall again exactly as she did then, the first time, making him whimper, choking on his own tears. He pressed his face against her back, wailing loudly, his fingers clenched on her waist.

"– I'm sorry – I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry – please, don't reject me – I promise I'll be good now – I'm studying, I'm going to take my exams, I'm going to go to university – please, be there for me – it doesn't matter without you – my life doesn't matter if I can't share it with you –" He whined like an animal into her shirt and heard her weep loudly, but she answered him nothing.

However, she did not push him away or tell him to step back, so he fell asleep cuddled into her body, and the next day she again did not speak to him or look at him as if this conversation had never happened.

In her presence he cried all the time and didn't even hide it anymore.

Looking at her, he saw exactly as if in the reflection of a mirror who he had become and what he had sacrificed.

However, it turned out that his grandfather was partly right in his assumptions: Daemon just wanted to kill them all, but his wife didn't feel like risking her daughter's life for a fortune and was willing to talk to them if they let her see her.

"– tomorrow you will go with us to meet your parents – perhaps we will come to an agreement and you will return home –" He said, swallowing hard, standing over her small figure sitting on the sill of his window, looking out at the setting sun.

Her profile was gentle and pleasant, her eyes surrounded by a fan of dark lashes large and bright, her lips seemed wonderfully soft, full and sweet, made only to be caressed.

She closed her eyes, resting her temple against the glass, and did not even bestow a single glance on him.

He prepared himself for the fact that she would answer him nothing and wanted to sit down on the mattress, going back to reading one of the textbooks she had brought him, but he froze when he heard her voice.

"I'd like to take a bath." She said.

He swallowed hard, looking at her over his shoulder.

"Of course. I'll call Helaena." He replied, wanting to go out into the corridor.

They never left her alone.

For her own safety.

"No." She said and looked at him.

"I want ten minutes alone."

He looked at her, feeling anxiety and doubt in his heart, but he couldn't say no to her.

"Very well. I'll wait by the door."

She nodded and stood up, taking the towel that belonged to her from the chair and went outside. He followed her, walking towards the bathroom next to his room – she looked at him with frustration as he took the key out of the lock and shook his head.

"No. I won't come inside, but I won't let you lock yourself in." He said. She swallowed hard and nodded, and he closed the door behind her.

He leaned against the stair railing, hearing the sound of pouring water, and looked at his watch, sighing heavily.

Ten minutes, no more.

He heard her step into the bath and closed his eyes, thinking that perhaps this was just another ordeal they had to wait through together.

He wanted to believe that she had seen his sadness, shame and remorse, that by his behaviour and calmness he had proved to her that he was capable of being different, for her, only for her.

However, ten minutes passed, then eleven, and she still did not come out of the water.

He didn't want to invade her privacy and make her uncomfortable, but he felt impatient and became concerned that he didn't hear any movement in the room. He walked closer and knocked, sighing heavily.

"– Rhaenys – time's up –" He said matter-of-factly. He pressed his lips together when he heard no sound on the other side and knocked a second time, louder this time.

"– Rhaenys – please –" He sighed, running his hand over his face, deciding that whether she wanted it or not, he had to do it.

"– I'm coming inside – cover yourself –" He said, grabbing the door handle and stepped into the room.

It seemed to him that what he saw before him was some kind of frame from a film, not reality: the snow-white tiles around her head and dark hair, her half-open eyelids and mouth, her hands lying on the edge of the tub, her slit wrists and the crimson water in which she lay, his sister's T-shirt on her body.

He looked down and saw a tiny blade from a bookbinding knife lying on the floor.

For a moment he just stared at it, afraid to move, thinking it wasn't really happening.

"– Rhaenys? –" He muttered, approaching her slowly, but she didn't even flinch, staring ahead as if she was thoughts somewhere far away.

"– Rhaenys, what have you done? –" He mumbled as if he was afraid that if he said the words too loudly they would turn out to be true, and yet it could not be true.

"– God, baby – oh my fucking God –" He whined, pulling her by the shoulders out of the water with a loud splash of red liquid that spilled out.

He sat down on the floor, placing her between his legs, letting her head and back rest against his chest, his fingers tightening on her wrists in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

"– baby, what have you done? – hm? – what have you done? –" He whispered to her ear in a trembling voice, kissing her soft, warm face, feeling the initial shock begin to be replaced by a growing panic and the realisation that this was really happening.

He began to breathe loudly, as he always did when he was terrified and when he needed help calling out to the only person he trusted.

"– MUM! – MUM, HELP ME! –" He shouted like a helpless, broken child and burst into tears, clasping his fingers tighter on her wrists, resting his forehead on her shoulder.

"– oh God, oh God, oh, God, no, no no no, please, baby, please, please, don't leave me –" He whimpered, rocking her in his arms, cradling her to himself, again and again kissing her bare shoulder, her long neck, her sweet cheek.

He heard someone run up the stairs, the screams of his mother and sister at the sight they saw before their eyes made him look at them.

"– Mum –"

Even though he knew his grandfather would be furious, he and his mother called the ambulance. While waiting for the paramedics to arrive, she provisionally bandaged her hands together with Helaena, as well as dressed her in a clean shirt and underwear.

He did not let her out of his arms for a second, and when the ambulance arrived he told his mother that he would go with her.

He looked at her as he sat in the car, feeling his hands were sticky with her blood, thinking it was his fault, his fault, his fault.

She just wanted to run away, she just wanted to go home, but she didn't know how.

He made her do this.

When they arrived at the hospital it turned out that her condition was critical: because of how little she had eaten she had become anaemic and needed a quick blood transfusion.

"– take mine –" He said without thinking, and when the doctor asked him what blood type he had, it turned out that he and she had the same.

He could have done something that mattered.

He could have saved her.

He held her hand, lying on the bed beside him, staring dully at the ceiling, the other clenched again and again on the soft ball as he watched his blood fill the plastic bag.

When the doctor came inside, he asked him about what he had been thinking about for a long time.

"– there's – there's a possibility she's pregnant – and –" He mumbled, not knowing how to put it into words. The man looked at him, surprised.

"– she's definitely not pregnant – the tests didn't show it –" The doctor replied, and he swallowed hard, feeling for some reason a great disappointment and sadness.

If he became the father of her child, he could be a part of her life.

He would have an excuse to talk to her, to see her.

He tightened his fingers around hers, stroking her soft skin with his thumb, trying not to cry, thinking he deserved it.

What child would want to be born into such a world?

When it was all over he informed the doctors who they should contact, giving them his half-sister's phone number. Before he left the room, he handed her back her phone and slipped a letter into her locker, which he wrote hurriedly on a piece of paper with a pen the nurse had lent him.

For his own conscience he waited in the distance, watching as Daemon's Mercedes pulled into the car park, he and Rhaenyra ran inside the building without noticing him. He sighed heavily and licked his lower lip, glancing at his phone, seeing twenty missed calls from his grandfather. He dialled his number and put the phone to his ear, feeling strangely calm and relaxed.

"She's alive?" He heard Otto's voice on the other end.

"Yes." He replied dispassionately.

"Thank God. Why didn't you call for me? You ruined everything. Our doctor would have taken care of it. You…" He continued, but he hung up, not feeling like listening to his smart-ass bullshit.

His mother picked him up from the hospital.

"How is she? Will she survive? Have you contacted Rhaenyra?" She asked quickly as they set off, afraid that anyone would notice them.

He swallowed hard, leaning the back of his head against the backrest, looking at the road with empty eyes.

"I gave her contact details to the hospital staff. They arrived, I saw it with my own eyes. She's safe now." He explained.

His mother breathed out loud, her big brown eyes simultaneously terrified and full of relief.

"You did the right thing, Aemond. No money is worth it. This poor girl." She muttered, shaking her head, trying not to cry and concentrate on driving.

"I destroyed her."

Alicent looked at him, then back at the road, her mouth open slightly in an accelerated breath.

"What do you mean?"

He pressed his lips into a thin line, feeling his brow arch in pain and shame.

"I went to her room the night my father died. We had sex, Mum." He muttered in a breaking voice, covering his face with his hand and burst out crying like a little boy.

His mother sighed loudly, shocked, twisting restlessly in her seat.

"– but – why – did she – did she want this? –" She asked in a trembling voice full of terror, indicating that she really believed he might have raped her.

He was not surprised.

"– yes – but I don't think that makes it look any better –" He mumbled, tightening his fingers on the base of his nose, leaning his head forward.

"– we did it twice – and then a third time before I –" He didn't finish and cried out loudly, making his mother breathe heavily as if she was in the same state as him.

"– oh my God – oh my God, Aemond, what have you done – she's your niece –" She choked out finally.

"– I know, Mum –" He mumbled, running his fingers over his face, thinking he already understood where her desire to end her life and this perpetual sense of unfulfillment and emptiness came from.

"– me too – I'm no saint either –" She muttered finally, looking up at him with big eyes. "– me and Criston –"

He swallowed hard and shook his head, recognising that it wasn't the same.

"– I know, Mum – you won't hear a word of condemnation from me –"

His mother drew a loud breath and wept, as if she felt both relieved and sad at the same time.

"– nor will you hear them from me, son – since you both wanted it, it was simply a mistake of youth – you are both lost and have sought comfort – but it must not happen again – do you understand? – for your sake and hers –" She said with confidence and conviction that this was the best possible decision.

"– I keep thinking about her – since that holiday eight years ago – I've tried, but I can't stop –" He choked out at last, wiping his red cheek, feeling as if he were ten years old again, complaining to her that someone had beaten him up at school.

Alicent ran her hand over her face before placing her palm over his.

"– sometimes – sometimes we have to leave certain things to ourselves – the shameful desires of our hearts – and fulfil them when no one sees – do you understand? –" She asked in a trembling voice, and he nodded.

"– yes –"

"It is not love itself that is sin –" She said finally. "– but what we do with it."

[mypearlsareclutched]

High By The Beach (Ongoing)

Modern!Aemond x Original Female Character, Modern!Aegon II x Original Female Character

Stoic and serious Aemond Targaryen and ex-party girl Mila Stark, a match made in heaven. Until Aemond breaks her heart and sends her back to the needle. Forced back to rehab, Mila never expected to find help in the form of Aemond's delinquent older brother, Aegon...

Hi all, first fanfic on this account! There will be multiple chapters. Let me know what you think, this is a work in progress.

CW+TW// Descriptions of addictions (alcoholism, drugs, sex addictions), sexual content (MDNI, 18+), angst, unhealthy relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, Viserys Targaryen being a deadbeat dad, grooming, brushes with death, infidelity, Larys Strong warning, found family trope, rehab, OC is a Stark, will update as the series progresses <3

Song inspiration | High By The Beach, Lana Del Rey

Prologue | Look at You, Looking at Me

Chapter One | Loving You is Hard

Chapter Two | Being Here is Harder

Chapter Three | You Take the Wheel

Chapter Four | I Don't Wanna Do This Anymore

Chapter Five | It's So Surreal

Chapter Six | I Can't Survive

Chapter Seven | If This is All That's Real

Chapter Eight | I Know You Don't Understand

Chapter Nine | You're Just Another One of My Problems

Chapter Ten | Because You Got Out Of Hand

Chapter Eleven | We're Sinking into the Sand

Chapter Twelve | I'll Do It On My Own

Chapter Thirteen | Anyone Can Start Again

Chapter Fourteen | Not Through Love, But Through Revenge

Chapter Fifteen | Through The Fire, We're Born Again

Chapter Sixteen | Peace by Vengeance, Brings the End

Epilogue | All I Want To Do Is Get...

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Push the Sky Away - Part One

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x original female character (Lorra Stark) Chapter warnings: Angst. Canon typical violence. Mention of loss of virginity. Smut. Word count: ~6.5k

Summary: We are getting to know Aemond in this chapter. Some scene setting and world building, not much to be found of our OC until she is introduced towards the end. Laying the groundwork for what's to come later.

Author's note: I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Fire and Blood, the infamous words of House Targaryen. It is a phrase that both haunts and eludes Aemond Targaryen from an early age, with its promise of greatness and constant reminder of all he will never be. 

The Targaryen name is the only thing of any value that Viserys has ever bestowed upon his sons. Aemond ponders whether his father’s disinterest in him is a result of the illness that weakens his body by the day, or if he simply has no room in his heart for the children borne of his second marriage. When he watches him interact with Rhaenyra, how he lights up in her presence in a way that he does not for him or his other siblings, he knows it is the latter.

The fireplace warms his skin, uncomfortably so, and despite the septa’s caution that he not sit so close, he refuses to budge. Sweat prickles the back of his neck, dampening and curling the ends of the hair that sticks to it. His discomfort is of little importance to him, he needs to remain within this proximity to the hearth in order to keep his egg warm, to ensure it hatches. It is a vigil he has kept for as long as he can remember, not moving until he is forced to bed with aching joints and soot covered hands. Unable to understand why it had never hatched in his cradle, he is certain that if he does his due diligence then soon he will have a dragon of his own.

His mother is alerted of his disobedience, and Alicent regards him with sadness in her large brown eyes, as she reaches for him.

“Come away, my dearest love, you will have a dragon of your own one day.”

He simply shakes his head. She could not understand. He does not want just any dragon, he wants his. There must be a reason why this particular egg was imparted upon him, otherwise it is all for nothing.

Despite this, day after day the hardened scales remain cool to the touch, little more than a rock between his tiny fingers. Perhaps placing it within the flames themselves will yield the result he hopes for?

He leans forward into the fireplace, heat blazing against his pale cheeks, and an acrid stench fills his nostrils. It is not until he is pulled forcefully back by the firm grasp of the septa that he realises the ends of his long, fair hair have singed, charred and blackened by the heat of the fire.

The egg is taken away after that, and Aemond weeps bitterly at the unfairness of it. It is his birthright, his only birthright, and now his sole purpose for being has been snatched from him; it seems there is little point to his existence now. He never sees the egg again, but he often wonders what would have happened if he had been left uninterrupted to place it upon the flames.

When Aemond is a little older, he begins to frequent the Dragonpit, for what is a Targaryen without their dragon? If he no longer has his own egg then he will find another, or perhaps claim a riderless mount of his own.

The warmth beneath the Grand Sept is different from that of the fireplace. It is dank and humid within the pit, the odour of droppings hangs heavy in the air, mixed with sulphur and ash. The smell sticks to his clothes when he returns to the Keep each evening, and momentarily he feels his chest swell with pride as his mother winkles her nose in disgust at the scent. It is the same look of distaste that she bestows upon both Helaena and Aegon when they return from flying, and for the briefest of moments he can pretend that he has too.

Yet still he goes to bed each evening dragonless, and begins each day anew with the bitter taste of jealousy in his mouth as he watches his nephews, Jacaerys and Lucerys, interact with their dragons, Vermax and Arrax. Targaryens are considered to be closer to gods than men, so it feels like a cruel twist of fate that his half sister’s bastard offspring should be blessed with eggs that hatched in their cradles when his did not. Rhaenyra’s children have the favour of the Seven, whereas they seem to have turned a blind eye to him.

Aemond’s heart soars with hope when the dragonkeepers reveal to his sister that Dreamfyre is gravid. If she produces a healthy clutch of eggs then he can claim one, one that will actually hatch. In spite of the warnings that the she-dragon be left in peace during this sensitive time, and Helaena’s frustrated and repeated requests to stop disturbing her, he cannot resist the pull towards where she roosts within her darkened cave. If she is to lay an egg, then he wants to be the first to see it, to ensure he can take one for himself.

The blistering heat of the flames that Dreamfyre expels with her mighty roar of anger as he approaches yet again causes him to stagger backwards, wide eyed and slack jawed. But Aemond feels no fear as gazes into her fiery maw, his only thoughts are that one day soon a beast of his own will do much the same.

When Aegon claps a heavy hand upon his shoulder, steering him forward, and claiming a dragon has been found for him, he does his best to remain calm. He is used to his brother and nephews’ cruel japes at his expense. But as he stands at the top of the slope to the Dragonpit, he cannot help the way his heart races with excitement at the possibility that it might be true.

His hopes are dashed when a pig is led out to him, trussed up in wings, having been jokingly named “the pink dread”. He bows his head at the raucous laughter of Aegon, Jace and Luke around him, humiliation flushing his cheeks for having dared to believe it could be true.

The echoes of Aegon’s mocking pig grunts ring in his ears all the way home, and he stands dejectedly as Alicent delivers yet another scolding for him having dared to disturb Dreamfyre. He is usually silently accepting of her scorn, confident he knows better, and prepared to defy her all over again the next day. However, this time he can no longer bear the injustice of it all.

“They gave me a pig!” He cries, feeling the prickle of tears in his eyes. “They laughed, they all laughed.”

The warmth of his mother’s embrace does little to comfort the inferno that blazes inside of him. Today is proof of the fact that his own brother does not view him as equal - how could he? Aemond is a second born son and has no dragon. He is worth nothing.

If he is not destined to be a dragonrider, then Aemond decides he will give his all to becoming a fearsome warrior instead. He excels in the training yard with each daily practice, every strike of his wooden sword against the straw stuffed target more ferocious than the last. The proud glint in the eye of Ser Criston Cole as he watches diligently, offering guidance on both stance and technique, serves to spur him on. He will be the best at this, he has to be.

Much to his displeasure, the allotted time for sparring is shared with his nephews. Though they learn under the watchful eye of Ser Harwin Strong, there is still a competitive element, and an underlying sense of animosity between Criston and Harwin that he does not quite understand.

Aegon later tells him it is because Ser Harwin is the true father of Rhaenyra’s children. He feels a smug sense of satisfaction at being privy to this information, and it brings him and his older brother closer together. The two of them share rare moments of comradery each time they don their armour and pick up their practice blades. It’s the only time that Aemond ever genuinely laughs or smiles.

There is an obvious divide from that point onwards, Targaryens uniting against Strongs, and as the tension grows between the boys, it does between their mentors too, until one day it reaches a boiling point.

At first Aemond titters along with his brother as they watch Criston scuffle with Harwin, but his smile quickly fades upon seeing how valiantly their father fights for them, knowing his own would never do the same for him. As he looks up into the solemn features of Aegon, he knows the sentiment is shared. It is yet another privilege that Rhaenyra’s children possess that he does not have; the love of their father.

They journey to Driftmark when they receive the news that Laena Velaryon has passed away in childbirth. The icy, coastal winds that whip Aemond’s hair around his face as the stone coffin is committed to the sea are as bleak as the mood that envelopes them all. He seeks warmth near the brazier, attempting to catch the eye of Jace, who stands on the opposite side. Despite the tension between them, he hopes to offer condolences, knowing the loss of both Ser Harwin and his aunt play heavily upon his nephew’s mind.

He realises it is a futile gesture the moment that Jace turns away in disgust, and once more Aemond is reminded of how alone he truly is, that he has nothing. Luke will inherit Driftmark, and their mother has betrothed Helaena to Aegon. Luke snivels at what he is offered, claiming that when Driftmark passes to him it means everyone will have died. Aegon scoffs at the notion of being married to Helaena, claiming they have nothing in common.

It angers Aemond, to be overlooked in favour of those who are so ungrateful for all they have. If he were set to inherit anything, he would do everything in his power to prove he is worthy of it and bear the title with honour. If his mother had betrothed his sister to him, he would do his duty and ensure the match produces heirs that would make House Targaryen proud.

His attention is drawn to the clifftop when he sees the spread of enormous wings and hears the mighty rumble of the creature atop it. Vhagar. Laena Velaryon’s dragon is now riderless, and the pull he feels towards her is one he simply cannot ignore. At last, he has found his purpose and his desire to claim a dragon is reinvigorated with new strength.

Aemond waits until nightfall. Sea spray has made the rocks slippery beneath his feet, and he ascends carefully, though determined, towards the top of the cliff where Vhagar roosts. Windswept and breathless by the time he reaches the top, he stands awestruck at the sleeping dragon. Even partially submerged in sand, she is a magnificent sight to behold. She had appeared massive when looking at her from above, but it does nothing to prepare him for the sheer scale of her up close. She is gargantuan.

For a moment, icy fingers of fear grip Aemond’s heart, and he considers simply turning back, he has made a dangerous mistake. He shakes the thought from his mind the moment it presents itself.

I am no craven.

His approach is tentative, palms outstretched to communicate that he does not present a threat, as the elderly beast grumbles and shakes sand from her back. He stares transfixed as she opens her jaws, the white hot inferno that swirls within their depths makes that of Dreamfyre’s seem like a mere campfire. He feels as though he is looking into the very mouth of the Seven Hells themselves, but instead of fear Aemond feels kinship. Vhagar is without purpose, as is he, until now.

“Lykirī,” he calls out, the wind carrying half the sound away with it. Yet she hears, and she stills, eyeing the child before her with keen curiosity. Be calm.

Emboldened by her calmness at his command, Aemond steps closer, fingertips ghosting against the heat that radiates from her scales.

“Dohaerās, Vhagar,” he tells her, voice trembling. This is the same dragon ridden by the great warrior, Visenya, the conqueror’s wife. She is battle hardened, and with the smallest of movements could snuff out his short life. Serve.

The faintest sound of displeasure reverberates through Vhagar’s body, yet she remains still. Aemond’s heart beats wildly in his chest as he grips the ropes attached to her saddle and begins to pull himself up. If he had thought the climb to the top of the cliff difficult, it proves nothing compared to this. His arms ache with exertion, the expanse of the great beast he is attempting to summit is vaster than anything he has ever climbed before.

By the time he pulls himself into the saddle, Aemond’s palms are red raw with rope burn and his skin is damp with perspiration. There is barely time for him to catch his breath though, as the moment Vhagar feels him settle on her back, she rises to her feet, vast quantities of sand slipping from her back and wings in drifts.

The movement startles Aemond, and he fears he will fall. His sore hands cling tightly to her reins as he shouts his final command to her. 

“Sōvēs.” Fly.

As she rises into the air with an effortless flap of her wings, he feels as though he has left his stomach on the ground below. The rush upwards is dizzying, frightening and exhilarating all at once. Aemond begins to laugh as he grows used to the weightless sensation of every ebb and flow through the air as it whistles past his ears, and chills his skin to the bone. He is finally complete, he has his dragon, and for the first time in his life he is genuinely happy.

That happiness is short-lived.

The moment he reaches solid ground, his cousins, Baela and Rhaena, are waiting for him, alongside Jace and Luke. He had anticipated this, and is well prepared.

“It’s him!” Rhaena shouts as soon as she sees him.

“It’s me,” he responds calmly, confident there is nothing to be done now that Vhagar is his.

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!”

“Your mother is dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now.”

“She was mine to claim!”

“Then you should have claimed her. Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride? It would suit you.”

He is startled when Rhaena angrily charges towards him, though he is bigger than her and pushes her to the ground with ease. A punch from her sister, Baela, catches him off guard, the pain in his face enraging him and causing him to hit back so hard she falls over.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” He snarls angrily.

Jace and Luke rush at him, and in a moment of confidence Aemond thinks he has bested the both of them, until all four children knock him down and begin to rain their fists down upon him.

He is the rider of the world’s largest dragon, and his new found confidence coupled with the surge of adrenaline allows him to fight them all back. He grasps a rock, holding it above Luke’s head as he grasps him tightly by the collar.

“You will die screaming in flames, just as your father did. Bastards!” He hisses.

“My father is still alive!” Luke wails.

Aemond smirks, rock still held above his sobbing nephew, and he glances to Jace. “He does not know, does he, Lord Strong?”

Jace unsheathes a dagger, to the protestations of both Rhaena and Baela, and the distraction is enough for Aemond to knock it from his hand. His dedication in the training yard has paid off and he quickly gets the better of Jace, snatching up the rock once more, prepared to bring it down upon his skull should he try to attack him again.

In Aemond’s mind, the matter is settled, they should accept what has happened and retire to bed.

Unfortunately, his nephews do not share the sentiment. He winces, staggering backwards as Jace throws sand in his face, and before he has had time to fully recover, Luke is racing towards him, Jace’s dagger in hand.

The pain is excruciating as his nephew slashes upwards, and suddenly his vision shows blackness on one side, instead of his surroundings. He falls to his knees, a shriek of agony leaving him as blood seeps through the fingers of the hand he clasps to one side of his face.

His only focus is the searing, torturous pain he feels, waves of nausea rippling through his prone body, until a clamour of armour alerts him to the presence of the Kingsguard. As a knight kneels beside him, coaxing his hand away, his pale, horrified expression and exclamation of “Gods be good” are all Aemond needs to know that his face is ruined forever.

The fire in the hall of Driftmark is warm against his skin, and he does his best to focus on that sensation instead of that of the Maester extracting his eye from his skull. Though he has been dosed with milk of the poppy, he still feels every cut, every tug, and the pierce of the needle as it’s pulled through his skin repeatedly to stitch up the wound.

Aemond is unsure if it is the milk of the poppy that dulls his senses, or the satisfaction he feels at having claimed the world’s largest dragon, but he does not feel anger or sadness as he expects he would have when he is told his eye is lost forever.

When his mother snatches a knife and charges towards Rhaenyra, he is certain she has more blood of the dragon coursing through her veins than his coward of a father does. She is willing to risk everything to avenge his disfigurement, while Viserys makes excuses and appears more affronted at his eldest daughter’s children being called bastards. The loss of Aemond’s eye seems of little importance to him.

It is in that moment that Aemond feels the tiny semblance of respect he had for his father wither and die. As he takes in the harrowed expressions of Alicent, Aegon and Helaena, he knows they are all he has left.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” he says softly, rising to comfort her, though unsteady on his feet as he adjusts to his partial sightedness. “I may have lost an eye, but I have gained a dragon.”

A scar mars the flesh of Aemond’s face, but also ravages its way through the Targaryen family. Rhaenyra and her children leave King’s Landing, settling upon Dragonstone with Daemon and his daughters. Meanwhile, the health of Viserys continues to decline and the instances he is not bedridden grow fewer. Aemond does not miss his presence.

Worry hangs over his mother, a permanent shroud of anxiety, while Aegon becomes more debaucherous, sinking further into his cups with each passing day. Helaena retreats deeper into herself, rarely speaking unless spoken to, and bristles at any initiation of physical touch.

Slowly, Aemond heals, though it is not without struggle. He must learn to do everything anew. His favourite books become a chore to read, no longer able to pore over their pages for as long without suffering a terrible ache in his head.

Criston has to begin his training with the sword all over again. There is a newfound blind spot to account for when he fights. Not only does he have to learn how to balance, pivot and wield his weapon with accuracy, he also has to develop hyper vigilance and an acute awareness of where his opponent is at all times, to prevent them from drifting to the side from which he cannot see, and besting him.

Even flying on dragonback is difficult, though he only has one flight to compare it to. He learns fast, and is grateful that Vhagar’s advanced age makes her placid and more forgiving than a younger mount might be. When Aemond is airborne he can almost forget his disfigurement entirely, until he returns to the ground and the world is half blackness once more.

It is enough to make Aemond want to scream in frustration and give up at times. However, he is accustomed to a life of feeling out of place, of having to work harder than everyone else to prove his worth. There is nothing to be gained from a defeatist attitude, so he hardens himself to the challenges he faces, determined to be better with one eye than he was with two.

If his vision of the world is now limited, then he will simply expand his mind beyond that. He loses himself in tomes of history and philosophy, ignoring the dull pain that plagues his skull as he reads into the small hours.

In the training yard, he is quick to learn to keep Criston within his line of sight at all times, and wields his sword viciously, relentlessly, always striving to be faster, stronger, more precise. The proud look upon the Knight’s face means little to him now. The only person he means to prove anything to is himself. 

He reasons that a warrior must appear as fearsome as they fight, and takes to wearing a sapphire in the empty socket of his eye, when it is not covered by a patch.

The single matter that Aemond is never able to quite grasp is that of the fairer sex. Aegon has always seemed to have an overly indulgent interest in women, moreso what lies between their legs, but he has never understood his brother’s obsession with fornication. He has read about the mechanics of it in books, and the idea makes his lip curl in disgust. However, he reasons that Aegon is older, and perhaps his own appetite will develop in much the same way as he ages.

Aegon reasons that women’s skin is soft, they smell nice, and when you find one that has the perfect pair of tits and legs then there is little else that matters. While it is agreeable to Aemond that women are indeed more pleasant to look upon than men, he questions why he should not take an interest in their education or how they like to pass the time. His brother argues that once you are sheathed inside a woman, it is not what is in their mind that matters in the slightest.

Upon Aemond’s thirteenth name day, Aegon slaps him on the back and informs him that it is “time to get it wet”. The very idea makes his guts churn with unease, yet he dons the clothes of common folk just the same, pulling a hood over his head, and allows his brother to guide him to the Street of Silk.

The walk through Flea Bottom reeks of urine, with men staggering half drunk through the narrow cobbled streets, while women in varying states of undress beckon them forward into darkened hovels. Aemond keeps his head bowed, dreading what is to come, and is thankful when the establishment that his older brother guides him to looks slightly more respectable than the half a dozen they have passed by already.

The pleasure house is dimly lit and the heady scent of cheap perfume burns his nostrils, though it barely covers the smell of another undesirable stench that he assumes is the byproduct of what goes on here. He half wonders if it will stick to his clothing, much like the smell of sulphur and ash does when he returns from dragonback. He sincerely hopes not. 

His throat runs dry when Aegon staggers away with a busty woman, full of giggles, leaving him alone. The brothel’s madame has a kind smile, though it does not meet her eyes, and when she places her hand upon his shoulder it makes him shudder. He feels her touch there like a brand long after she has taken it away.

“Choose any of my girls that you like,” she tells him.

Timidly he eyes all of them. He wants none of them, but how can he say that?

When he hesitates, she chooses for him, pushing him towards a room with a girl that cannot be much older than he is. Her hair is the colour of straw, her skin reeks of the same perfume that lingers thick within the air, and there is wine upon her breath.

The fireplace burns low in the room as he lays upon the bed, and he keeps his eye fixed upon it until it is over. He has enjoyed none of it, the finish feeling little more to him than the satisfaction he experiences when scratching an itch. He cannot understand why Aegon makes such a fuss about it, if that is all there is to it then he never wants to partake in such an act of vulgarity ever again.

He leaves without saying a word, and walks as quickly as his legs will carry him back to the Red Keep. In the bathtub that evening, he scrubs until his skin is red raw, wanting nothing more than to erase every trace of what he has endured that day.

When he is served his favourite meal for his name day feast, roasted haunch of venison, he finds he has no appetite. Sickly perfume fills his nose and turns his stomach, and he leaves his plate untouched.

From that day forth, Aemond decides that he has no taste for depravity, and dedicates his time to reading, training with the sword and taking flight on Vhagar. Despite the nagging ache at the back of his mind that Aegon is set to succeed their father when he passes away, despite neither wanting nor deserving it, he feels a sense of fulfillment in knowing that he is making both their mother and House Targaryen proud.

There are few books in the Keep’s library he has not read at least twice, and he trains daily in the yard with Criston, now at a point where he is the victor in almost every sparring match.

The years pass, and Aemond is content with solitude, assuming that is his lot in life. Fire and blood course hotly in his veins, and in spite of his disfigurement he feels every inch a true Targaryen.

Viserys deteriorates to the point that Aemond’s grandsire and Hand of the King, Otto, now oversees most of the royal duties, and he has begun in earnest to plan with Alicent for Aegon’s eventual coronation. It comes as no shock to Aemond the day that he is beckoned to the Small Council Chamber, though he is surprised to find it is just his grandsire that sits at the table, there is not even a cup bearer present.

“I trust you are aware of the plans to crown Aegon once your father passes?” Otto asks, once Aemond is seated in the chair nearest to him.

Aemond sits up straight against the backrest, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, as he regards Otto impassively. “I am.”

“Good,” Otto nods, clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “Then I am sure you must know of your own duty to the realm.”

Aemond purses his lips, eyeing the older man carefully. “I will do what I must to ensure Aegon’s claim to the throne goes unchallenged.”

Otto sighs, leaning back and regarding Aemond with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Rhaenyra is sure to challenge your brother’s birthright, as your father foolishly named her heir, but there are means to remedy that.”

Aemond says nothing, waiting for Otto to say what he means. He watches as he fills both their wine cups, before setting the jug down. He takes a deep drink from his own, but Aemond leaves his untouched, wishing his grandsire would just get to the point.

Otto clicks his tongue before continuing. “To strengthen Aegon’s claim, we must curry favour with the other Great Houses of the realm.”

Aemond lowers his gaze, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the armrests of his chair. “You wish for me to marry.”

“Yes, Aemond, you are to be betrothed.”

The tone of voice in which Otto says this has such finality, it sounds as though a match has already been decided. His eye flickers upwards to meet the unyielding gaze of his grandsire.

“To who?”

“Your mother and I thought it best not to present you with suitors, we know you would not enjoy such a spectacle.”

You know all of them would take one look at me and be horrified by the very notion of being married to me.

Otto continues, “So we have chosen for you. The daughter of Lord Rickon Stark, Lorra. She is a pretty girl, and having the allegiance of a Great House of the North will weaken Rhaenyra’s claim.”

Aemond stays silent as his mind races.

House Stark. Their sigil is a dire wolf, their words are Winter is Coming.

Beyond that, he knows nothing of Northerners, what could he possibly learn about his betrothed from a book anyway?

He wets his lips, resigned to his fate. “When?”

“She will arrive in King’s Landing in two weeks, so that you can begin your courtship of her.”

“I will do my duty.”

“I trust that you will.”

Aemond retires to his chambers for the remainder of the day. He had anticipated that he would have to marry to form a political alliance at some point, however, the thought rattles him all the same. 

He is a solitary creature by nature, what on earth will he do with a wife? He supposes life will stay much the same, if his mother and father and Aegon and Helaena are to be used as examples - both couples married, yet living entirely separate lives. It is a mere formality. He will not be expected to spend time with her.

They will be expected to produce heirs, however. Nervousness swirls in his gut at the thought. He does not want to endure what happened to him at the brothel each time he couples with his wife, yet he cannot leave her childless either.

Lorra is a highborn lady, however, not a common whore, so perhaps he will be able to find pleasure in the act. Doubt niggles in his mind as he ponders his inexperience. A Prince must know what he is doing if he is to produce children, and Aemond possesses neither experience nor interest in the act of procreation. He will need to prepare if he is to perform his marital duties as anticipated without embarrassing himself or his wife.

The thought of returning to Flea Bottom makes him shiver in revulsion. He has no desire to part with coin for an act that sickens him. He will need to find an alternative.

There are plenty of maidservants around the Keep who are pretty enough, and of a similar age to him. He does not wish to be like his brother, however, and will not take what is not freely given. He has observed the way that Aegon expresses interest in the women that attend to them during mealtimes and decides to deploy some of the same tactics, though in a much more subtle manner.

At supper the following evening, he spots a young woman who is pleasing to him. She has a slender neck and pretty face, her large eyes framed by thick lashes. He watches her carefully as she rounds the table, filling each cup with wine, and when finally she approaches him, he deliberately reaches forward, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her wrist as she pours from the jug she holds. She glances down at him and he looks up, holding her gaze, the faintest of smirks on his face. A slight blush creeps up her neck, dusting its way across her cheekbones and he knows she is interested.

He spends the rest of the meal catching her eye whenever he can, and when the evening draws to a close, he lingers in the doorway, beckoning her with the slightest tip of his head when she looks at him, before walking back to his bedchamber. Aemond does not have to wait long for the knock at his door.

“Your grace, will you be needing anything else this evening?” She asks with a polite smile.

He closes the door behind them, steeling himself before turning to face her. “You understand why you are here?”

She nods, reaching up to cup his face as she leans in. He turns away, pulling back slightly.

“I have no need for you to kiss me.”

She nods in understanding and moves towards the bed, slipping out of her clothes. Aemond stands in silence as he watches her disrobe. She is attractive to look at, much more desirable than the girl he had coupled with in Flea Bottom. Smooth skinned, with subtle curves and firm breasts. He wonders how many others have looked upon her in the same manner that he has.

“Lay down,” he instructs her, once she is fully bare before him.

She moves to position herself face down, but Aemond steps forward, halting her actions.

“Let me look at you.”

“As you wish, your grace,” she whispers, blushing again, and repositions onto her back.

Aemond stands over her, his eye raking over her form as he takes in the way her chest rises and falls with every breath, the way the narrowness of her waist expands outwards towards her hips.

Tentatively, he reaches forward, fingers trailing lightly over the plush flesh of her inner thigh, tugging gently.

Obediently, she spreads her legs and he sucks in a breath at what glistens between them, curiosity guiding his actions as he spreads his fingers through the slick folds. She sighs in pleasure, and he looks back up at her face. Her lips are parted, eyes hooded with desire. Admittedly, though this is a much better experience than what he’d endured when he was thirteen, he still feels little in the way of excitement. Aemond appreciates that she lays there quietly, however, allowing him to take things at his own pace, and he feels his body respond to her regardless of his lack of emotion.

When his cock strains almost painfully against the lacings of his breeches, he unfastens them, crawling over the maidservant to cage her body in with his. She feels better against him than the whore had, her skin is more supple and her scent not quite so overpowering. He grunts as he pushes himself inside of her, her tight, wet heat gripping every inch of him as he slides forward.

The inside of her is different from the grasp of his own hand. Aemond is no stranger to the act of self pleasure, using it as a means to clear his mind or lull himself to sleep on nights when rest evades him. It is not a carnal act for him though, he simply focuses on the sensation, guiding himself to release. Despite the pleasant warmth of her body, he does not feel driven to desperate passion as he had anticipated, as he has so often heard Aegon describe.

As he rocks his hips into hers, back and forth, the growing ache he experiences is nice enough, but it does not light a fire within him. He is simply rutting against another person. The dulcet sounds that fall from her lips as he pistons into her sound too performative, and he feels resentment as he looks upon her face, just wanting to put an end to it.

He speeds up, and her sounds grow louder. Annoyance prickles at his skin.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses.

She falls silent and the room fills with the sound of the slap of his skin against hers, until finally he spills inside of her with a quiet gasp. He is quick to withdraw from her, standing and tucking himself away.

“You can go now,” he tells her, turning away.

He doesn’t watch as she dresses and quietly leaves his chamber. Aemond feels disappointment that he is unable to derive pleasure from such a carnal act. He has read that it is supposed to evoke excitement within a person, and from the way Aegon behaves he knows it is certainly true. So why does such a feeling evade him?

It matters not, he supposes. He will treat his wife in the same way he has the maidservant this evening. He will not take her by force, and he will be gentle with her. The act will be for the sole purpose of producing heirs, besides that they will live their lives as they please. He did not choose her, and she did not choose him, so he is confident that this will be an arrangement she finds satisfactory.

The next two weeks pass by without incident. Aemond reads, he trains and he flies, and thoughts of his betrothal scarcely enter his mind.

Upon the day of Lorra’s arrival to the Red Keep, he gathers in the Great Hall, with Alicent, Otto, Aegon and Helaena to greet her upon her arrival. He stands straight, hands clasped firmly behind his back, eye scanning the room impatiently. He hates the formality of it all, and wonders what could possibly be taking such a long time.

He will, of course, be dutiful and stand here for as long as necessary, but irritability simmers within him as he exhales heavily through his nose, wishing to be anywhere else right now, the library, the training yard, on dragonback. Such a display seems wholly unnecessary for an arrangement that is a mere formality.

When finally the doors open to the steps that ascend into the Hall, he faces forward, eye fixed upon the Kingsguard that file in. Until he sees her.

Draped in a cerulean cloak, trimmed with grey fur, she seems as though she is floating, rather than walking as she approaches. Her ivory skin is tinged with the faintest of pink against her cheeks and the curls of her ebony hair are braided down her back.

Aemond’s throat runs dry, his heart pounding quickly against his ribcage, and he realises he is holding his breath. The last time he felt such a powerful combination of fear, awe and longing had been the night he had first laid eyes upon Vhagar. It unsettles him, and he is grateful that his hands remain behind his back, otherwise he is certain that she would be able to see how they tremble.

“Lady Lorra of House Stark,” comes the announcement to the Hall, but it sounds distant and far away to Aemond as he stands, transfixed by her.

His blood pumps like liquid fire through his veins. Her eyes, so blue they could almost be sapphires, meet his and he feels a shiver run through him. After a lifetime of resonating in the warmth of flames, he is chilled by the ice that is reflected back at him.

Chapter two || Series masterlist

[kc-writes-sometimes]

Crown and Kin | Chapter Eight

Ao3 Account | Masterlist

Chapter Eight: Revelations

(Daemon’s POV)

Word Count: 3,513

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Summary: Daemon navigates the growing complexities of fatherhood and his place in the ever-changing Red Keep. The delicate balance between duty and personal desire becomes clear as old alliances and hidden truths come to light. Daella, now embraced as a Targaryen, faces a new chapter in her life, while Daemon finds himself torn between his past and the responsibilities that come with his newfound role.

Themes & Warnings: 18+, Character Death, Rape/Non Con, Future Smut, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Incest, Angst, Dad Daemon Targaryen, Bastards and Brothels, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Team Black Centric, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance

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Daemon Targaryen

“Is it not bedtime for you too?" Daella asked, her head tilted in confusion as she gazed up at Daemon, her violet eyes reflecting the dim light of the chamber.

Daemon smiled faintly, catching the quizzical look on her young face. There was something about the innocence of a child’s question that had the power to pierce through the world’s weight. “Not for me,” he replied, his voice firm yet laced with the warmth that had grown in him since Daella entered his life. “I have business outside the Keep. You’ll be fine, little one. A guard will be stationed right outside the door if you need anything. Now, get some rest.”

She continued to stare up at him with wide eyes, still unsure, as if sensing there was more to his late-night departure. Daemon hesitated for a brief moment, feeling the tug of something unfamiliar: the urge to stay. It gnawed at him, but duty—an old, familiar companion—called louder.

He leaned over and tucked a strand of dark silver hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her warm skin. She didn’t flinch away, her trust in him already unspoken and complete. He stood back up, his towering figure momentarily casting a shadow over the oversized bed before he turned toward the door. The heavy wooden frame creaked as he closed it, but his hand lingered on the handle for a moment longer than necessary. His mind was awash in thoughts of her—no longer just a bastard girl from Flea Bottom, but his daughter. His blood.

They had been sharing his childhood chambers ever since Daella’s arrival at the Red Keep. It had been his idea to keep her close—he told himself it was simply for convenience, but the truth ran deeper. He found comfort in her presence, watching over her as she slept, the rise and fall of her little form under thick blankets a reminder of how fragile and important she had become to him. It was an unfamiliar feeling, this quiet protectiveness, but it had rooted itself firmly in him.

Fatherhood had a way of creeping up on even the most untamed of men. Daemon, known for his reckless abandon and disregard for attachments, now found himself caring for this little girl more than he had ever anticipated. She had become the single tether in a life that had long been untethered.

These chambers had always been his refuge from the swirling politics of the Red Keep, a place he had once found solace. Now, they served as a barrier from the growing Hightower influence. Every day, the Keep felt less like the seat of Targaryen power and more like a fortress of the Faith. Alicent’s grip on Viserys—and the Keep itself—was tightening, and despite Otto’s removal, her presence had only grown stronger. The Faith of the Seven had crept into every corner, displacing the symbols of Old Valyria. The walls, once adorned with dragons, were slowly being overtaken by depictions of the Seven’s icons. It was as if the very soul of the Red Keep was being eroded.

Daemon clenched his fists as he made his way through the corridors. His boots struck the cold stone floor with sharp, measured steps, each echo a reminder of the battle that was being fought within the Keep’s walls—a battle without swords or blood, but one that was just as dangerous. The few servants still awake lowered their heads as he passed, avoiding eye contact with the Rogue Prince, their wariness a reflection of his simmering temper.

Once outside, the cool night air hit his face, offering a momentary reprieve from the tension knotted in his chest. He inhaled deeply, letting the crisp breeze fill his lungs. For a moment, he stood still, gazing up at the moon as it hung high over King’s Landing, casting long shadows across the sleeping city. The streets below, though quieter at this hour, still thrummed with life—merchants peddling their last wares of the day, shadowy figures slinking through alleys, the distant clang of the harbour.

He tightened his cloak around him as he moved through the streets, his silver hair hidden beneath the black hood. To most, he was just another shadow slipping through the night, but to those who recognized him, his presence was unmistakable. His reputation preceded him—the Rogue Prince, the Lord of Flea Bottom. Names earned through years of rebellion, of pushing against the chains of authority that tried to bind him.

But there was something different about him now. His steps were no less purposeful, but the fire that had always driven him was tempered by something new. He was no longer just a man acting on his own whims; he had a daughter, a child who was both his responsibility and his legacy.

Daella.

Her name repeated itself in his mind, a steady rhythm that beat in time with his footsteps. The thought of her stirred emotions he had long buried. Fatherhood was not something he had ever sought out. He had lived his life without attachments, without ties to anyone or anything. But now, everything had shifted. She was his, and that simple fact had rearranged the very fabric of his life.

The familiar streets of Silk soon came into view, the tension in his body winding tighter as he neared his destination. He had not felt this particular brand of tension in some time. Mysaria awaited him—the White Worm. She had been many things to him over the years: lover, confidant, spy. Her network of whispers had proven invaluable more times than he cared to count, but lately, something had changed. There was a distance between them now, a suspicion that had begun to fester ever since Daella’s presence had been made known to him. Had Mysaria known? Had she kept the secret from him all these years?

Daemon’s thoughts burned with the question as he neared her compound. The White Worm had always known more than she revealed, her words laced with riddles and half-truths. But now, with Daella in his life, the stakes were higher. If Mysaria had known about Daella—had hidden it from him—there would be a reckoning.

As he approached the dimly lit entrance to her chambers, the guards at the door said nothing as he passed, their silence expected. They had seen him come and go too many times to question his presence.

Inside, the familiar scent of incense and spice greeted him, a mixture that clung to the air, heavy and intoxicating. Mysaria’s chambers were draped in silk, the flickering light of candles casting long shadows across the room. She was there, waiting for him, draped in her customary white, her pale face framed by the soft glow of the candles.

"Daemon," she purred, her Lysene accent curling seductively around his name. She reclined on a low couch, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "You’ve come late tonight. What is it you seek from me?"

Daemon’s gaze was sharp, his patience worn thin. "You know why I’m here."

Her smile didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something—uncertainty, perhaps—in her eyes. "There are many things I know, Prince. You’ll need to be more specific."

Daemon moved faster than she anticipated, his hand shooting out to grip her throat, pulling her close with a force that left no room for games. "Don’t play games with me, Mysaria," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Did you know about Daella? Did you know I had a daughter?"

The tension in the room thickened, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. Mysaria didn’t flinch, her dark eyes holding his without fear, though his grip tightened around her throat. "I knew there was a girl," she rasped, her voice just above a whisper. "But I did not know she was yours. Not at first."

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, his fingers pressing harder against her neck. "You’re lying."

"I’m not," she whispered, her voice hoarse but steady. "I didn’t know her parentage until recently."

With a sharp shove, Daemon released her, sending her sprawling back onto the cushions. He paced the room, his mind racing with the implications of her words. How many people had known the truth before him? How had it been hidden for so long?

Mysaria rubbed her throat, her eyes flickering with irritation, though her voice remained calm. "Daella was hidden well. Elyse kept her secret, and I only pieced it together when she was dead."

"Elyse," Daemon muttered, the name cutting through the air like a blade. "What did you know about her?"

Mysaria’s expression flickered, a brief moment of hesitation crossing her face before it vanished. "Elyse… was more than she appeared," she said slowly, her words carefully measured. "‘Elyse’ wasn’t even her real name. That was just the name she adopted when she came to King’s Landing."

Daemon’s brow furrowed, confusion tightening his features. "Then who was she?"

Mysaria sighed, leaning back into the cushions with a faraway look in her eyes. "I don’t know. She was secretive about her past. Our bond wasn’t built on trust, Daemon—it was born out of survival." Her fingers smoothed the silk of her dress absently before she turned her gaze back to him. "Did she ever tell you where she was from?"

"She said she was born in Dorne," Daemon answered, his voice tight, controlled. "A bastard. That’s all she told me."

A faint, knowing smile touched Mysaria’s lips, her eyes gleaming with something unspoken. "Dorne? No, but close. She was born in Volantis. And she wasn’t just any Volantene bastard, Daemon."

Daemon’s hand instinctively moved to the hilt of Dark Sister, his pulse quickening. "What are you implying?"

Mysaria’s tone softened, her voice more thoughtful now. "Did you never wonder why her hair and eyes were so… familiar? Did her manner never strike you as peculiar? The way she always had silver coins for the City Watch?" Her eyes watched him closely, as if trying to read his every reaction. "Both you and your brother saw something in her."

Daemon’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. Elyse had always been a mystery, a puzzle he never bothered to solve. She had been beautiful, and he had enjoyed their time together, but she hadn’t mattered to him beyond that. Until now. Now, she was the mother of his child—his legacy.

"What are you saying?" he demanded, his voice low, though the question was more for himself than Mysaria.

"She was more than a simple woman from Volantis," Mysaria continued, her gaze never leaving his. "I don’t know the full story, but there were whispers that she had connections to families of influence"

"Enough, Mysaria!" Daemon barked, his voice filled with frustration as he resumed pacing, his boots echoing against the stone floor. The flickering candlelight cast jagged shadows on the walls, mirroring the chaos in his mind. "I don’t have time for your riddles. Speak plainly!"

Mysaria’s eyes followed him, her expression calm but unyielding. "Elyse wasn’t a common whore, Daemon," she said, her voice steady as she leaned back, watching his every move. "There were whispers before she started dying her hair—whispers that she was of Valyrian blood."

Daemon froze, the weight of her words settling over him like a heavy cloak. How had he not seen it? The dark silver hair, the striking purple eyes—traits Daella now bore. He should have known. Perhaps, on some level, he did. Perhaps he just didn’t care. After all, one silver-haired whore was as good as another in King’s Landing.

His fists clenched at his sides, his anger surging through him like wildfire. "Why didn’t she tell me any of this?" he muttered, more to himself than to Mysaria. "Why keep Daella from me?"

Mysaria tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes softening just a touch. "I can’t answer that for certain, but perhaps she feared what it would mean for Daella—for you. Perhaps Elyse thought it best to keep Daella hidden, to raise her as a child should be raised, away from the prying eyes of the court. She didn’t want Daella used as a pawn."

Daemon let out a bitter laugh, though the sound was devoid of humour. "And look where that got her. Dead. And Daella? A scared, lonely child living in the squalor of a brothel, so terrified that when the maid washed the dye out of her hair she nearly ripped her own hair out." His voice grew harsher, the bitterness seeping into every word. "You could have told me this sooner. You could have done something! You could have let me help her."

Mysaria’s eyes hardened at his accusation. "And what would you have done, Daemon? Elyse feared what your involvement would bring. She didn’t want Daella to live in the shadow of your name. She didn’t want her past or yours to devour the child."

Daemon spun toward her, his eyes blazing with anger. "I could’ve saved her!" His voice broke, just for a moment. "I could’ve kept Elyse alive."

Mysaria held his gaze, her own eyes reflecting the weight of the secrets she had kept. "Would it have changed anything, Daemon?" she asked quietly, her tone almost regretful. "Elyse made her choices."

Daemon’s jaw tightened, his fury simmering beneath the surface. Elyse’s secrets—the ones Mysaria had revealed and the ones that had died with her—no longer mattered. What mattered now was Daella. His daughter.

"Daella is my daughter," Daemon muttered fiercely, his voice low but resolute. "Whatever blood runs through her veins doesn’t change that."

Mysaria’s expression softened once more, her familiar tone slipping back into place. "Be careful, Daemon. The past has a way of catching up to all of us."

Daemon stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "If you’ve kept anything else from me, anything at all, you won’t live long enough to regret it."

Mysaria met his gaze, the tension between them taut as a drawn bowstring. "I’ve told you what I know," she said evenly, her tone calm yet unyielding.

For a long moment, Daemon’s eyes lingered on hers, the weight of unspoken threats thick in the air. But he said nothing more. With one final, cold glance, he turned and stormed out of her chambers, the door slamming shut behind him. As he passed through the familiar streets, Mysaria’s compound fading into the distance, Daemon felt the weight of his life shifting. He had been the Rogue Prince for so long—untethered, wild, a force unto himself. But now, he was something more.

He was a father. A protector. A force to be reckoned with, not just for himself but for Daella. His daughter. His future.

By the time Daemon reached the Red Keep, the sun had already begun its slow rise over the city. The early morning light cast long shadows across the courtyard, and servants bustled about, preparing for the day. But Daemon moved through them with a newfound sense of purpose. Nothing—not the past, not the whispers, not even the enemies lurking in the shadows—would take Daella from him.

He could picture her now, awake and preparing for her first lesson. He had arranged for the Maester to begin teaching her High Valyrian, as every true Targaryen should learn. Soon, she would know how to read, how to write, how to stitch and play music. She would learn the history of their house, the names of the great lords, and the powers they wielded. And one day, when the time came, he would teach her to ride a dragon and hold a sword, just as he did.

As Daemon walked through the gardens, heading toward his chambers, he spotted Rhaenyra in her usual spot beneath the weirwood tree. She sat with a heavy tome in her lap, her brow furrowed in concentration.

His footsteps were almost silent as he approached, though Rhaenyra, sharp as ever, glanced up from her book. Her violet eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze sharp as it landed on him.

"Back so soon, uncle?" Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the quiet of the Godswood, her tone laced with sarcasm, though beneath it was a softer edge, almost teasing.

Daemon smirked, but didn’t respond immediately. His eyes lingered on her, taking in the way the morning light caught in her hair, making it gleam like molten silver. Even in the simplicity of the Godswood, she looked regal, carrying herself with a natural majesty that both captivated and irritated him. She reminded him too much of himself.

"I had business to attend to," he finally replied, his voice neutral, though there was an unmistakable edge to it. A subtle tension simmered beneath his words, one she hadn’t heard before. "Not that it’s any concern of yours."

Rhaenyra closed the book resting on her lap, setting it aside gently as she met his gaze, her eyes sharp, searching. She could read him too well, sensing the storm beneath his calm exterior. "And what business was so pressing that it kept you out all night?" Her voice was light, but her eyes—hard, inquisitive—demanded answers.

Daemon’s lips curled into a sly grin. "You know me, Rhaenyra. I don’t answer to anyone."

"Not even my father?" she shot back, her tone sharpening like a blade. "Or is it just me you feel the need to play games with?"

The tension between them, simmering for so long, flared like fire meeting oil. Daemon’s smirk faded, his expression darkening as he stepped closer, looming over her. She remained seated under the weirwood, regal and unmoved, but his presence was undeniable.

"Viserys has always been weak," Daemon said, his voice low, heated. "And you—"

"What about me?" Rhaenyra interrupted, rising to her feet, her book forgotten as she faced him. "Do you think me weak, uncle?"

For a moment, the Godswood fell silent, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Daemon’s eyes flashed with something unspoken—longing, regret, or perhaps both. He had always been drawn to her, admiring her fire, her defiance. Yet the distance between them had grown wider, especially since that night in the city.

"You’re far from weak," Daemon said at last, his voice softer now, though the roughness remained. "But you’re playing a dangerous game, Rhaenyra. One you’re not ready for."

Rhaenyra scoffed, her eyes blazing with defiance. "And you think you know everything, don't you? You think you can decide what I'm ready for?" She stepped closer, her chin tilted upward, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—hurt, frustration. "Do you think I didn’t know what I was doing that night?"

Daemon’s jaw tightened, his gaze locking with hers. "You were a girl playing at being a woman, Rhaenyra. You didn’t understand what you were stepping into."

Rhaenyra’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I understood more than you give me credit for," she shot back, her voice trembling slightly, though she stood firm. "You didn’t force me to do anything. I wanted to see your world. I wanted to be free."

"Free?" Daemon echoed, his voice a low growl, almost a sneer. "You’ll never be free, Rhaenyra. Not as long as you’re tied to the Iron Throne."

"And neither will you," she snapped, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "You may pretend you don't care—that you're some rogue prince who doesn’t need the throne—but I see you, Daemon. You're just as trapped as the rest of us."

Daemon’s eyes flickered with something dark, something dangerous, as he stepped closer. His voice dropped, almost a whisper. "Perhaps," he admitted, "but I know how to bend the rules when it suits me."

Rhaenyra held her ground, her breath quickening as he loomed over her. She could feel the heat of his body, the scent of smoke and leather clinging to him. For a brief, reckless moment, Rhaenyra reached out, brushing her fingers against his chest, her touch light, almost daring. Daemon’s hand shot up, catching her wrist in a firm yet controlled grip. His eyes bore into hers, a smirk tugging at his lips once again.

"You shouldn’t provoke me, niece," he whispered, his voice rough, filled with a challenge that sent a shiver down her spine.

Rhaenyra’s lips parted, her defiance wavering as the fire between them burned hotter. "And what will you do if I do?" she asked, her voice barely a breath.

Daemon’s grip on her wrist tightened, just enough to remind her of his strength. He leaned in ever so slightly, their faces mere inches apart. His breath was warm against her skin, his presence overwhelming, and the tension between them reached its breaking point.

"Father?"

The voice was small, hesitant, cutting through the charged moment like a splash of cold water. Daemon turned sharply, releasing Rhaenyra’s wrist as he looked toward the source.

Daella stood a few feet away, her violet eyes wide with confusion as they flicked between Daemon and Rhaenyra. Her dark silver hair cascaded around her shoulders, and she seemed so small, so innocent, standing there in the soft light of the Godswood.

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[prettymuchteddy]

The Invitation

Summary: When Lord Gareth is invited to King Viserys' castle on the nearly desolate island of Dragonstone, he is not prepared to come face to face with the King's daughter, Rhaenyra. However, the longer he stays the more he becomes convinced something is odd about the Princess.

Read on AO3

Pairing: Rhaenyra Targaryen x Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra Targaryen x Original female characters

Warning: horror themes, vampires, mild blood, biting, blood drinking, polyamorous relationship, character death, and murder

Words: 3,744

A/N: I was inspired to write this after watching Van Helsing. So it has heavy Dracula vibes. Hope you enjoy it!

A knock came from the door.

The man outside hid underneath the arch of the looming structure. Rain poured down on his coat, soaking through. His boots were flooded by the onslaught of water. He released a shaky breath as he knocked again.

“Hello?” He called out; however, the storm was more powerful than his voice.

Yet, his plea seemingly worked when the mahogany doors creaked open. He stepped inside without a second thought.

The warmth of the castle enveloped his trembling figure. He straightened himself to look presentable. He fought against making a face when his drenched shoes squeaked when touching the dark carpet.

“Lord Gareth, I presume?” A voice asked.

The man lifted his head to find a woman standing a few feet from him. He was quick to notice her beauty. She was pale but not as pale as her white hair which had been tied back in a rigid braid. Her elegant long black dress dragged behind. Her light-colored eyes stared him down.

“Yes, I’m Lord Gareth, um I received an invitation from King Viserys…” His eyes wandered trying to find another soul in the castle.

“I can assure you; you’ve come to the right place. My father was the one who wrote you the letter.”

“Your father?” The man seemed confused.

“I’m Princess Rhaenyra.” She smiled.

“Oh.” He fixed his posture. “Forgive me, Your Highness, I was not aware.”

She waved a hand. “There’s no need for such formalities, Lord Gareth. My father is not here at the moment.”

“Pardon? King Viserys isn’t here?”

“No, he went on a hunting trip, but he’ll return in the morning.”

The man glanced at the door. “Forgive me for arriving so early.”

“Again there is no need to apologize. I can arrange a room for you.”

“That’s very generous of you, Your Highness, but I do not want to impose.”

“There’s a storm outside and it’s a long way down the hill again, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Are you sure I wouldn’t be a bother?”

“Of course not, we would love to have you.”

He picked up his bag. “Thank you, your highness.”

She smiled and reached out her hand for him to take. “Welcome to my house, my lord, I hope you find it to your liking. We here in Dragonstone are known for our hospitality. So much so people tend to never leave.”

The flight of stairs seemed to go on forever. Each step resulted in a small groan from the man as he climbed up. The castle’s massive size became clear when the ceiling rose to its curved arches. Dark chandeliers hung from the ceiling and how they had even placed them up there was its own mystery. A chill brushed by his neck the higher they went. He kept his calm, following her down a narrow path. The stone walls made it seem like a barricaded fortress rather than the elegant castle he had expected.

The princess turned down a hallway. Her steps were oddly silent against the wooden floorboards. He dragged his bag behind with a tired arm. His heavy feet stomped across the red carpet. Despite his noise, the princess did not utter a word, her relaxed and quiet presence was not interrupted in the least. She abruptly stopped in front of a door.

“This will be your room for the night.”

With a limp hand, he reached out and turned the handle. The door swung to reveal a plain room with a simple bed, nightstand, and cabinet drawer. It was painted in a dull beige color, and there was no piece of décor in sight. Even the floor lacked a carpet. This was it?

Gareth glanced back at the princess. He expected her to look inside the room and realize its conditions were lacking as well. Perhaps recognize that an error had been made.

She was serious however, there was no mistake.

“Get some rest, my lord. I’ll call you down for supper time soon enough.”

She left before he could respond.

He turned back to his room. “No better rooms in this place? I doubt it,” he muttered to himself.

Gareth closed the door behind him. He dropped his bag to the floor, letting it land with a thud. The exhaustion of the day’s journey was beginning to set, and the bed was looking tempting. His eyes were drooping from tiredness. He laid down on the bed, deciding to close his eyes for a little bit. Just as he was falling asleep, he could see a soft glow before succumbing to the darkness.

He awoke when he heard someone’s voice. It was as clear as the cool air he breathed. His eyes scanned the living quarters. The room was darker than before, but nothing was out of place. Only the sound of his own heartbeat rang through. No one was here, yet he swore something whispered in his ear.

Leaning down, he pulled up his boots from the floor.

A shuffle came from behind the door.

He froze.

In the small gap of the door, there was little light. Carefully he approached the door. His timid hand grabbed the handle and opened it to reveal nothing on the other side.

Within the corner of his eye, he saw something move. His gaze went down the long hall. The noise sounded again.

Gareth followed the noise down through the halls. He passed by the individual doors, leading to an open area. He realized he was in a large drawing room from the sofas and small tables. Seated at the head of one of these tables was a woman with dark hair. Her eyes flickered to him.

“Hello,” she spoke gently.

“Hello…” He paused. “Forgive me I wasn't aware there was someone here.”

“Well as you can see, I’m here.” She smiled.

He chuckled lightly. “Yes, clearly.”

She gestured toward the seat across from her. “Would you like to sit?”

He glanced back to the chair. “Yes, thank you.”

“How do you like to play?” She asked while setting down a stack of cards. “Any wagers?”

He glanced at her while she shuffled the deck. A necklace hung around her pale neck. Her smile was gentle and soft, just like the rest of her. She was beautiful beyond words. He relaxed his shoulders.

“Ten gold coins.”

“So, you’re a betting man then?” A voice said.

He flinched. From the corner of his eye, he saw another woman seated beside him. He whipped his head around.

Her hair was a fiery red, cascading down her shoulders. The deep blue eyes scanned the table, quickly finding a pile of cards already set. She grabbed them, bringing them close to her chest.

“You’ll be playing too?” The brunette asked out loud.

“Always,” a low voice answered.

Gareth turned to where another woman had sat beside him. Her fingers caressed the cards as she organized the deck she’d been dealt. Her dark brown eyes were like deep pools he felt he could almost jump into.

“Will you be placing anything to wager?” The brunette inquired to the others.

“No,” the redhead said promptly. “I’ve learned my lesson in the past.”

“I wouldn’t suggest gambling,” the most recent arrival mentioned. “It’s a terrible habit.”

“Old habits tend to be difficult to stop.”

She leaned closer. “Even when they’re terrible?”

“Terrible things tend to be the most exciting,” he flirted.

Her lips curled up in amusement. “How so?”

“Have you ever been to the North?”

“No, sadly never gotten the chance.”

“It’s a frigid wasteland with half-barbaric living conditions. Yet you can feel your blood pumping there as the harsh wind blows on her face. Makes you feel alive.”

She hummed in interest. “Have you gone to very many places?”

“Yes, and I’ve written of them too. I have quite a few books under my name.”

“I must read your work sometime, Lord Gareth.”

“I’d love to show you, lady…”

“-Alicent,” she finished for him. Her gaze went toward the other women present.

“Since you’re a guest Lord Gareth, would you like to set any rules?” The brunette asked.

He tore his attention away from Alicent and back to the cards. He only then realized he had no idea what they were playing.

“Need help?” The redhead whispered near his ear.

He was caught off guard by her sudden presence. She did not look like she cared as she leaned closer.

“Is there a specific way you like to play, lord Gareth?” She stood from her seat and positioned herself on the edge of his armrest. “We have our own way of doing things here on Dragonstone, but we’re always happy to amuse guests.”

The warmth ran to his face when her hands ghosted over his hair. He found it hard to look away from her. His throat was dry as she looked him up and down.

“Are you always this shy, Lord Gareth?”

He couldn’t find the words to speak. Her lip quirked up in amusement. He was not prepared to feel her lips on his neck. Good gods help him. Her soft breathing made his breath hitch.

Everything was becoming a hazy blur as the other women stood from their seats and approached. He swore his senses would have driven him mad if the door had not opened roughly.

The redhead suddenly jumped off him. He blinked a few times before remembering where he was. The embarrassment flooded his features within moments.

The princess was standing between him and the other women. “Dyanna, what have I told you about how we treat our guests?” She scolded the redhead.

Gareth straightened himself to try and save whatever dignity he had left.

“And Lenora, Alicent, you cannot simply enable what she does.”

They lowered their heads when the princess spoke to them. He figured they were probably servant girls. Still, he did find it odd that they all wore white dresses and had jewelry. Perhaps they were ladies-in-waiting instead.

“Lord Gareth,” the princess finally acknowledged him. “Supper is ready, please follow me.”

He did as she asked and walked behind her toward the dining room.

The table was already set when they walked inside. Two plates of food were waiting for them and wine filling the brim of two goblets. Princess Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table without a word. She calmly took her utensils and began cutting into her meat.

There was thick silence enveloping the dining room. The clacking of the silverware filled the dry atmosphere. He avoided looking directly at the princess.

“Lord Gareth,” she abruptly cut through the tension. “Forgive my ladies for their behavior. They simply got excited. We don’t get very many guests often.”

“It’s alright, Your Highness. I’m sure your ladies did not mean any harm.” He paused. “Have they served you long?”

“I’ve been with them for ages. With so much time together, you grow fond of each other.”

“It does help that Dragonstone is such a small island.”

She hummed to herself. “They say that home is where the heart is. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“You wouldn’t consider traveling?”

“Oh, not anytime soon, though I did much in the past as did my father.”

“Truly?”

She nodded. “Tell me, Lord Gareth, do you tend to travel much?”

He lifted up his gaze. “Yes, I do.”

“How often are you away from home?”

He sighed. “Months at a time usually.”

“I’m sure your wife gets lonely without you around.”

“I’m not married, Your Highness, my wife passed on many years ago.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you at least have an heir waiting for you at home?”

He gave a short laugh. “Not really. I only have a daughter; nothing will pass to her.”

This seemed to grab the princess’ attention as her gaze was torn from her food. “You have a daughter? How old is she?”

“Ten and three.”

“She’s very young,” the princess muttered.

“Indeed. She spends her time with her maids and ladies.”

“Are you so sure? You do travel often.”

He gulped down the wine. “I imagine that’s what she does. I admit, I know very little of where her time is spent. But what man isn’t in the dark about what women think?”

“One must be around to understand,” she whispered.

“She’s used to it, I’ve traveled since she was a babe. Believe me, Your Highness, when you marry and have children, you’ll see for yourself.”

The princess’ eyes seemed to flicker oddly. He blinked a few times. The wine was surely getting to him.

“If I should be so lucky.”

She stood from her seat, neatly tucking her chair back into its original position. Her gaze returned to him.

“Would you like to tell me more as we wait for the desert? I can show you some of my father’s relics from his travels if you’d like.”

Gareth stood from his seat, slightly confused but willing to amuse the princess’ request.

The hall became narrow as they went downstairs. Whatever chill he felt before was amplified further by where they were headed. With little decorations, the stone structure was beginning to look more foreboding. The only things that he could find to dress the bare space were a few portraits hung along the sides.

He looked over at one painting of three people. He recognized the girl in the portrait as the princess despite how young she was. Her white hair was loose with a crown resting on top. Beside her was a man and a woman, both with the same pale hair. Gareth imagined them to be her parents. They stood in front of the drawing room he had come upon earlier, though the room was painted a different color there than it was now. The portrait had dust along the frame. He wondered why the king had chosen to let this part of the castle get like this. They had servants clearly.

“Did your father take the jewelry during his travels?” He asked.

“Pardon?” The princess’ face scrunched up slightly.

“I noticed that one of your ladies was wearing an older relic.”

Rhaenyra nodded carefully. “It is likely, in all honesty, I like to give them gifts often.”

“I believe you might be spoiling your servants too much, Your Highness,” he chuckled.

“How come?”

“The relic your lady Lenora, I think was her name, was wearing is over three hundred years old.”

Rhaenyra hummed in interest. “Truly?”

“Yes, during my travels I’ve gone to many castles both ruled by lords, and some left in ruins. One of them was Harrenhal. It used to be the seat of House Strong, but the family line went extinct more than three hundred years ago. Their sigil was a hand with the colors red, green, and blue. The necklace your lady wore had that same hand in the pendant and the gems were of the same house colors.”

“Huh. For a relic it seemed to be kept in very good condition, I would hardly know.”

Gareth smiled. “Well princess, not everything is like what it seems.”

The princess beamed. “Always fascinating to learn new things.”

He glanced outside through a window. The storm was growing worse as its howls shook the glass.

“Does King Viserys always go hunting so late in the night?”

“No, he hasn’t in many years.”

“Was today a special occasion?”

“When he left the castle, it was to celebrate the birth of his son.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“He’s not here. He’s with my mother. They’re resting downstairs. Would you like to meet them?”

Gareth tilted his head, slightly. Curiosity overtook him. He didn’t know the queen and prince were here. The king failed to mention them in the invitation he sent.

His feet guided him to where the princess moved. Confusion began to fill his mind when the lights dimmed the more they walked. A stillness gripped the castle. Princess Rhaenyra held the door open for him. He stepped inside of a dark area.

“Right up ahead,” she said.

His eyes narrowed in the shadows. He was cautious of where he stepped. It was completely quiet. A wall stood out to him as something shined when he got closer.

They were silver plaques placed on the stone. It had engravings written. Aemma Arryn 82 AC to 105 AC, Baelon Targaryen 105 AC to 105 AC.

His eyes followed the wall to where two crypts rested.

Gareth stepped backward. “I don’t…you said your father was celebrating.”

“He was…when he left.”

He looked over the years again. 105 AC. That was five hundred years ago.

Rhaenyra began pacing slowly along the cellar. “Usually there would have been more time, but I don’t like to keep my loves waiting too long.”

The man narrowed his eyes as if confused. “I don’t understand…Where’s King Viserys?”

Rhaenyra reared her head. A smile curled on her lips where sharp teeth pointed out. Those unusual violet eyes of her began glowing in the dark. “There is no King Viserys. There hasn’t been for many years. I am the Queen of this castle.”

His expression twisted in shock.

Rhaenyra paid no mind to it, however. “Enjoy your gift,” she said out loud.

The man’s brows furrowed. “What?”

He had little time to process her words as within seconds the three servant women were upon him. They grabbed his arms and pulled at his dress shirt, tearing it to shreds with the strength of wild animals. He tried to push them away, but they latched onto him with a ferocity he couldn’t understand. The redhead, Dyanna, dug her nails into his skin to bare his neck out. A scream ripped from his throat when her teeth pierced through his exposed neck.

“Don’t be shy now,” The princess mocked with a sweet voice. “Were you not eager before when my fiery Dyanna had her lips on your neck?”

He kicked at their hands on his limbs, but they were strong, inhumanly so. The brunette was quick to try to stop his resistance by biting into his shoulder blade. Her sharp teeth dragged against the bone underneath his skin. Another scream of anguish vibrated through the crypt.

“Or when my sweet Lenora invited you for a game under the cover of night? I believed a man like yourself to have more honor than to meet a maiden in the late hours.”

He grabbed at a lock of hair and pulled it, hoping it would be enough to get them away. A hiss came from one of them. He caught a glimpse of glowing blue irises with the white in the eyes being completely gone, replaced with a black emptiness. His hand which gripped at the hair was snatched at the wrist. A loud snap rang out. Gareth screamed as his wrist went limp to his side.

“No clever quips to say to my devoted Alicent? Did you think yourself on her level with your dull travels and flimsy writing?” The princess continued.

The fangs would not let him go. He squirmed in their hold but felt his strength leaving him. The pain was too much. His eyes closed one final time.

Alicent was the first to pull away. She let his limp arm fall onto the cold floor. Her fingers wiped the blood running down her throat, careful to make sure it did not land on her dress and stain it.

The corpse fell with a dull thud when the other two released their grip.

Lenora licked the blood off her lips, her dark brown hair cascading down her face. “You spoiled us this time.”

Dyanna wiped her hand of any droplets. “Yes, how very generous of you.” She raised a suspicious brow.

Rhaenyra gently lifted up her chin. A small smile on her features. “Am I not allowed to be kind to my own wives?”

Dyanna smirked. “I never said it wasn’t welcomed, only a surprise is all.”

Lenora looked over the corpse, a pout on her face. “Rhaenyra are you not hungry? You didn’t have a bite.”

“I’m alright. He was meant for you three.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am, though I’m touched you thought of me.”

“He didn’t put up that much of a fight,” Alicent nonchalantly. “Do you think he was exhausted already?”

“No, if anything he slept very soundly,” Dyanna scoffed. “I could hear him snoring all the way from my coffin.”

Lenora giggled. “Is that what that was? I thought it was one of the rats.”

“That’s an insult to the rats,” Dyanna mused.

“How did you get this one?” Alicent glanced at the body.

“You heard him, he loves to travel, so I imagined his interest would be piqued if the king of Dragonstone wrote him an invitation.” Rhaenyra looked at the dead man. “Turns out I was right.”

“Any relatives that may come looking for him?” Lenora inquired.

“None that will miss him very much,” Rhaenyra stated.

Dyanna wrapped her arms around Lenora’s waist. “I very nearly thought he would figure it out.” She eyed the brunette’s necklace. “He was rather perspective.”

Rhaenyra approached Lenora, gently caressing the jewelry adorning her neck. “He came close but not close enough, unfortunately for him.”

“You’d think with your little stunt in the drawing room, he’d realize something,” Alicent mused.

Rhaenyra turned to Dyanna. “About that, next time my love, be a bit more patient. We don’t need to get so aggressive so early.”

Dyanna smirked, showing off her fangs. “But you love it when I’m aggressive.”

Rhaenyra tilted her chin up, affectionally. “You know what I mean.”

Alicent felt the air shift, becoming warmer. “It’s almost morning.”

The princess smiled at her wives. “That’s enough excitement for one night. Let’s get some rest.”

Lenora and Dyanna were the first to begin heading toward their tombs. Alicent stayed behind scanning the corpse.

Rhaenyra noticed. “What is it, my love?”

“I was wondering how I should get rid of it. I don’t want it leaving a foul smell.”

“I appreciate your concern, Alicent, but I will take care of it.”

Her first bride sighed. “You understand we can handle things for you? Your kindness is not lost on me, but we can take care of you as well.”

“I know, and you already do take care of me.” Rhaenyra lifted up her chin softly. “Now get some rest.”

Alicent smiled. “Don’t take too long, we’ll be waiting for you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

[jacesvelaryons]

prologue.

the reluctant empress.

(19th Century Imperial Austria AU)

series masterlist

chapter 1 (soon)

jacaerys (jace) velaryon x female!original character

original work: house of the dragon

rating: rated g (will become pg 18+ in later chapters)

summary: this is a dangerous game we play. as rhaenyra sits on the iron throne and the crown lands on her head, she ensures nothing will risk her reign, and that her son, with all his promise, follows after her. and nothing will stop her.

genres: historical, romance, intrigue, smut (to follow)

word count: 1.0k words

Compromise. That was the word Rhaenyra had heard over and over again, uttered until it became repetitive and meant so much until it was empty.

Never had there been an Empress in her own name since Maria Theresa in the Imperial house, and many of her descendants made sure a woman like her could not rise up again whether by inheritance or coup d’etat.

When King Jaehaerys died unexpectedly in the dawning days of 1852, her father Archduke Viserys befell the throne and crown on his head. Long widowed and mourning the loss of his wife and her mother Aemma, Viserys was a peaceful, kind man, gullible and easily influenced, who suffered bouts of melancholy and locked himself away in his room for days and weeks.

After a series of uprisings from the Vale and failed conquests of Dorne, Rhaenyra managed to convince her somewhat feeble-minded and defeated father to abdicate and hand the throne to her, a princess at age of twenty, fresh from having given birth to her third son Joffrey with spouse Laenor Velaryon, who had taken court with her at Dragonstone, at their ancestral home.

Ever since Jacaerys sat on his grandsire’s lap, chestnut orbs full of wonder and curls forming on his head, as Viserys told him that seat would be his one day - it would be her greatest ambition to succeed him on that throne and pave the way for an even greater reign to come in form of her son.

Since the hatchling sat on her son’s chest and crawled over his wooden crib, Jacaerys was meant for greatness and she knew. He, who picked up reading and writing sooner than any babe, who was crawling already when most did not coordinate their spindly limbs together. Whose eyes read voraciously as he was pressed to her breast or a wet nurse’s. ‘Alysanne reborn’ they would call him sometimes - it’s as if she had swallowed texts and candles while she carried him in her womb.

As the scintillating diadem landed on her head full of silver hair up, Rhaenyra was a step closer to making her dream come true. Sapphires emblazoned on her collar, she honoured her mother Aemma wherever she went, avenging all misdeeds done against her, so that she may have the final laugh after all.

Seeing her father all hesitant, appeasing and letting himself be led on by ill meaning snakes who only wished to take advantage of him for their own personal gains had taught her that compromise can only go so far before it eats you up alive. And she won’t let that happen to her. Or to her son.

…

This is the best I can do. Or at least that’s what Alicent’s father told her when he was able to secure a match for her, a second son’s daughter, to a sickly, old Lord Targaryen who was a distant cousin to the conqueror himself. Not as wealthy or influential as the main branch of the family who sat on the throne, but this is the most she can dream for when most lords turned their heads at the sight of her and her brothers.

The old lord, as wealthy as he was, had no great lands but a humble castle in the middle of nowhere in the Crownlands. Loyal and content he was to his family, he had no drive or ambition of his own, after fighting the same war that had gotten Prince Aemon struck with an arrow, returning with maladies that only added to his already delicate health.

Left with two daughters and a granddaughter from the eldest who was now also left a widow, Alicent felt she had no escape, a hole dug so deep there’s no other way but down.

Meek, obedient, people pleasing and content, Helaena was born first, so quiet and unmoving they were afraid she was stillborn and lifeless, answering the prayers of long assumed infertility her husband had assumed from his failure to sire children from his two previous wives. Plump and round faced, her silver hair was nearly pale and had the blue eyes of her father.

Religion was an escape, a soothing balm to her wounds and sensitive nature, to Helaena as it was for her mother. Although Valyrian and raised in Targaryen customs, she was never found without a copy of the seven by her desk, a beloved edition passed down from her maternal grandmother. She married the Lord Celtigar’s second son, a handsome, dashing, brave, rather foolish young man who perished squashing the wars of rebellion in the Vale, never meeting his shy, reclusive daughter Jaehaera.

The second, youngest daughter Y/N - where do we even start? Auburn hair like her mother’s, with dark purple eyes common in the Freehold, was anything like her beloved sister. As close they were, they were opposites in every way. Whereas Helaena was hesitant and shy, Y/N was an accomplished equestrian, loved to hunt and explore the streets of the common folk as her father did in his childhood. Born kicking and screaming, she was nearly double the size of her elder, loud cries so piercing it could be heard throughout the keep.

Her cousins the Lord of Oldtown were aghast to see how her youngest daughter turned out, not made in the image of the Mother, but too Targaryen for their taste’s, yet they could not fully turn away their own kin.

Yet for all her feracious character and restless spirit, Alicent knew from her early age that there was an unsettling beauty to her daughter that she could not fully comprehend. It only seemed to haunt her as her youngest grew, learned to climb and walk and run.

A woman’s household, her father mockingly told Alicent, and although she at first felt humiliated and in despair at her hopelessness, a sense of hope sprouted in her. Draped in obsidian mourning clothes, clinging to the last good lace in her treasury, she receives a letter from her once childhood friend whom she had served as lady in waiting to in her youth, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.

The Queen has invited the Lady Alicent to join her royal court alongside her two daughters, especially as she was considering one who may be the future wife of her son and heir Jacaerys, Prince of Dragonstone. This was Alicent’s ticket to salvation and financial freedom that would save her ailing family from despair - making Helaena a future Queen and her blood on the throne.

…

[kimnamnu]

twin flame

aegon ii targaryen x original female character

aemond "one-eyed" targaryen x original male character

next>

Lord Haelor Belaerys, twin brother of Queen Aenara Belaerys, youngest son born to Princess Rhaena Targaryen, second daughter of King Viserys I, and Lord Vaenor Belaerys, died in battle with his dragon following not much later. After the death of his uncle, and rumoured lover, Prince Aemond Targaryen, the young lord grieved, and the Riverlands burned.  Haelor Belaerys was known as the Dragonknight, he rode a yellow-scaled dragon named Umbra whose egg hatched when he was two name days old. Haelor was nine and ten and died a dragon rider's death.

Aemond "One-Eyed" Targaryen

son of King Viserys I Targaryen

rider of Vhagar

&

Haelor "The Dragonknight"  Belaerys

son of Rhaena Targaryen

rider of Umbra

[soon on ao3]

[horizon-verizon]

I don’t know if this is only my impression, but in my opinion, people started questioning Daemon’s status as a grey character only when HOTD worked very hard to villanize him (like having him straight up murder Rhea Royce while in the books he was still in the Stepstones and she very unambiguously had a riding accident).

Book!Daemon really is no worse than Jaime “I pushed a child out of the window and never once felt remorse over it and raped my sister in front of our dead son” or Oberyn “I beat women, drove them to suicide, steal their children and have sex with teenagers.” 

I remember that before HOTD started airing, show runners were bragging about how HOTD won’t have gratuitous violence against women the way GOT was accused of having. My immediate reaction was “press X to doubt” and I really hate being vindicated: Aemma being butchered, Alicent being an abused child bride, Daemon murdering his wife and then chocking Rhaenyra, Larys assaulting Alicent... and none of this was in the book. Like, what was the point outside of Condal and Sapochnik having this massive hate boner for Daemon ?

Jaime didn't rape Cersei in that scene canonically, but yes Daemon is that sort of man/character, this suave, charismatic, action-oriented, extremely loyal, highly martially skilled bulwark of his claimed group. This character doesn't really have to a be a down on his luck sort of "bad boy" (Oberon has had the best of luck really, he has very little to no family drama other than Elia's murder and Obara's mother, and it's really the first that is a tragedy against him form an external agent rather than Viserys befuddling Daemon or Tywin making his "love" for Jaime so obviously conditional).

Once again, Daemon and certainly none of the men we listed are good men nor feminists, and they all displayed misogyny or traumatize relatives that makes one want to grip their necks until they choke out. But we certainly didn't need to make up lies abt Daemon to make Rhaenyra seem better; why do women seem "better" only after they are abused & unable or don't choose to try to "punish" the man while they have the political chance to after all the examples of Targ women before her not having similar conditions but still always trying (sometimes succeeding) to push back or avenge themselves on a man (Rhaena-Rogar)?!

And again, this is a thing not to victim blame but to point out that it is a trend established in HotD for women to get even MORE and not-canon abuse form their male partners BEFORE we even get to Daemon choking Rhaenyra out, so we can safely assume this is how the writers are characterizing their female characters.

I think the point, therefore, is to sell through whitewashing, or really declawing feminism & reversing it through making/banking on the idea of "women-are-natural peacemakers/men are natural chaos makers and women need to keep men in check". Which still makes the value of women male-centered under the guise of infantilizing men, which makes men less accountable for their own actions. Daemon is one of the more brashly violent men and is a prime male character in this event AND he's a Targ, so there's also the element of Targ-antis being very popular in the fandom who Condal wishes to write the story toward (Targs are violent colonizers, yada, yada)...again for $ and a misunderstanding of feminism or a desire to show off how much he "gets it" and we are the ones who don't really.

Repackaged benevolent sexism to sell to the masses who don't really understand these concepts. Honestly, this show is insufferable marketing of a story with strong performances more than a story/"adaptation" of the original. And part of why he's maybe so insistent on making his "own" story from the story he still claims he is "faithfully" adapting is that apparently today's media industry has execs push for more sequels, prequels, etc. of things and writers who want to write original stuff can't and thus try to make adaptions "theirs" from that deprivation. Maybe Condal falls under this category, or maybe he simply is trying to capitalize on this consumerist nonsense. It it what it is.

[bananadrinkxxx]

THE BLOOD CROWN (22)

[Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character ! I fem!reader]

[Dark Romance / Enemies to Lovers / Revenge]

Content for adults. 18+

[warnings: smut, sex content, dark romance, angst, fights, domination, murder]

[description: Aemond Targaryen meets his niece under a different name and falls in love with her without knowing that she is supposed to be his enemy.]

Masterlist - click here for all available parts

116 AC.

T H I R T E E N - Y E A R S - A G O

KING'S LANDING

RED KEEP

Rhaenyra had only learned what true fear was when she held Jacaerys in her arms for the first time. The little creature had felt so fragile that she was afraid to make a wrong move. A quick movement that would rip this gift from her arms again. So pure, so innocent, so vulnerable. Rhaenyra had known that day that she would do anything for him. She had felt the same with each of the children that followed.

With Aemma, this feeling had been especially strong. Not because she meant more to her than the others, no, but because she knew how cruel the world was to women. Her brown eyes, with their extraordinary blue gleam, had looked at her expectantly, as if she expected more than could be offered. Rhaenyra had vowed that her daughter would never have to go through what she had, but it was difficult to rebel against the world of men when you were trapped in it.

"Aemma tells of strange figures in the fire," Rhaenyra began, seeing her father turn to her in surprise.

"Strange figures in the fire?" he furrowed his brow. He looked tired and sick.

Rhaenyra nodded and played nervously with her fingers. "At first I thought it was the playful mind of a child, but it happens to many times."

Viserys placed the stone dragon back on the table and looked at her intently.

"Very interesting. It sounds like Aemma is a dreamer."

Rhaenyra took a breath. "But she doesn't dream these things. She sees things in the fire."

Viserys rubbed his chin and leaned back in his chair. His movements were slow, as if each one pained him. Deep circles were under his eyes. His condition depressed Rhaenyra, put her in fear about the time that would come when she would be all alone in this world.

Laenor was by her side, but he was no help to her. Sometimes Rhaenyra thought he was her fourth child, a boy who never wanted to grow up. She stroked her round belly. Or her fifth.

Then there was Harwin Strong, the father of her children, who was never allowed to be what he really was. He would support her, he would die for her, but he would condemn them all to death if she ever openly showed what he meant to her.

"I really only know about our ancestors and their dragon dreams," Viserys admitted. "But in the diaries of Aenar Targaryen, the few we still have, in which he writes about his daughter Daenys and her abilities, he also talks about his younger sister seeing her own death in fire. It is said to have occurred in the same way. Maybe it was just a coincidence but probably that's why he didn't doubt his daughter's words."

Aenar Targaryen was the father of Daenys, the dreamer. She had foretold of the fall and destruction of Valyria, a prophecy that had come to pass twelve years later. Aenar had been wise enough to believe his daughter, and had fled with his family to Dragonstone. Aenar's rivals had seen their flight as weakness and cowardice, but while their families perished, Daenys had saved House Targaryen and Velaryon with her prophecy.

"Did Aemma say what she saw, then?" asked Viserys curiously, leaning forward slightly.

"Green dragon, bloody crown, black wolf, fire comes after blood," Aemma had kept repeating while staring into the fire. "Green dragon, bloody crown, black wolf, fire comes after blood."

She had no idea what her child had meant by this, but it had an unsettling effect on her. She had come here with the thought of asking her father for advice, but then she looked to his green coat and it reminded her that she was surrounded by enemies in her own home. He would tell Alicent about it without anything evil in mind, but Alicent was no longer the girl that Rhaenyra had trusted with her darkest secrets.

She shook her head. "She only talked about figures she sees."

Her father looked disappointed and nodded.

"Whatever Aemma's abilities are, you have to protect her, Rhaenyra," Viserys began, looking to the fire burning in the hearth beside them. "Protect her from any danger, protect her from herself."

Rhaenyra looked at her father in irritation. Protect Aemma? Her stomach clenched.

"Dragon dreams can be dangerous. More dangerous than our dragons," Viserys explained to her calmly, but his words worried her. "Many in our line have been dragonriders. Very few among us have been dreamers. What is the power of a dragon next to the power of prophecy?"

129 AC.

DRAGONSTONE

Despite the closed door, Rhaenyra heard Daemon going from one tantrum to the next, raving about what had happened last night. But Rhaenyra had other worries. She watched as the maesters tended to Rose, checking her for further injuries.

She watched her sleeping daughter. Exhaustion had made her close her eyelids again, although Rhaenyra would have liked to ask her a thousand questions. She had so many questions, but the most important thing was that her little girl was back. There was no doubt.

It still seemed like a dream to have her daughter lying in front of her.

Rhaenyra gently stroked her sleeping daughter's face and followed the maester out of her room as he finished the examinations.

"You look worried," Rhaenyra stated with a fast beating heart and Grand Maester Gerardys looked at the door. She felt nervous.

Gerardys nodded and pulled her aside, away from the guards and maids.

"Her injuries are minor in nature, my Queen. Worst of all is her exhaustion."

"But?" She heard in his voice that there was more. Gerardys looked at her seriously, his brow furrowing.

"The girl is expecting a child," he revealed, and Rhaenyra's eyes widened.

"She's pregnant?" she asked, "Are you sure?"

Gerardys nodded. "She hasn't been pregnant for very long, and I doubt she knows, but there's no doubt that new life is growing inside the girl."

Rhaenyra had to admit that she had expected everything, but not this. Daemon and Lucerys had told her about her relationship with Aemond. Daemon because he had seen it and Lucerys because he had suspected it, but she had hoped they were both wrong. 

What a bizarre idea that Aemma was pregnant by her uncle. The gods showed no mercy if it were true.

She'd have to find out whose child it was. 

Rhaenyra nodded gravely. "I wish that her pregnancy will not be discussed for the time being and that you keep silent about it."

Grand Master Gerardys nodded. "Of course, my Queen." If he was surprised, he didn't show any sign of it.

Should it turn out to be true that Aemond was the father, then Aemma would be in danger. She didn't know what relevance her daughter had for Aemond, but she knew her brother well enough to know that he would come for what was his.

. . . . . 

"You betrayed Mother," said Jacaerys, and Lucerys looked up. Six sat with Rhaena and Baela on the beach, staring at the sea as they had done when they were little children.

All of them hadn't found sleep since last night. Jacaerys looked at Marax, who had already been fed for the fifth time in the day. The wounded dragon ripped apart his prey, his anger was clearly felt.

Lucerys looked at him hurt, but Jacaerys had no pity. What he had done was wrong.

"Jacaerys," Baela hissed, but he ignored his fiancée.

"You freed her, even though Mother gave a different order."

"Her execution has been proposed. I had to help her."

"It wasn't your decision to make."

Lucery's hands were shaking. "She's our sister."

"Bullshit."

"The Queen called her 'Aemma,'" Rhaena said defensively, looking at Jacaerys. "I heard it, loud and clear."

Jacaerys shook his head. "That's not possible. They have no resemblance."

"Are you blind, brother? She looks like Aemma."

"She has dark hair and brown eyes. Surprise. Let me go to the village and I'll bring you five girls who look like Aemma."

"You think you're smart," Lucerys spat. "But you talk like a fool."

"She's dead! Aemma is dead," Jacaerys shouted and clenched his fists. He jumped up. He felt him tremble with anger. Why didn't anyone listen to him?  "She's no longer alive, that's just wishful thinking. That girl up there can't be our sister. The Greens are fake and sneaky. They know of our loss and try to destroy us from within. Why can't anyone see what I see?"

"Rose is Aemma, brother," Lucerys said desperately. "They have so many similarities. Please, you have to listen to me. Even mother thinks she is. Get to know her."

Jacaerys shook his head.

"No, she's a fraud."

"She never claimed to be Aemma," Lucerys defended the strange woman. "Why can't you believe what we believe? Our sister has returned."

It would be too good to be true. For a moment Jacaerys wanted to give in, but he had to keep his senses. He couldn't be fooled.

He looked at Baela, seeking help, but she only shook her head. Rhaena had lowered her gaze, and Lucerys looked at him defiantly. In the past, Lucerys would never have spoken to him like that, but since his imprisonment, he's been someone else. He didn't recognize his brother, and it was all his own fault. If he hadn't suggested Luke fly to Baratheon, he would have been spared all this.

Jacaery's heart ached at the thought that he had almost killed his brother. He wouldn't let a stranger ruin this family just because she happened to look like his beloved sister.

"She's Aemond's mistress, isn't she, Luke?"He saw Lucery's surprise. He looked to the side and Jacaerys breathed. "We can't trust her. You can't trust her. I won't let that happen."

Whoever she was, she wasn't Aemma.

Aemma was dead.

No matter how much his brother and his mother wished for their return, Jacaerys would not be able to deceive them.

He would protect his family. At all costs.

Without another word or giving the others a chance to reply, he turned around and stomped back into the castle.

He'd prove to everyone he was right.

RED KEEP

Aemond listened to his brother's cries.

He stood in the hallway, waiting for his mother, who was visiting her brother at that moment. When she came out of his room, she seemed distracted. She looked at him with sad eyes, desperate, but there was also anger in them.

"This is Rhaenyra's fault," she said, full of hatred and Aemond followed her. "He is hardly conscious anymore, and when he is, he only expresses pain. He's in so much pain, Aemond, it breaks my heart."

Her voice trembled. Aemond didn't know whether it was grief, pain or anger.

Aemond felt sorry for his brother. He had been so preoccupied with his own problems, with Rose's loss, that drove him insane.

"Everything that Rhaenyra touches falls apart," Alicent continued. She had never spoken more openly about her feelings for Rhaenyra than she does today. It reminded him of the night on Driftmark when Lucerys took his eye off him.

"We must take revenge, my boy."

Aemond looked at his mother in surprise. His mother had longed for peace, she had done everything to make sure nothing happened to his sister, the princess, even after the failed assassination of her grand children, she had kept calm, but now he saw her anger, her willingness to shed blood.

"This realm needs guidance and right now your brother is unable to fulfill that duty."

Aemond stopped and held back his mother. Did his mother mean what he was thinking?

"What do you want from me, Mother?"

Say it. Say it.

"Rule this kingdom while your brother is unable to do so. Become Prince Regent, Protector of the Realm. Protect your family."

Aemond didn't know what to feel. That's what he'd always wanted. He had always wished to sit on the iron throne and possess what he was supposed to have in place of Aegon, if the gods had been righteous.

He would not be a king, but he would possess the power of a king.

Satisfaction flowed through him. He'd finally be able to prove himself. He would eliminate his enemies, every single one of them.

"If I do what you ask, I won't be able to let Rhaenyra live. No one. Not her, or any of her children."

Alicent nodded, he saw sadness in her eyes, but her attitude showed determination.

She looked back to Aegon's room. 

"Do what you have to do. Kill our enemies. Anyone who's a threat to us. I want Rhaenyra to know what it's like to see your child suffer like this."

Taglist

@watercolorskyy @marvelescvpe @ammo23 @helaenaluvr @toodlesxcuddles

[arcielee]

Interview With a Writer

Thank you so much @aemondtarqaryens for starting off Volume 2 of my Interview With a Writer series! This is my ongoing series of the talented souls on Tumblr and ao3, and their brilliant writing!

If there is a story you are interest in, I am open to requests! Just make sure to check out my criteria for stories considered for this.

Name: aemondtarqaryens

Story: Precious Delights

Paring: Maegor Targaryen x niece!Reader

WARNINGS: See each chapter for individual, more precise warnings. Written with/for a female reader, but other than purple eyes, there‘s no mention of her appearance.

What inspired the plot for Precious Delights?

Oh God, truth be told? It started with a request I received for Maegor x Reader smut where she's heavily pregnant with his child. And I'm just a sucker for my big tiddy daddy and gave it a shot.

Once the original Precious Delights was posted, people commented under it, asking for a part 2 where the baby is born. The whole series just developed from there on and the rest is history.

I just loved their dynamic in the first part I posted (it's based on the bath scene between Aemma and Viserys, because it was just fitting and I liked that scene in the series) and felt captivated to give the few people interested what they wanted.

Explain your interpretation of Maegor? What drives him? Why is he the way he is in the story?

Charlie Hunnam is my faceclaim for Maegor because someone (I'm not dropping names cough cough @fairysluna cough) planted that seed into my mind. Most people fancast him as Aegon I, but to me, Henry Cavil makes a better Aegon I (you know, let's just cast Henry as every ASOIAF character lmfao).

I always had the relationship of Daemon and the young Rhaenyra we see in the show in my mind while writing this story. And we learn in Innate Desires that Maegor has lusted after his niece for quite some time, and even asked Aenys to give him her hand in marriage. He was denied, and searched his luck (or power) elsewhere, but failed with his wives dying without giving him an heir.

This is something that drives him, too. The need to provide an heir with his blood, that will take the Throne after him.

Canon!Maegor is one kind of a man, and while I find him intriguing, I firstly know that I could never do him justice and secondly, it just wouldn't have fit the story and it's overall development. Plus, having had a soft spot for his niece for so long, it's clear he's not always the brute he is towards her. He's softer, and allows her to catch some rare glimpses of his vulnerability as their relationship develops.

Was there anything in specific that inspired your Reader portrayal?

No, I feel like it‘s very self indulgent. Usually, the reader portrayals are matching their respective role (or I try to make it that way, at least) and with Targcest, I feel like you do have a bit more freedom to indulge. Just a freedom to be cheeky, or disobey certain rules.

Do you feel they eventually come to complement one another?

They complement each other. Maegor gives her something she‘s craved for so long, stability, family, attention, and Reader takes piece after piece of the brute out of him. Just like their children. They‘re not changing him completely, but they have a positive impact on him. She basically made the rogue brute soft and tender. 🤭

Will you add into their story?

Depends, if I really get another idea for this series maybe, but most likely not. It has found a good end, and everything else would be just dragging it out.

Do you want to share about another upcoming WIP? I know you finished celebrating a milestone for your blog (congratulations 💖).

Thank you!! I‘m currently working on the last two requests for my celebration, a one shot with Aemond and servant!Reader for a writing challenge I participated in, and a one shot of an American Horror Story x HOTD crossover where Aemond is the Antichrist.

Any chance we can have a snippet for Aemond!Antichrist? 👀

Easing your trembling legs, you hold onto the desk for support. It feels like an eternity when you crouch forward slightly to steady your uneven breathing, the moment only breaking as Aemond advances towards you, his body leaning against yours and pressing you up against the desk. It’s the only thing keeping you upright, and the moment you feel his hot breath caress your neck, your legs feel like they are about to give in. His thigh slips between yours, but you can’t feel his hands on your body, assuming he’s clasped them behind his back or keeps them at his sides. But you can tell that his chest isn’t the only firm thing that presses against your body. His cock is rock hard, clearly finding as much pleasure in the situation than you do, and all but strains against your lower back. He is so close, that’s all you’ve thought of for the past days, yet it’s not enough. You need his hands, him, to feel thoroughly satisfied. The urge to whine scratches in your throat, but you manage to swallow it at the last moment. “Beg for me to touch you,” he drawls, voice laced with a mixture of excitement and hunger. Exhaling a strained breath, you close your eyes. “P-Please,” you whimper, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Please… touch me. It’s been so long.” “Hm.” You hear it loud and clear, the amusement, the satisfaction, causing your skin to heat up. “That’s all you’ve got?”

[mypearlsareclutched]

We're Sinking Into The Sand

High By The Beach | Chapter Eleven

Modern!Aegon II x Original Female Character, Modern!Aemond x Original Female Character

After the chaos that was Viserys' funeral, Mila heads back to Old Town to help the Targaryen she loves. But it was Aemond who brought her and Aegon together, will it be him who tears them apart?

BTDubs this was where I was originally planning on ending the series but I had SO MUCH MORE TO SAY about Mila and the Targs and ole Creggie and the homies. So (as you can tell from the masterlist) there are a further six chapter coming after this mwah. Also I updated hella quick, huh? Who's proud of me <3

Song inspiration | High By The Beach, Lana Del Rey

CW//TW: Sexual Content (MDNI, 18+), smut, angst, joking at an inappropriate time Aegon style, Old Town and the beach house, drugs, mentions of addictions, HELLA angst at the end, British lingo, morning sex, passionate missionary yuh, consent is sexy, Aegon is OOC in that respect, enjoy the good vibes while they last because I'm here to hurt your feelings <\3

Word count | 5.2k

previous chapter // next chapter

It took almost a whole day to drive back to Old Town. Which was good time. She drove like a bat out of hell, never stopping. Except for traffic lights, because having the police on her ass was not in the cards. By the time she arrived to her destination, the sun was falling down in the sky once again.

Parking Laena's car in the driveway of the Old Town beach house, Mila breathes out a sigh she didn't realize she had been holding in her lungs since leaving the Targaryen home.

Just the sight of the house relieved tension inside her very bones, the smell of the sea air drifting through the open windows and the sound of seagulls flying high above all made her feel like a weight was lifted off of her shoulders.

Another car was parked beside the house, expensive looking and clearly the car Aegon had stolen from Viserys' garage. Mila walked past it to the house, holding the front door's handle with shaky hands.

The house is unlocked, the keys discarded on the table near the door, next to Aegon's alien sunglasses. He must be here.

"Aegon?" Mila calls out, stepping into the entryway.

The house is silent, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock against the far wall. No lights have been turned on, the room is shadowy and painted with strips of sunlight from the surrounding windows. A small sliver of darkness catches Mila's eye, and she crouches down to pick up a black tie.

A pair of sandy, black dress shoes lie a few feet away, the discarded garments leading a bread crumb trail right to the bedroom. Mila stands, walking to the door in search of the MIA Targaryen. A relieved sigh leaves her when she sees him.

He's lying on the bed, legs splayed out over the edge and eyes closed. His black suit from the funeral is still in tact, save for the tie and his shoes.

"Hey-"

"Seven hells!" Aegon exclaims, sitting up. His wide eyes blink at her, before he exhales out a laugh, "Jesus, Em, you scared the shit out of me."

Mila laughs as she shakes her head, her own spirits lifting as she looks at his smiling face, a much prefered alternative to the grimace he wore during his father's funeral.

"So, you took a page out of my book and fled the Targaryen prison?" He asks, standing up.

"Yeah, and Otto is going to drag you by your short and curlies right back there." Mila shakes her head, smoothing her hands over the crinkled black dress she still wore.

"Let him try." Aegon chuckles, "I can disappear if I want to."

He wraps his arm around her waist, pressing his lips to hers in a passionate yet gentle kiss. Mila sinks into it, letting out a please hum as he licks along her lower lip.

The kiss grows heated, and Aegon's hands are quick to wrap around her and pick her up, spinning her around to deposit her on the bed. Mila's legs open automatically to welcome him in, his weight a comforting presence against her sore body. Soft hands run through her hair, over her thighs. Chapped lips run along her neck.

Aemond's hands... Aemond's mouth...

"Baby, stop." Mila says softly, guilt wracking her body as she pushes him away gently. Aegon's face falls, but not from disappointment. Concern is evident on his cherubic features, his hands leaving her as he sits up and looks at her worriedly.

"What's wrong? We don't have to if you don't want to-"

"I fucked Aemond." Mila bites out, closing her eyes.

Aegon is silent, and her stomach drops. He blinks at her, and she can see his mind processing what she just said.

"Oh." He says, voice soft and robotic.

"Aegon-"

"Okay."

"What?"

"I said okay." He shrugs, lying back down on the bed, "That's fine, it's your body, babe."

"Aeg-"

"I don't want to talk about it." Aegon sighs, one hand coming to cover his eyes, as his other hand takes hers. Mila looks down at their clasped fingers, squeezing his hand.

"I'm so sorry."

"Hey, shh." He sits up, eyes once again soft and face warm again, taking her hands in his, "I'm not mad at you, baby. I would never be. This shit is complicated. I just... don't want to hear the details. It'll make me want to cut open my stomach and pull out all my internal organs.

"I wouldn't tell you." She smiles weakly, reaching a hand up to move a stray strand of his hair out of his eyes, "It meant nothing, really. It was just... a moment of weakness. I got too caught up in who I wanted him to be, instead of who he really is. I want you, for who you really are."

Aegon smiles sadly, "If you saw me for who I really am, you would run for the hills."

"Maybe I'll surprise you."

"All you do is surprise me." Aegon laughs, nosing at her hand as it fiddles with his shoulder-length hair, "Wherever you were yesterday doesn't matter to me. I'm just glad you're here now, with me. I really do love you, Em. So much."

"I love you, too." Mila reaches a hand up and cups his cheek, his face leaning in to hers, "Otto is still going to come for you."

Aegon is silent, his head lifting so he can look over at the ocean through the window panes. The sun has begun to set, casting the bedroom in a hue of blush pink and burnt orange. A far away look forms in Aegon's blue eyes, a small crinkle appearing between his pale brows as he thinks.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" Mila asks, prodding his temple playfully.

Aegon sighs, looking at her, "Suicide pact?"

"Aegon."

"So that's a firm 'no' on the suicide pact?"

"I need you to take this seriously." Mila says, taking his chin in between her thumb and forefinger.

"I am." Aegon says as smiles, taking her hands in his, "I'm taking this seriously."

"This?" Mila laughs, confused.

"This. You and me. This. Us." Aegon smiles, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

"Us?"

"Us."

The next morning, as the sun rose over Old Town, Mila woke up encased in the warm arms of Aegon Targaryen.

She slept like the dead, immediately falling into the land of dreams after Aegon had helped her get out of her dress. He grimaced at it, throwing it in the bin, waving away Mila's complaints.

"You look better in the crappy clothes we got from big Tesco anyway." He grins, tossing her an oversized shirt with the words 'Straight Outta Old Town' written on the back. She rolled her eyes with a smile of her own as she put it on, laughing at Aegon's ogling as he removed his own clothes and threw on some joggers.

The second her head hit the pillow, and Aegon wrapped around her from behind, Mila was out like a light.

When the sun rose, she never wanted to leave this room again.

Aegon murmurs sleepily behind her, offering a quiet 'good morning' when he realises she is awake. Mila hums back, turning around in his arms. He gives her a dopey grin, eyes barely open. She returns his smile, reaching her hand up to trace along his face from his eyebrow, down his nose, and across his jaw. When Mila's fingers dance across the skin of his lips, Aegon purses his lips to kiss her finger tips.

She leans in for a kiss first, and he meets her halfway. Their lips meet in a loving dance, noses brushing and hands grasping onto whatever was in reach.

In an instant, Aegon rolls on top of her, kissing her feverishly as he covers Mila's body with his own. Her thighs open for him to lie in between them, flushes skin pressing against one another.

"Is this okay?" Aegon asks softly, desperate to feel more of her but unwilling to go beyond her boundaries.

"More than okay." Mila affirms, leaning up to kiss him again. He groans against her lips, his hands continuing their exploration as his hips buck against her one.

The hot tip of him presses against her wetness, and they gasp into each other's mouths. Aegon shifts forward, slowly fucking into her as she mewls against him, throwing her head back at his familiar, euphoric size.

"That's it, baby." Aegon murmurs, pressing his face into her neck as he begins thrusting into her sensually, dragging his hips back and forward in slow, loving strokes, "Fuck... feels so good."

"Aegon..." Mila moans out, running her hands over his hair and kissing his temple, "I love you."

"I love you too... so much..." His words trail off as his speed increases, fucking her in earnest. The sound of Mila's breathy whines and Aegon's grunts fill the room, mixed with the sounds of skin meeting skin.

Mila's orgasm creeps up on her, making her body jolt as a loud moan leaves her parted lips. Feeling her tighten around him, Aegon speeds up, breathing out curses and praises.

"You feel so good, baby, fuck!" He grits out around clenched teeth, grabbing the back of her knees to press her thighs to her chest, opening her wider. Mila gasps as he fucks her harder, hips pistoning into her with passion yet great care. Her peak subsides, and her body trembles with overstimulation.

"Aegon, fuck... 's too much..." Her eyes roll back, her hands weakly gripping onto the sheets below her and the pale, soft skin of Aegon's thigh.

"Doing so well for me, doll. Making me feel so fucking good. I can feel you getting tighter, wanna feel you cum again. You can give me another, right baby?"

"M-hm!" Mila bites her lip, words leaving her as Aegon angles his

"Right there? That feel good? Fuck, look at you." He praises, his eyes trained on her writhing body below him, "Come on, baby, need to feel you cum again. Please, baby."

"Aegon, fuck!" Mila shrieks, shaking uncontrollably as her legs tighten, her cunt gushing around him as he pushes her over the edge again.

The feeling sends Aegon over the edge, his pace faltering until he shudders and thrusts into her as far as he can go, painting her walls with his spend. Eyes rolled back, Aegon mumbles praises and promises and recites Mila's name like a prayer as his cock throbs, releasing all he has into her soft heat.

The Stark below him feels boneless and content, her knees still pressed to her chest and her cunt still full of Aegon's softening cock, her walls trying to push him out as she moans softly in overstimulation.

When he finally pulls out, both of their releases leak out of her, making Aegon groan at the sight, "Fucking beautiful."

Mila smiles sleepily, eyes blurry. She winces when she stretches her legs out, her hips and thighs burning.

"I'll be right back, Em." Aegon says softly, kissing her knee before rising off of the bed.

As hus weight disappears, Mila whines as she waves her hand to try to stop him. His tired chuckle makes her heart flutter, and after a minute he returns. A cold rag presses against her inner thighs, cleaning the mess they had made. Aegon's hands are gentle as he soothes her aching muscles, pressing kisses against her flushed skin.

"Sit up, baby." Aegon softly orders, and Mila rises slowly onto her elbows. The cold feeling glass presses against her lips, and she swallows down the offered water.

Satisfied that she's clean and hydrated, Aegon kisses her forehead before getting up again, putting the empty glass and soiled rag in the adjoining bathroom.

"I'm going to have one hell of a time trying to walk later." Mila smiles, dazed. Her eyes follow Aegon as he enters the room again.

"Oh, so you think you're leaving this room?" Aegon asks with a mischievous grin, diving back into the bed atop a laughing Mila.

The next day, Aegon drags her along an unfamiliar street. It's old, all ancient cobblestone walkways and winding alleys covered in ivy.

"Woah, Aeg, chill." Mila finds herself laughing, gripping onto Aegon's hand as he pulls her along like an overexcited puppy.

"Come on, we're almost there!" Aegon says, a beaming smile across his face.

Mila had never been to Honeyholt before. She had woken up this morning to Aegon laying on top of her, his chin against her sternum as he watched her sleep.

"Creep." Mila murmurs, a smile on her lips. Aegon huffs, rolling his eyes with his own cheeky grin as he presses a kiss to her collarbone and stands up.

"Come on, lazy, we've got things to do."

"Lazy? You're the one who twisted me up like a pretzel from dawn to dusk yesterday, no wonder I'm tired." Mila laughs, exasperated as she fluffs up her pillow and gets cozy again, "Also, what things? I don't know if I have the energy to do that last thing we did again."

"As much fun as that was, no. We have more fun things to do." He says as he pulls on his jeans, searching the room for a clean shirt.

"What's more fun than a sixty-nine bridge?"

"If you want the answer to that age old question, you should get your perky ass out of bed." Aegon wiggles his eyebrows as he tosses her a shirt.

Honeyholt was beautiful. Cultural, historic, full of tiny shops and homes. They pass smiling faces around every corner, including a flock of old ladies who chuckle as Aegon drags Mila down the street towards the unknown location.

Out of breath from running and laughing, Mila is grateful for when Aegon halts with an enthusiastic, 'Ah!'

She tosses her windswept curls over her shoulder as she watches Aegon walk into an old shop, dusty and seemingly disused. When he realises she is not following him, he pops his head out the doorway.

"Come on, then!" He calls, beckoning her forwards.

Mila laughs as she follows him in, her jaw dropping when she gets a good look at the place.

It had long been abandoned, cobwebs and dust covering most surfaces and furniture. But underneath the years of misuse, was a work of art. Antique chairs and tables dotted around, dark wooden floors covered in floral rugs. The wallpaper was peeling, and some mould had begun to grow, but the dark coloured spirals of the painted paper remained vivid. Along the back wall were ancient bookcases, and dirty chandeliers were hung from the ceiling.

Aegon bounces around the room, picking up fallen chairs in his wake before he leans against a fireplace across the room, looking at her for her reaction.

"What is this place?" Mila asks in awe, eyes wide with wonder as she walks around the small yet beautiful shop.

"It's just some old litt place. It was like a cafe or something until the lady who runs it, you know, bit the dust."

Mila rolls her eyes at his candidness, running her fingers along the dusty bookshelves that lined the far wall, "It's beautiful here."

"And cheap, too." Aegon comments, walking over to her to wrap his arms around her waist from behind, "The old owners son wants to get rid of it so the price is beyond reasonable."

"You're thinking of running a cafe? Aw, will you wear a frilly little apron while you're at it? You'll look so cute." Mila jokes, turning around in his embrace to kiss along his jaw.

Aegon rolls his eyes, but his smile never falters, "It doesn't have to be a cafe, dumbass. It could be anything we want once we buy it."

Mila stops, looking up at him with wide eyes, "Once we what?"

"Buy it." He says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm thinking bookshop in the front, tattoo parlour in the back. Our own little haven."

"That's absolutely crazy." Mila laughs, wrapping her arms around his neck, "You're crazy."

"You love it." Aegon smiles as he leans in to kiss her.

"I love you, you crazy Targaryen."

They stayed like that for a while, standing in the cramped and dirtied room of a shop that promised a future for them both.

They had stopped off to get petrol on the way back from Honeyholt, when Aegon's phone began to ring.

Mila was paying inside the station, chatting idly to the woman behind the counter. Leaning against the car, Aegon watches her with a small smile, studying the movement of her lips as she spoke, and they way her eyes lit up when she laughed.

His phone ringing caught him off guard. Looking around, he noticed it lying in the back seat where he had flung it over his shoulder on the way here the night of Viserys' funeral. Helaena had given it back to him, chastising him ever so gently for leaving Weirwood without any of his belongings.

Grabbing it, he looks down at the caller ID, a groan escaping him as he rolls his eyes at the name.

"Piss off." He sighs into the phone.

"Hello to you to." Aemond scoffs, voice already sounding annoyed, "Is she there?"

"Who?"

"Hilarious. My fucking girlfriend."

"Which girlfriend? The hot one, or the dinosaur? Oh, wait, the hot one abandoned you after pity fucking you and came back to me."

"...So she is there."

"...No."

"Aegon." Aemond sighs, his rings knocking together as he seemingly runs a hand over his face, "Stop being childish for five minutes, and listen to me."

The older brother laughs, "Listen to you? What could you possibly say to me right now that won't make me hurl this phone into the sea?"

"What did you buy?"

"Should have bought condoms the way this is going." Aegon chuckles, eyes flicking to Mila once again.

"No, Aegon." Aemond's voice takes a dangerous tone, "What did you buy? On your way back to Old Town."

Aegon's blood runs cold, ice water in his veins. He swallows, turning around, as if looking in Mila's direction suddenly hurt to do, "How the fuck did you know?"

"You forget that I've known you all my life, and how you operate as a scumbag junkie for almost two decades." Aemond laughs cruelly, the sound prickling Aegon's eardrums like needles.

"I haven't done anything." He emphasises, "I wasn't going to-"

"Yes you were. If Mila hadn't turned up when she did you would already be stoned beyond human capabilities, possibly even dead. Now, wouldn't that be a shame."

"What the fuck do you want, Aemond?!"

"For you to end things with her."

"Then you are out of your goddamn mind." Aegon bites, knuckles going white around the phone as he grips onto it, "I won't. You can't make me."

"I'm not going to make you, Aegon." His brother chuckles humorlessly, "You've proved time and time again that you won't listen to a single thing we ask of you, even when we try to help you. But it's not you I want to help, not now."

"What the fuck do you mean by that?"

"I mean, Mila should not be around a bad influence like you, Aegon. She's a recovering addict. She's unstable, and delicate right now. And she's going to relapse if she's around you."

"She won't-"

"But she will. Because you will." Aemond explains, simply as if he were educating a child, "You've been down this road far too many times, brother. You will go back to your vices the second things get too hard. Mila stopped you from getting high this time, but at some point, the thrill of being with her will wear off for you. As it always does."

"She's different."

"Oh they were all different to you!" Yells Aemond, startling Aegon into docile silence, "It's all different until it's mundane. Until you get used to those feelings she inspires within you. Then you'll go back to drinking, or to snorting, or injecting, until it's fucking. It'll be all of those and she won't be able to handle it, Aegon. She will relapse."

Aegon flinches, his hands twitching as he takes a shuddered breath, feeling his heart crack at the thought, "I wouldn't do that to her."

"You wouldn't try to, Aegon." Aemond says, his voice softer now, "But you can't protect her from yourself."

It's silent. Aegon swallows this information like a bitter pill. It leaves an aftertaste like bile in his dry mouth, his heart beating like the hooves of a racehorse and his stomach twisting into knots.

Because he's right, a voice whispers inside his head. You are beyond saving. No matter how many times you try, you always go back to your wicked ways. Can you live with yourself? When you poison her, like a spec of black dye in a basin full of crystal clear water? You will ruin her, because that is what you always do.

It is almost like Aegon can hear Aemond reeling back for the final punch, his brother's voice like a siren's when he states...

"Mila deserves better than you."

A blow to the gut, because it is true. Aegon knew it from the second he met her, from the second he saw her smile and heard her laugh. She was good and she was kind and Aegon will kill her.

"Rot in all of the seven hells, brother." Aegon bites out, ending the call. He takes a shaky breath, blinking away tears he hadn't realised had formed. He throws his phone as far as he can, watching it flicker with light reflected by the sun before it disappears into the long grass.

Turning in place, he watches as Mila waves goodbye to the shop clerk, smiling to herself as she walks out the station and heads his way.

If only he felt the contentment she feels. But all he feels is sick.

Mila knew something was wrong the second they got in the car. Aegon wouldn't respond to anything she said, except a few hums and one-worded answers. His smile had vanished, the light in his eyes dimmed.

It broke her heart, because she had no idea what could have caused it.

When they finally got to the beach house, Aegon disappeared inside, walking on autopilot like a ghost. Mila watched him with wary eyes, biting the skin around her gnarled thumb nail.

Inside, he was nowhere to be seen. The taunting ticking of the grandfather clock was the only noise that greeted her, and she glared at it as she walked past, heading towards the bedroom.

Aegon was standing beside the bed, looking down at the rumpled sheets with a frown.

"Aeg?" Mila says softly, standing in the doorway. The room felt cold, the beginnings of winter making the overall temperature drop, but an icy chill surrounded Aegon.

"You need to go." He says, voice quiet.

Mila freezes, staring at him with furrowed brows, "Huh?"

He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face, groaning against his palms.

"I need you to go. You can't be here anymore." With a shrug, he finally looks at her, face emotionless and eyes stony.

Standing before her, was the Aegon she never met. Something in him had changed, switched gears inside his head. His entire aura became somber, uninspired... broken.

Looking into his dulled eyes, Mila took a step forwards. But he took a step back, working his jaw as he flexed and unflexed his hands beside him.

"Aegon... I don't understand what you're saying." Mila pleads, hoping to the old gods and the new that he's not saying what he .

"We can't be together." He shrugs, "Aemond was right. I'm going to fall back into old patterns, and when that happens, it's going to fuck you up. Worse than Aemond did. I'm not good for you."

"It was Aemond on the phone wasn't it?" Mila chokes on a bitter laugh, looking up to the ceiling as she runs her hands through her hair, "I saw you talking on the phone. Aegon, baby, please, let's just talk this through."

"You're wasted on me." He mutters to himself, "You should get out while you still can, before I make you worse."

"All you've done is make me better, Aeg." Mila insists as she takes another step closer to him.

Hearing her insistence, Aegon stares off into the distance, his face hardening while his eyes remain shining with unshed tears.

"Quick question." Aegon says, his voice turning cruelly playful, "Did Aemond tell you to come here when he was balls deep inside you or was it kind of like a pillow talk conversation afterwards?"

Shocked by his impersonal voice and crude statement, Mila is take aback, a shiver running down her spine, "Aegon-"

"No, no, don't answer that." Aegon waves his hands, "I'm sure it doesn't matter."

"It's different with you. All of it is different. What I have with you is so much realer than what I ever had with him."

Aegon scoffs.

"Aegon, I want this. I want us. We can do this."

"We can't." Aegon chuckles, "Because Aemond was right. At the end of the day, you're going to go back to him and I'm going to go back to all of the other shit."

"No, you're not, Aegon. You're not-"

"Will you stick by me?" Aegon asks, his voice taking a taunting tone, "When I come home drunk or high or smelling like some other pussy would you just sit back and forgive me?"

"You're not going to do that, you're doing so much better, you wouldn't-"

"No? I wouldn't? What's this then?" Aegon stomps over to the bedside table, opening the drawer hard enough to send it clattering to the floor. Various items scatter against the faded carpet, but one item in particular makes Mila's heart stop.

A ziplock bag full of various coloured pills and powder filled baggies, "You didn't...."

"Oh yes I did, baby. Stopped round an old buddies house the night after the funeral. Got all the best flavours here; LSD, ket, some molly too, I know you love that... ooh, and some crystal, didn't even realise that was in there-!"

"Stop it." Mila says, trying to keep her voice level though it shakes.

"Ah, come on, baby. Let's have a little fun, eh?" He taunts, shaking the bag in her face, "We both know I will, so are you just going to sit pretty and watch me?"

"Why are you being like this?" Mila yells, frustration building as she watches the man she's loved turn into the nightmarish, fictitious man Aemond warned her about.

"So boring." Aegon groans dramatically, flinging the bag away across the room, "I'll go back to one of my addictions, doll, so pick one. Maybe you would prefer it if I did what my brother did, hm? What if I found myself my own Alys Rivers? Some hot, older lady that I can stick my dick into every time I get sick of you. Maybe I was too quick to judge my dear brother. If I had you on my ass every second of every day I'm sure I would also be dying for some other cunt-"

Aegon is silenced as his head whips to the side, Mila's palm stings as it lingers in the air.

She slapped him. She can't believe it for a second, too shocked

Mila stumbles back, cradling her hand to her chest as sobs wrack her body.

He watches her, cheek slightly red from where her hand struck him, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"You're right, Aegon." Mila sobs, "We can't be together."

Though she fully intended to drive away, Mila sat in Laena's car, suddenly struck with an uncertainty of where she would go.

Her apartment in Kings Landing was stained with memories of Aemond, every item of furniture lines with scars where he once sat, stood, lay. Mila used to think fondly about how his cologne could be smelt in the air, on her blankets and on her couch cushions, but now the thought of smelling his scent turned her stomach.

It no longer felt like the comforting aroma of the man she loved, but the scent of a man who claimed her, used her, broke her.

She could go to Cregan's. Or Baela's, or back to Dragonstone where Rhaenyra would always wait with open arms.

But the beauty of Old Town boiled down to its distance. The distance from King's Landing and all the sordid experiences Mila had there that haunted her past. The parties, the clubs, the bars. The drinks, the drugs, the men, the women, the people whose genders mattered not to her in the moments where their lips touched. All the nights spent drifting from reality with magic in her veins, the mornings crashing back down to the real world in fits of sweating and throwing up the contents of her stomach.

The year where she made new memories no longer wrapped in a drunken haze, were ones she made by Aemond Targaryen's side.

Mila could not go back to King's Landing, because the ghosts will be waiting for her.

But she could go to another haunted place.

Pulling out the pay-as-you-go phone, she dialed Baela's number. The sound of her best friend's soft voice greeting her made her feverish skin cool a bit, "Hi, gorgeous. Are you okay? Mom told me you borrowed her car and left the city."

"Yeah, I needed to get away, needed to talk to Aegon." Mila says, her voice thick with her tears.

She can hear Baela sit up straight in her chair, her voice taking a concerned lilt, "Mila? What's wrong? Talk to me."

"It doesn't matter." Sighs the Stark girl, "I'm going home."

"Okay, babe. Do you want me to set up my sofa so you can sleep on it?"

"No, Bae. I'm going home."

It's silent on the other end for a moment, seagulls caw in the near distance, and another tea tracks a warm trail down Mila's face.

"Holy shit... really?" Baela asks in a soft voice.

"Yeah." Mila sniffs, wiping her nose on her sleeve. The sun looms behind the beach house, casting the patio and driveway in shadows. Within the darkened windows, the shadow of Aegon watches from behind the sheer curtains.

"I'm going back to Winterfell."

AN// nOW LISTEN PUT THE GUN DOWN I CAN EXPLAIN. Don't hurt me for making Emiliaegon fight :( we are all children of divorce. TRUST things will get better. The sadder the angst, the sweeter the subsequent fluff <3

Lula x

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

The Colour of Blood

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x original female character (Sylva Martell) Warnings: Canon typical sexism. Canon typical violence. Enemies to lovers. Smut. Word count: ~5.3k

Summary: Unity between Dorne and the realm is long overdue. While Qoren Martell is not prepared to yield his beloved country to the rule of the Targaryens, he is willing to compromise with peace. In exchange for Daeron being sent to live as a ward of House Martell, Qoren surrenders his youngest daughter, Sylva, to House Targaryen. Peace, however, is the furthest thing from Sylva's mind. Based on this request.

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

“Go to King’s Landing and make me proud.”

The words of her father repeat over and over again in Sylva’s mind as her carriage and the accompanying entourage make the long journey from one capital city to another. She already misses Sunspear, the air grows colder the further north they travel. The gooseflesh prickling the tawny flesh of her arms serves only to stoke the anger that has been simmering inside of her ever since her father broke the news that she is to be a ward of House Targaryen.

Since the Dornishmen helped the Triarchy to beat back the realm’s defenses in the war for the Stepstones, King Viserys has been desperately trying to unite Dorne with the rest of Westeros. Sylva knows her father will never bend the knee; Qoren Martell is too proud, but she is less than pleased with the compromise that has been struck.

A bid for peace between the two kingdoms has been proposed. Prince Daeron Targaryen is to travel to Sunspear to be hosted by her family, and in exchange Sylva will be housed under the roof of the Targaryens. A prince for a princess. Sylva hates it. She knows being the fourth and youngest child puts her in a tricky predicament. Aliandra is set to inherit her father’s position as ruler of Dorne once he passes, while Qyle and Coryanne are in the midst of being partnered with highborn suitors. She has never felt more like a spare part, something disposable to be traded like livestock in her father’s politicking.

Sylva blinks back her tears, hardens her heart and allows her fury to consume her. She decides she hates King’s Landing the moment she steps out of the carriage. She wrinkles her nose at the unfamiliar smells and shivers at the chill she feels in the air. The people are pale faced and ugly, their manner of dress looks frumpy and uncomfortable. Her heart aches for home, she wonders when she will see it again, if she will see it again.

As she is guided around the Red Keep she is startled by the lack of imagery of R'hllor. It appears to her that everyone here follows the faith of The Seven, the lack of reverence towards the Lord of Light makes her uneasy. She is shown to her quarters and immediately struck by how dull and grey everything seems, she longs for the vibrant hues of the tapestries and furnishings of Sunspear. All of the colour has been sucked out of the world here.

She is grateful, however, for the furs she finds tucked away in the armoire of her bedchamber. She keeps one clutched tightly around her shoulders throughout the welcome feast that’s held in her honour that evening.

“Are you not too warm in that, dear?” Alicent leans across, brown eyes filled with concern as she touches Sylva gently on the arm.

Sylva does her best to bite back her resentment, Alicent has been nothing but kind to her since she arrived and none of this is her fault, yet she cannot help her sullen tone as she responds. “No, I find it rather cold here, compared to home.”

Alicent nods in understanding, retreating back into her own space and continuing her meal.

The food is bland and tasteless in Sylva’s mouth. The spice of snake sauce, mustard seeds and dragon peppers are alarmingly absent on her tongue. She picks at the food on her plate, unsure of how she will struggle through it.

She is broken out of her train of thought when she feels the hot sourness of wine upon someone’s breath fill her nostrils. She turns to see the Queen’s eldest son, Aegon, leering at her.

“You know,” He slurs. “If you are cold, I have ways of warming you up.” He winks, raising his wine cup to her before taking a long drink.

She grimaces, turning away as he titters beside her.

“Oh come now, I was jesting. I thought your people were supposed to be promiscuous.”

“Enough.” Alicent warns him sternly. “Go back to your seat, or I will have Ser Criston return you to your quarters.”

Aegon huffs, obviously deflated, and slumps down into his chair.

When Sylva looks up she notices the single eyed gaze of Alicent’s second son, Aemond, upon her. It is intense and unblinking. She expects him to avert his eye, embarrassed to have been caught staring, but he continues, his expression passive and unreadable.

She is overwhelmed by the sense that if she looks away then somehow she will lose in this exchange, and so her dark eyes lock with his blue one, until Otto announces that it is time they all retire for the evening, and they shift their focus away from each other.

Sylva is glad that the day is finally at its end. She is exhausted from her travels and utterly miserable. She is unsure of how she will ever get used to it here.

As her hand reaches for the handle to the door to her bedchamber, she feels a presence lingering behind her. She turns to see Aemond hovering behind her, stoic and unreadable as he has been all evening.

She is about to ask him what he’s doing when he speaks. They are the first words she’s heard come out of his mouth since she arrived and she is surprised by the softness of his voice, a contradiction of how intimidating he appears.

“I wanted to apologise for how my brother spoke to you earlier.”

Sylva nods, giving him a tight lipped smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “It is fine. I have heard worse.”

“I’m sure you have.” He says smoothly, keeping his arms clasped firmly behind him. Sylva wonders if perhaps there is a rod of sorts inserted down the back of his tunic, such is the rigidity of his stance. “But now you are here you will learn what it is to be a proper lady.”

“What do you mean by that?” She asks, as her eyes narrow with a combination of confusion and mild irritation at the direction this interaction is taking.

Aemond tilts his head as though thinking carefully about his response. “There is a certain depravity that is common among your people. You’ll learn what it is to be civilised here.”

The anger that has been simmering inside of her all day finally reaches its boiling point. “My people?! Isn’t it your people that marry off brothers and sisters?! I would rather hail from a land that celebrates depravity, as you like to call it, than one that operates under the illusion of propriety while brothers and sisters fuck behind closed doors!”

It is the first time she sees any visible trace of emotion on his face as his eye widens, he opens his mouth to speak but she holds up a hand, cutting him off. “I have heard enough from you. Have the evening that you deserve.”

She storms in her chambers, slamming the door heavily behind her. Her sleep is fitful that night, her surroundings too unfamiliar for her to ever drift off properly.

The next morning when she awakens, she is saddened not to be greeted by bright sunshine when she looks out of the window. The sky is overcast and bleak looking, a sight she is not used to. As her eyes scan the surrounding area of the Keep, she notices a group of men sparring and for the first time since she arrived in King’s Landing, Sylva feels excited.

Her father had trained all of his children in the use of a sword, ensuring they were all proficient fighters. It was one of the things she enjoyed most in the world. Wielding a weapon made her feel powerful.

Hurriedly, she braids her long, dark hair and dresses in breeches and a loose fitting shirt over her underclothes, before pulling on boots and rushing her way out of the castle, towards the training yard. She approaches the man she assumes to be in charge; a Knight that Alicent had introduced her to as Ser Criston Cole. He stands watching the fighting while delivering instructions.

He bows his head when he sees her. “Good morrow, Princess. Have you come to watch?”

“I’ve come to join. Where may I find a sword?”

His eyebrows raise as his mouth parts in shock. “Princess, ladies cannot join. You could get hurt.”

Sylva rolls her eyes at this. “In Dorne, women fight alongside men. There is a higher likelihood of me hurting someone than the other way around.” She folds her arms, looking at Criston indignantly.

“I’m not going to be able to change your mind, am I?” He says with a sigh.

“No.” Comes her flat response.

“Very well. If you can find something that fits, there’s light armour and blades over there.” He points to a shed on the other side of the yard.

Sylva nods and goes to retrieve what she needs. When she steps out she is immediately met by the sight of Aemond. He visibly bristles when he sees her.

“Cole! Surely you are not allowing her to spar? She is a woman!”

“The Princess insisted, Aemond. Who am I to deny her?” The Knight responds with a perplexed shrug.

“Well, I’m not sparring with her.” He says indignantly.

Sylva laughs, though it is mocking and without any genuine mirth. “Why? Afraid you’ll lose?”

“A fight against a woman would be little challenge.” Aemond says haughtily.

“Prove it.” She counters. “Unless you really are scared?”

Aemond’s nostrils flare as he exhales with irritation. “Fine.”

He raises his weapon, and widens his stance. Sylva does the same.

Aemond swings at her, always ensuring to keep her clear of his blind side; he is quick, but not quick enough for her.

Sylva laughs as Aemond's eye widens in surprise as she rounds on him with her sword, beating him backwards.

"No wonder your uncle lost so spectacularly to my father if this is how you Targaryens fight." She hisses.

Aemond's nostrils flare again, a noise low in his throat rumbles, indicative of anger. "I am not my uncle!" He seethes, charging at her.

She blocks his attack with her shield, discarding the now useless wood as it splinters beneath his blade. The impact causes Aemond to stumble back a little and Sylva seizes the opportunity to square up to him in his vulnerable position, the tip of her sword mere inches from touching his throat.

"Well met, Princess." Criston calls from across the training yard, signalling the end of her and Aemond's sparring.

"That isn't fair!" Aemond calls out to him. "She didn't best me, I tripped!"

"You didn't trip, you lost." She smirks, bumping his shoulder with hers as she moves past him towards the training yard shed to discard her light armour.

She hears Aemond enter behind her a few moments later and begin to remove his own. Feeling his gaze upon her now she is just in her undershirt, she turns to face him, eyes narrowed.

"What are you staring at?"

Aemond huffs, facing away. "Nothing. Merely surprised there isn't the body of a man hidden beneath your armour."

She scowls, snatching up her clothes and moving to leave, she will dress in her quarters she decides. She pauses as she reaches the door, casting a look at Aemond as he stands in a similar state of undress.

"I am surprised to see there is the waist of a woman hidden beneath yours."

As she bathes in preparation for dinner that evening, she casts her mind back to how Aemond had looked at her earlier. She smiles at the thought, knowing she had clearly flustered him. She wishes to rile him further.

Braving the chill she feels in the air, she opts to leave her fur behind when she heads down for the evening meal. Her long, flowing silk gown cuts in at the waist and leaves her shoulders bare. It is a style that is common in Dorne, but Sylva knows it would be considered entirely inappropriate in King’s Landing. The only reaction she cares about though is Aemond’s.

She sweeps into the dining hall, her raven tresses loose around her shoulders, as the skirt of her dress billows behind her. She smirks, feeling all eyes upon her as she takes her seat.

“It is good to see you aren’t feeling the cold so much today.” Alicent offers with a tight smile.

“Yes, I worked up quite a sweat beating Aemond in the training yard earlier.”

She turns from Alicent to him, catching the way his eye flashes up from her chest towards her face, the faintest tint of pink in his cheeks.

The dress was clearly having its desired effect. Good.

He clears his throat, turning his attention to his plate, ignoring his mother’s questioning stare. The rest of the meal passes in silence, though every time she glances towards Aemond, his eye is fixed upon her. He doesn’t dare to entertain the notion of yesterday’s staring contest, this time whenever she catches him he looks away.

Sylva goes to bed that evening with the smug satisfaction of knowing she has bested a Targaryen Prince twice that day.

Disappointed to see the training yard empty from her window the next morning, she decides to explore the Red Keep. She remembers little from the brief tour she was given on her day of arrival, her mood was too sullen to listen properly.

Her fingertips trail along the cool stone of the corridor walls as she wanders, until eventually she finds a set of large oaken doors. She pushes one open, slipping through to be met by the sight of floor to ceiling rows of books. She studies the titles on each of the spines, awed by the sheer number of tomes a single room can encompass. 

“What brings you to the library?”

She startles, broken from her thoughts and looks to see Aemond seated in an armchair by the fireplace, a book cradled in his long fingers.

She scowls. Sylva does not enjoy being taken by surprise. “I don’t see how that is your business.”

“I hadn’t realised you Dornish could read.” He says with an amused smirk.

“Fuck off.” She spits, turning to leave.

“Wait.” Aemond stands from his chair. “I…owe you an apology.”

Sylva quirks an eyebrow at him. “For what?”

“For…everything, I suppose. The manner in which I have treated you since you arrived has not been befitting of a Prince. Forgive me.”

“I’ll try.” She says, a hint of a smile playing upon her lips.

She is certain she sees the faintest flicker of one of his own tug at Aemond’s mouth, and then he speaks again. “You fight well, Princess, your father must be proud.”

Sylva sighs, chuckling bitterly. “If my father was proud of me he wouldn’t have sent me a thousand miles away to live with strangers.”

Aemond softens. “At least yours notices you. Mine doesn’t seem to realise I exist.”

“I am a spare.” She shrugs. “My oldest sister will rule Dorne in my father’s wake, my other siblings will marry into highborn families. I have been sent here purely for my father’s benefit, he doesn’t care about me.”

“Then perhaps we have more in common than we realise.” He concedes. “My brother will sit the Iron Throne once my father passes, an obligation he doesn’t want or deserve. Meanwhile, I study history and philosophy, train with the sword and ride the largest dragon in the world and I am overlooked.”

“Why aren’t you using any of that to your advantage?” She steps closer, her eyes never leaving him as she becomes more animated. “Like you say, you ride the largest dragon in the world and yet you allow yourself to be fettered here, when it serves no benefit for you to do so.”

Aemond hesitates a moment, looking uneasy. “It is…improper. I have a duty to my family.”

Sylva throws up her hands. “Who cares what is proper? Well behaved people seldom make history, you claim to study it, you should know that.”

“And what about you?” He counters. “You could have fought against your father’s decision to send you here, why not take your own advice?”

“If I’d have done that I’d have missed my opportunity to torment a Targaryen prince, a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

She grins and the smirk he returns is genuine. From that moment on, something between Sylva and Aemond shifts.

An unlikely kinship is struck between them, forged from an understanding of knowing they have rank without any real place in the world.

Over the course of the following month Sylva and Aemond grow closer. No longer does he object to her joining in in the training yard. Instead he asks to be paired with her, and the two learn from each other’s differing fighting styles, enjoying the challenge of attempting to best each other.

He sits beside her at meals, helping to fend off the unwanted attention of Aegon. They read about Dornish history together in the library and Aemond recites to her what he already knows, while Sylva entertains him with stories from her own personal experiences of her homeland.

Eventually, Aemond introduces Sylva to Vhagar. She has never seen a dragon before and the sheer enormity of Aemond’s leaves her speechless. She gasps at the roughness and warmth beneath her palm as Aemond guides her palm to stroke along her flank.

“You will need to meet her a few more times before she is comfortable having you on the back of her, but perhaps we could go flying together once she is?” Aemond suggests, not pulling his hand away from hers as it moves over Vhagar’s scales.

Sylva’s eyes light up with excitement. “Really? Where would we go?”

“Anywhere you like.” He smiles down at her.

“Could we go to Dorne?”

“Are you really so eager to return?”

“No.” She replies, and is surprised that she actually means it.

Her friendship with the One-Eyed Prince has brought colour into her life in King’s Landing, where previously it had been dull. The food no longer seems quite so bland. The feeling of homesickness that has sat heavily upon her chest feels like less of a burden to carry. For the first time since her arrival at the Red Keep she feels happy.

However, as the weeks press on she begins to suspect that Aemond is not fighting to his full potential when paired with her in the training yard. She no longer has to make an effort to disarm him, his attacking blows are not quite so aggressive as they once were. She is sure this is deliberate.

“Well fought, Princess.” Aemond says cordially as she knocks his sword from his hand yet again.

She throws down her own in frustration. “No, it wasn’t!” She snaps, before stalking back towards the shed. She has had enough for today and is tired of Aemond not taking it seriously.

She groans in irritation when he follows her a few moments later.

“Have I done something to upset you?” He asks, a trace of uncertainty in his tone as she keeps her back to him.

“Do you not think I am a worthy opponent?” She asks, peering over her shoulder at him.

“You are one of the most capable fighters I have ever seen.” He replies without hesitation.

She turns to face him fully. “So why are you letting me win? I have seen you train properly Aemond, you aren’t even trying.”

He takes a deep breath, directing his gaze towards the ground before back up to her. “You’ve never once mentioned my eye.”

Her brows pull together in confusion. “So? Why should I? It makes you no less of a man, you wield a sword better than most with the full power of sight.”

Aemond draws closer to her, the way he stares at her makes her breath hitch. In her relatively short life no one has ever looked upon her with such reverence before. “That is why I cannot bear to hurt you.” He admits softly. “No one has ever cared for me so deeply before, and I must confess, I…care for you too.”

Sylva is unsure of who moves first, but their lips meet and she feels a flutter of excitement in her belly as they kiss. His movements are uncertain to begin with, and she wonders if this is the first time he has ever kissed anyone. He learns quickly, however, a hand moving to the back of her head to tangle into her hair as his mouth works with more urgency against her own.

When they finally break away from each other, he rests his forehead against hers, his breathing heavy.

“I have wanted to do that for so long.” He whispers. “Our union will be what finally unites Dorne with the realm, and secures my brother’s succession.”

Sylva feels as though she has been submerged in ice water, she pulls back from him, hurt and anger contorting her features into a snarl. “You are no better than my father, I am just a political asset to you. I trusted you!”

She pushes past Aemond, leaving him to stare after her as she stalks back towards the Keep, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

She shuts herself away in her chambers and finally allows herself to fall apart, grieving for the life she has left behind in Sunspear, for the loss of her only friend in King’s Landing and for how utterly humiliated she feels for allowing herself to be fooled by him.

Aemond knows how much she resents being used as a pawn by her father and yet it seems to her he has had the same intentions all along. The betrayal of this stings more painfully than being passed off to the Targaryen family in the first place.

Sylva spends the next two weeks avoiding Aemond. She keeps away from the training yard, despite wanting nothing more than to run him through with a blade. She knows that would be unwise and likely cost her her own life. Dinners are an awkward affair, she keeps her eyes fixed firmly on her plate, refusing to look at him. The library becomes an area of the Red Keep that she no longer sets foot in, eager to avoid being in close quarters with the man who has broken her heart.

As the days drag on, Sylva hates that she is missing Aemond. She has no one to confide in, all of the colour has drained from her world once more, food is bland upon her tongue again. Everything that ever brought her joy in this wretched castle is so deeply entwined with him, she cannot bear it.

Apparently neither can he. 

The hour grows late and she is about to climb into bed when she sees the parchment slip beneath her chamber door. Gingerly she picks it up, unfolding it and beginning to read.

My dearest Sylva,

I have never been good with words, at least not ones that are spoken, it is often why I elect not to speak at all. You must forgive me, but I was a lonely child and have not had the practice of conversing quite so eloquently as I can when I put quill to parchment. It is why I have chosen to write you this letter.

I have been raised with a strong sense of duty and honour to my family. It was not my intention to hurt your feelings when I foolishly said what I said - I shan’t repeat the words, you know of what I’m referring to. I said what I thought I ought to, not what I wanted to.

If I had been able to speak my mind I would have said that you are all I think about. You drive me to distraction. My underperformance while sparring is not entirely due to my desire not to cause you harm. When the sun catches the beautiful brown of your eyes, they turn an amber colour that looks like liquid gold, I am unable to look away and so I falter in my movements. The exceptional shade and warmth of your dark hair leaves me longing to run my fingers through it. When I touched it for the briefest of moments when we kissed, I had never felt anything softer.

I do not want our union to be a political one, though I would be remiss to deny its advantages. I am a Targaryen Prince. All my life I have never considered the possibility of existing outside of that, but you see me exactly as I am. You see beyond my title, you see all that I could ever dream of being. And I want to be all of that, for you. I see you too, and I have grown to love the hot bloodedness that comes with your vivacious nature, the stubbornness that accompanies your unwavering integrity.

For me, it is not a want to be with you, it is a need. I hope you need me too. We will have whatever future you see fit for us. The last two weeks without you have made me realise that whatever path I take in life does not matter, as long as I have you by my side. If you will allow it, I will spend an eternity earning your forgiveness for my careless words. I hope the ones you are reading at this moment serve in some way to bring you comfort.

Yours faithfully,

Aemond.

Sylva clutches the letter to her chest when she is finished reading, her heart hammers wildly against her ribcage. There is only one thought in her mind; she needs to see him.

Abandoning all thoughts of sleep, she hurries from her quarters towards his, throwing open his door without bothering to knock. He hasn’t begun to ready himself for bed yet and she sees him turn towards her, startled by her sudden appearance in only the shift she wears to sleep in.

“Whatever future I see fit for us?” She repeats the line from his letter back to him.

He nods, his face hopeful as he stares at her.

“What if I want us to abandon our duties and travel the world?”

“Then we have Vhagar at our disposal to do just that.”

“What if I wish for us to remain unwed?” She steps closer towards him, eyeing him carefully.

“My love for you is more infallible than any marriage vows.”

Closing the gap between them, Sylva places her hands upon Aemond’s chest, his flesh is warm against her palms through his undershirt. “And what if I want to fuck simply for pleasure, and drink moon tea afterwards?”

His breath hitches, as his eye widens. His fingers wrap around her wrists, holding her in place against him. “If…if that is what you wish.”

“I thought you were going to teach me to be civilised?” She whispers.

“You are infuriating.” He mutters, before his mouth descends upon hers.

Desperate for each other after weeks apart, it is a messy clash of lips, teeth and tongue as they move towards Aemond’s bed. As they fall back against the mattress, Aemond breaks away to kiss down the expanse of her throat and chest.

Sighing in pleasure, Sylva threads her fingers through his silken hair, shrugging her shift away from her shoulders.

Aemond seizes the opportunity to pull it down, his hands smoothing over the supple flesh of her breasts. “You are beautiful.” He breathes.

“I want you, Aemond.” She murmurs.

Each of his touches feels like it leaves a trail of fire against her skin in its wake. Desire pools, sticky and warm between her thighs. She has not felt this kind of heat since she left Dorne, it is a sensation akin to the taste of fresh fruit after weeks of starvation.

“May I touch you?” He asks timidly, his fingertips grazing the inside of her thigh.

“Please do.” 

He exhales a shaky breath as the pads of his fingers make contact with the warmth of her center. “You are so soft here…”

“Have you ever touched a woman like this before?” She asks, as he drags his fingers experimentally through her sodden folds.

“No.” He admits, embarrassment heating his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Sylva smiles, cupping his jaw and kissing his lips softly. “Lay back. I will make it feel good for both of us.”

Aemond does as he’s told and Sylva makes quick work of undressing him, tugging his undershirt over his head and pulling his breeches off.

Her mouth runs dry at the sight of his hardened length. The tip rests against his lower abdomen, flushed pink and glistening with pearlescent fluid. She wraps her hand around the shaft, stroking softly and Aemond hisses through his teeth.

“Does that feel good?” She asks, cocking her head to the side.

“Gods…” He grits out. “You know it does.”

She giggles. “It will feel even better inside.”

Sylva straddles him, positioning him at her entrance and sinking down slowly. Aemond’s eye goes wide as his jaw slackens at the sensation.

She gasps at the stretch of him inside of her and once he is fully sheathed within her, she leans forward, pushing Aemond’s eye patch away from his face with her middle and forefingers.

She marvels at the way the sapphire within the socket glimmers in the candlelight.

Aemond swallows thickly. “Do you wish to stop?”

“No.” She replies with an experimental roll of her hips. “Just admiring you.”

Aemond leans up, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he wraps his arms around her and pulls her down to him in a passionate kiss. “You are remarkable.” He whispers into her ear, once he pulls away.

Sylva sits back up, bracing herself against his chest with the flat of her hands as she begins to rock herself against him. Every drag of his length inside of her makes her feel light headed as her breathing becomes more laboured with the effort.

Clearly growing impatient, Aemond seizes her by the hips, meeting her thrust for thrust, the pace suddenly becoming much more intense. There is an insatiable hunger within his seeing eye, Sylva can see none of its usual blue as she stares into it, it is utterly eclipsed by the dilation of his pupil.

She snakes a hand between their bodies, circling her pearl as Aemond plants his feet flat on the bed, continuing to drive up into her.

“Fuck…I think I’m going to…” Aemond trails off, screwing his eye shut and biting his lip.

The sight of him so wanton with desire beneath her, causes Sylva to clench around him, her own climax steadily approaching as she continues to work at her bud.

“Let go for me, I’m close too.” She coaxes.

His strokes become sloppier as he nears his end, his stomach muscles contracting, with one last push up into her, he stills, pulsating inside of her with a groan.

The sensation provides the added stimulus that Sylva needs to fall over the edge and she comes apart around him with a strangled cry, tightening and spasming as he spills himself inside of her.

She collapses against him, panting for breath, and they lay together in silence for a few moments, simply holding each other and recovering from their respective highs.

“You have made me the happiest man in all the Seven Kingdoms.” Aemond rasps, pressing a chaste kiss to her hairline.

“Dornish depravity will do that to you.” She says with a lazy smile.

“You are infuriating.” He chuckles, pulling her tighter against him. “But I would have you no other way.”

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[kc-writes-sometimes]

Crown and Kin | Chapter Six

Ao3 Account | Masterlist

Chapter Six: Helaena

Word Count: 2,823

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Summary: Daella returns to the Red Keep alongside Daemon, where an unexpected royal summons sets the stage for an encounter filled with quiet tension and cryptic moments. As Daella navigates her growing place in the Targaryen family, new connections are formed, and deeper bonds are tested.

Themes & Warnings: 18+, Character Death, Rape/Non Con, Future Smut, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Incest, Angst, Dad Daemon Targaryen, Bastards and Brothels, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Team Black Centric, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance

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Daella Targaryen

The ride back to the Keep was quiet, the soft glow of the setting sun casting long shadows over the road. Upon their arrival, a young boy rushed toward them, breathless. "The King... wishes to see... Lady Daella," he gasped. Daella’s heart raced at the unexpected summons.

They dismounted, and Daemon gently lifted Daella down. His usual confidence was tempered with a quiet intensity, different from the playful mischief she had come to expect. As they walked through the silent corridors of the Red Keep, the stillness amplified every sound—each footstep echoed louder than it should. Daella’s heart pounded in her chest as she wondered why the King wanted to see her. Did he plan to send her back to Flea Bottom? Would he undo the recognition he had just given her?

The thought made her chest tighten. She missed Rose, but the Keep, with its cold stone walls and shadows, was starting to feel like something more—a strange pull that made her wonder if she truly belonged there.

When they arrived at the royal apartments, the guards opened the heavy doors, and they stepped into a large room bathed in the fading light of the sun. King Viserys sat beside a massive stone model of a city, his eyes distant as if lost in thought. The golden light caught the silver of his hair, making him glow like the figure of Aegon the Conqueror in the tapestries.

"Ah, Daella," the King greeted warmly as he stood, his face lighting up. "I hear you’ve met your father’s dragon. I trust the experience wasn’t too overwhelming?"

"No, Your Grace," Daella replied, trying not to fidget under his gaze. "Caraxes blew smoke in my face."

The King chuckled, a deep, warm sound that echoed in the chamber. His eyes flicked to Daemon, who leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed. Daemon’s lips curled into a faint smirk, though he tried to appear disinterested. Daella could tell he was amused. He was always amused when it came to her and Caraxes.

"Dragons have their own way of showing affection," the King said, gesturing for her to come closer. She hesitated for a moment, unsure, but Daemon gave a slight nod of encouragement.

Just as Daella stepped forward, something caught her eye—a flicker of silver by the window. Her heart leapt, hoping it might be the purple-eyed boy she had seen before. But instead, she saw a young girl, sitting quietly, cradling something in her hands. The girl was delicate, with pale lavender eyes and soft silver hair that caught the light like moonlight on water. She was absorbed in whatever she was holding, barely acknowledging them.

"Daella, this is my daughter, Helaena," the King said, motioning toward the girl. "Helaena, come meet your niece."

Helaena moved slowly, as if each gesture had to be carefully considered, her eyes still downcast as she approached. In her hands was a beetle, its tiny legs scurrying across her palm with a precision that fascinated her. She seemed lost in her own world, one that felt distant from theirs.

"This one can walk on water," she murmured softly, her voice almost a whisper, as if speaking to herself rather than to them. "It can skate across the surface, almost like flying."

Daella blinked, unsure how to respond. "Oh… that’s interesting," she said, casting a glance at the King, who watched Helaena with a fondness tinged with sadness. There was love in his eyes, but also a quiet resignation, as if he knew he would never fully reach her.

Helaena’s pale eyes flickered toward Daella briefly before drifting back to the beetle in her hand. There was a stillness around her, a strange quietness, like she was seeing something none of them could. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just... distant.

"Enough about the bug, daughter," Viserys said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. Helaena stiffened slightly at the contact, and the King quickly withdrew his hand. His expression softened, the fondness still there but mixed with a sad understanding.

"Do you have more?" Daella asked, hoping to connect with her somehow.

Helaena’s eyes lifted to meet hers for the first time, and a shy smile appeared on her lips. She nodded, already drifting back toward the window, where she picked up a small wooden box. "I have many," she said softly. "Would you like to see?"

Daella followed her to a bench near the window, where Helaena opened the box with care. Inside, glass jars contained all sorts of insects—beetles, moths, even spiders. Each was carefully kept, and she handled them as though they were precious, delicate things.

"These," Helaena said thoughtfully, "move in ways we don’t understand. They always know where to step."

She held up a jar with a small spider inside. The spider moved in slow, deliberate patterns, its legs almost dancing within the glass. "Some say it’s a dance," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the creature. "But maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it moves because... because it must. There are steps to follow, even if it doesn’t know why."

Daella watched the spider, mesmerized by its delicate movements. "It’s beautiful," she said softly, feeling an odd connection to the way Helaena saw the world—so intricate, so far removed from everything else around them.

Helaena’s smile grew, just a little, but enough for Daella to notice. "They move to their own rhythm," she said, her voice drifting like a dream. "Sometimes we see it. Sometimes, we don’t. But the dance continues."

"Have you seen Caraxes?" Daella asked, hoping to share something in return. "Daemon let me meet him. He’s—"

"He’s big," Helaena finished quietly, her voice distant again. "But even big things have their steps to follow. Sometimes... we don’t see the whole pattern."

Daella glanced at King Viserys, who smiled gently at her. He was clearly accustomed to his daughter’s cryptic musings. There was no confusion in his expression—just a quiet acceptance of who Helaena was, as though he had made peace with her different way of seeing the world.

"I’ll come and see you again," Daella said softly, not wanting to intrude on Helaena’s thoughts too much.

Helaena nodded, her attention already drifting back to her insects. "Yes... you should," she said, her voice as light as the breeze coming in through the window.

As Daella and Daemon turned to leave, Daella glanced back one last time. Helaena was still sitting by the window, her delicate fingers tracing the edge of a glass jar, her thoughts somewhere far away.

As they stepped out of the King’s chambers and into the long corridors of the Red Keep, the air felt different—quieter, heavier. The conversation with Helaena lingered in Daella’s mind. Her world seemed so far removed from Daella’s, yet there was something in the way she saw things that made sense to her.

Daemon walked beside her, his long strides purposeful, though there was a thoughtful edge to his silence. His hand rested on her shoulder, a gentle pressure guiding her through the twists and turns of the castle. She could feel his mind working, turning over thoughts that he wasn’t yet ready to share.

"Is Helaena always like that?" Daella asked after a moment, glancing up at him.

"Like what?" he responded, not looking at her, though she could hear the smile in his voice.

She hesitated, not quite sure how to describe what she felt in the room. "Quiet... but... like she’s somewhere else."

He stopped for a moment, turning to face her. His expression softened, and for a brief second, she saw something in his eyes—a mixture of understanding and something deeper, something more distant. "Helaena’s always been different," he said slowly. "She sees the world in a way the rest of us don’t. Some think it’s a gift. Others… they don’t know what to make of her."

Daella nodded, though she wasn’t sure she fully understood either. But she felt a strange sense of relief. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who felt different in this place.

They walked in silence for a while longer, the faint sound of their footsteps the only noise in the empty halls. The light had shifted, the golden glow of the setting sun casting long shadows on the stone walls. It was beautiful, in a cold, distant way.

Just as they turned a corner, a familiar figure appeared, standing with quiet confidence near one of the pillars—Ser Harwin Strong. His posture was relaxed but alert, his gaze calm but focused. As he watched them approach, Daella sensed something unspoken between him and her father—a tension simmering just beneath the surface, though softened by mutual respect.

"Ser Harwin!" Daella ran toward him, wrapping her arms around his legs tightly.

Harwin looked down at her, his gaze warm as it landed on her before shifting to Daemon. "Prince Daemon," he said with a polite nod. His tone was respectful, but Daella sensed something unspoken beneath it—something careful.

Daemon’s lips curled into a faint, amused smile. "Harwin. You’ve got quite the knack for appearing just when I think you’ve gone."

Harwin’s expression remained calm, though Daella noticed the slight narrowing of his eyes. "I thought I’d check in on Daella, make sure she’s settled after the day she’s had."

Daemon tilted his head, his smile remaining but his tone teasing. "She’s in good hands, as you can see."

The tension shifted, but Harwin’s voice stayed level. "I don’t doubt that, my prince. I simply wanted to make sure she’s comfortable."

Daemon chuckled softly, though there was a sharper edge to his humour now. "Comfortable, yes. Though I think you’ve gotten quite used to looking after those who don’t need you as much as you think they do."

There was a brief pause, something in Daemon’s words that hung between them, but Daella didn’t understand it. It felt like there was a deeper story there, one she wasn’t part of.

Harwin didn’t bite, though his tone was clipped. "I’m sure Daella is in the best hands now."

Daemon raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Of course she is. It must be difficult, letting go of old habits."

Harwin met Daemon’s gaze evenly, and for a moment, Daella thought something more would be said, but instead, he nodded. "Old habits die hard, my prince. Especially when they involve people you care about."

"Cared for or looked after? Out of love or out of duty?" Daemon asked cockily, tilting his head in an obvious challenge.

"It’s both," Harwin responded stiffly. Daella could tell he wanted to say more, to rise to the challenge Daemon was presenting, but he didn’t.

Daemon smirked slightly, though the tension still simmered. "I can assure you Daella won’t be running around late at night on my watch," his tone softened as he looked down at Daella. "She’ll be safe here."

Harwin’s jaw tightened slightly at Daemon’s dig, but he let the minor insult pass without a second thought. His gaze flicked to Daella as he spoke softly, "As long as she’s happy."

They shared a look—one that seemed to acknowledge the common ground between them, though it was laced with something unspoken that Daella didn’t yet understand.

Harwin crouched slightly, meeting Daella’s eyes. "You alright, little flame?"

She nodded, offering him a small smile. "I’m okay."

Harwin straightened, glancing at Daemon with a dry chuckle. "I see she hasn’t tired of you yet."

Daemon raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. "Give it time, Ser Harwin. She’ll be asking for your company soon enough."

Harwin laughed lightly, though the tension remained beneath. "If that happens, you know where to find me."

Daemon shook his head slightly, his tone playful but still carrying an edge. "I think I can manage."

Their words carried a subtle undercurrent—like neither was willing to fully back down, but they had reached an unspoken agreement. Harwin’s gaze softened as he turned back to Daella.

"If you need anything, Daella," he said gently, "you know where to find me."

Daella nodded, feeling the weight of the moment between them, but comforted by the care she saw in both their eyes. "I won’t forget."

As Harwin stepped back, Daemon rested his hand on Daella’s shoulder, steering her gently forward. "Let’s go, sweet girl. Time for bed."

She glanced over her shoulder as they walked away, catching Harwin’s gaze one last time. He gave her a small nod. She didn’t understand what was happening between them. Harwin had always been there for her, and now Daemon wanted to be there too. Surely, there was room for both of them.

They walked in silence for a while, the cool evening air brushing against Daella’s skin as they stepped outside into the courtyard. The sky above was streaked with purple and pink, the first stars beginning to peek through. It felt calmer out here, the weight of the Keep’s stone walls left behind as they moved into the open air.

"Do you not like him?" Daella asked quietly, glancing up at her father.

Daemon’s steps faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered, his gaze focused ahead. "Harwin Strong has looked after you well, from what I’ve seen," he said carefully. "I appreciate that much."

It felt like there was more he wanted to say, but he held back, and Daella decided not to push. "He’s been with me since I was little," she said softly. "He... he cares about me."

Daemon looked down at her, his expression softening slightly. "I know." There was a pause, then he added, "But you’re my daughter. It’s different."

They reached the entrance to his chambers, and Daemon crouched down beside her again, his expression softening as he spoke. "Get some rest tonight, Daella. Tomorrow, we begin your lessons."

Daella blinked up at him, curious. "Lessons?"

Daemon smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Yes. Tomorrow, you’ll start learning High Valyrian. It’s our family’s tongue—our history. And I’ll see that you’re taught to read properly, as well."

The thought of learning High Valyrian—of understanding the words her father used when he spoke to others—made Daella’s chest tighten with a mix of excitement and nerves. "Will you teach me?" she asked, her voice small.

Daemon’s eyes softened. "I’ll be around, but there will be others to help. You’ll learn it all, Daella. I promise."

She smiled, feeling the weight of those words—the importance of them—but also a bit of fear. It was another shift, another step into a world she was only beginning to understand.

"High Valyrian..." she murmured, turning the words over in her mind. "It sounds so... important."

Daemon chuckled softly, the warmth of his hand on her shoulder steadying her. "It is, sweet girl. It’s the language of our ancestors, the dragons, and our family. You’ll see. Once you start to learn, it will feel as natural as breathing fire."

Daella giggled at the idea of breathing fire, though a small part of her wondered if there was truth to what he said. "And reading? Will I be able to read Ten Thousand Ships?"

"You will," Daemon said, his tone proud. "You’ll read histories, songs, and all the great tales of our house. You’ll know the stories of Nymeria, of Aegon the Conqueror, and perhaps even find a few adventures of your own."

The thought of reading the book he had given her on her own filled Daella with hope. She nodded, feeling a bit more confident about the lessons that awaited her tomorrow.

She hesitated for a moment, feeling a strange nervousness flutter in her chest as she looked up at him. "Goodnight, Father."

The word slipped out naturally, but as soon as it left her mouth, she saw him pause. His expression shifted, just for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. His hand, resting gently on her shoulder, tightened ever so slightly, as though steadying himself.

"Goodnight... sweet girl," he finally said, his voice softer than before, almost hesitant. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering longer than usual.

As he straightened, his eyes met hers again, something new in his gaze—something that felt like quiet awe mixed with a deeper sense of responsibility. There was a warmth there, a silent acknowledgement between them, as though they had both truly accepted who they were to each other.

Daella stepped into her father’s chambers, the weight of the day beginning to settle over her. She turned to look behind her as her father lingered in the doorway.

"Is it not bedtime for you too?" she asked, her head tilted in confusion.

"Not for me," Daemon replied, his tone gentle. "I have some business to attend to outside the Keep. You’ll be fine. There will be guards stationed outside the door if you should need anything. Now get some rest," he said, pulling the door closed.

As the moonlight spilt through the window, Daella closed her eyes and tried to let sleep take her.

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[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (31/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 4559

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: Arianwyn asks for an audience with her uncle Viserys. He has not woken since the family dinner two nights before, and she is not sure that he will even hear what she says. She is not even sure what she wants to say. Still, she needs to say it.

Warnings: None

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The King

Arianwyn had only ever visited the King’s chambers once. But she had been a babe then, and her memories were faint. She could vaguely recall the sheer size of the model of Old Valyria and the magnificent white stone domes and towers that adorned it. Though, she was unsure whether that was truly a memory, or only an image she had conjured from all the times Aemond told her of it.

Aemond had always so admired his father’s creation. It was one of the few subjects Arianwyn could always rely on to get him talking, even on his quiet days. He would go on and on about how accurate the King had been in his design, how it had been necessary for each tower to be precisely the right size and carved in excruciating detail, or else the magic of the spectacle would be ruined.

He would empty entire shelves in the library to explain to her what each building was, the purpose of each tower, and the magic that had helped to build them. Of course, Arianwyn already knew most of the information – they had discovered it together. But listening to him, basking in the excitement he so rarely showed, never got old.

Despite his enthusiasm, Aemond had never been invited to work on the model with his father. Alicent had tried to console him by emphasizing that it was the King’s ‘personal’ endeavor and that he shared it with very few people beyond the stone masons and other artisans who completed the actual craftsmanship.

But then the King had called Jace and Luke – and only Jace and Luke – to help him assemble one of the Blood Mages’ towers.

After that, Aemond never mentioned the model again.

Perhaps it was the memory of the heartbreak in Aemond’s eyes when his nephews told him why they were late to sparring practice that horrible day, or maybe it was simply the low light in the room. Still, when Arianwyn set eyes on the model, she could hardly stand the sight of it.

It had all been carved of the same white stone, as if the entire city had risen simultaneously from the earth. But there was no truth in that.

Valyria, like the Freehold itself, had been built over hundreds and thousands of years from stones brought from across the known world. It had been even more than stone, with some buildings said to be hewn from massive crystals, grown from the earth itself by many years of taming vines and trees, or even made of pure Dragonglass.

Compared to the vibrant and extraordinary Valyria that lived in her imagination, the model seemed small and mundane.

Alicent caught Arianwyn’s gaze lingering on the model and stepped around it. “Before we were married, I used to sit with Viserys while he worked on it. He enjoyed having someone there to listen to the history, or perhaps just to look impressed.”

But the words only drove the pain deeper into the girl’s heart. How Aemond would have loved to sit at his father’s side and listen to him tell the story of their shared ancestors.

Fortunately, the Queen saw the pain and regret in Arianwyn’s silver eyes and stepped away from the model to take her hand and lead her into the bedchamber.

The light there was even dimmer, with only a single oil lamp lit by the King’s bed. Arianwyn had to look quite closely to see his chest rise and fall. He was still breathing, if just barely.

His golden mask was gone. Instead, the decaying side of his face had been covered with clean strips of cloth, making it easier to look upon his face. The memory of him at dinner two nights ago had been thankfully drowned out by the whirlwind of events – both good and bad – that had happened since, but it still haunted her.

“The Maesters tell me that he may yet be able to hear us, even if his body will not allow him to respond,” Alicent explained, gesturing to a pair of chairs next to the bed. She let Arianwyn sit in the one nearest the King, taking the further for herself. “There have been times when he can say a word or two. Or move his hand, or smile.”

Arianwyn looked to the Queen, “Have you been with him often since he fell asleep?”

Alicent grimaced. “Not as much as I would like. But… it pains me too much to see him like this. There is only so much I can bear.”

There was nothing Arianwyn could say to ease that pain, so she simply looked back to the King.

“Hello, uncle,” she said.

The King gave no indication that he heard her. She had been warned that it was likely, but it still caused her heart to clench.

“It’s Aria,” she continued. Then she remembered, the last time he had used her name, it had been at Driftmark, and he had not called her ‘Aria.” She leaned forward again. “It’s Arianwyn. Your niece, do you remember me?”

The Queen also leaned forward, speaking with careful enunciation. “Arianwyn arrived several days ago. With her father, Prince Daemon, as well as Rhaenyra and all the rest from Dragonstone.”

At the mention of Rhaenyra, the King whined softly, turning his head toward the women.

Of course, Arianwyn thought. It was always Rhaenyra.

Alicent pushed past that particular hurt and continued, “Aria has some wonderful news to share with you, my darling.”

At the Queen’s signal, Arianwyn looked back to the King, trying to force a smile to her face. “Yes, I do. Well… Aemond and I have been married. We are very much in love.”

Again, the King was still.

It broke Arianwyn’s heart. That just the mention of Rhaenyra could rouse him from his sleep, but not her, not Aemond, and not their marriage.

Once, she had thought the King cared for her as if she were his own daughter. Of course, he was distant, as he was with his children by Alicent. But whenever he saw her, he offered a smile. When they found themselves seated next to each other on the ramparts of the training yard, he would ask her thoughtful questions about her studies or her progress with Emrys. And he had always given her sweet gifts on her nameday.

But now, as she recalled each fond moment, Arianwyn wondered whether it was ever really her that he was so fond of, or whether she had only ever been a substitute for her father. Just like she was to Rhaenyra.

In their eyes, she would never be anything more than Daemon’s daughter.

Though her face was as still as the stone Valyria that sat in the next room, a tear ran down her cheek, stinging her skin as it mingled with the cool air.

“May I speak with him – alone?” she asked the Queen.

Alicent wiped the tear away as she stood and did not speak until she reached the door. “I will stay nearby.”

Then she closed the door, and Arianwyn was alone with the King.

She did not know what to say. Words and memories raced through her mind too fast for her to catch. Her tears continued to fall as she felt the world spin around her.

“I always hoped you would be the one to escort me at my wedding,” she blurted out, hearing the words for the first time as they left her lips.

For a moment, she fell silent as the admission sunk in.

“All my life, I knew my father did not care about me,” she said, allowing her mind to simply spill over. It seemed safer than agonizing over her words until they split her skull. “I knew he would not want to escort me, if he even bothered to attend. So, I wanted it to be you.”

The King took a deep, shaky breath but did not reply.

“Ser Criston Cole did it instead,” she explained. “Even if we were not so hurried, I think it would have had to be him, anyway. Or perhaps Aegon – no, actually. Not Aegon. It was almost painful to watch you walk to the Iron Throne. I don’t think you could have made it to the Weirwood tree.”

Arianwyn blinked, forcing herself to stop talking and take a breath. “Oh, I have not told you that. We were married under the Weirwood tree, not in the Sept. It was my idea. I was scared, and I wanted the protection of not just the Seven, but of the gods of my ancestors – my Royce ancestors. Obviously, the Targaryen gods are of no help anymore.”

She laughed at her pitiful attempt at a joke, made even more so by the fact that she was still endeavoring not to cry. Beyond the first, no other tears had fallen.

“I have not told you that either, that I was afraid,” she fought the urge to take his hand, crumpling the fabric of her skirts in her fists. “I was terrified. I was so sure I was going to die. That Daemon was going to kill me. He almost did.”

Arianwyn lifted her hands to her throat and her bruises. The markings had reached their darkest stage. To anyone looking from a distance, it would look like she was wearing a deep plum scarf or perhaps a necklace. But the King could not see it, for his eyes were still closed.

“Did you know?” she asked, lowering her hands. “Did you know what he was capable of when you sent me with him? How much he hated me, and the memory of my mother? Did you know what he did to her?”

She had to take a breath to calm herself so she wouldn’t scream.

“You must have had some idea, especially after Gerold and Lady Arryn came to speak on my behalf and Aemond showed you his note. I never thanked you for forcing his hand when it came to Emrys. He was my only escape on that gods-forsaken island. But even with him, and Brynna, and everyone else from Runestone, it was miserable.

“The isolation in that little tower was bad enough. But then they made me eat dinner with them every night, and they would never talk to me. About me, yes, but never to me. Jace and Luke – and Baela, sometimes – took it as a game. They would take turns saying mean things. About me, about Runestone and the Vale, and even about Aemond, sometimes. They wanted to see if they could get me to break. To snap and make a fool of myself. To scream and curse them, or something.

“But I never did. I think they thought it was because I was weak. In truth, I was just afraid of what Daemon would do if I did react. And I guess I was right to be afraid, I finally did snap a few days ago, and he threatened to kill me.”

Though she knew she was safe now, the memory still sent a shiver through her.

She grimaced, “Eventually, they gave up. What fun is it to mock someone who doesn’t react? Jace continued to tease me, but never at dinner. He learned that if Daemon wasn’t there, I would fight back. It amused him. Luke never did, not after he saw Emrys.”

That particular memory brought a quiet laugh, but it soon faded.

“As horrible as it was, I do think that Aemond had it even worse than me.”

If Arianwyn had not been keeping her eyes locked on her own hands, she would have seen the King frown slightly and furrow his brow in distress.

“No one has told me much in detail, especially not Aemond. And I don’t hold that against him. I know if I ask, he will tell me. But I think he was very, very sick, so I am not sure I really want to know.”

She looked back up at the King after his previous expression had already fallen back into one of pained sleep. “Did you know? How sick he was? How hard it was for him to adapt to the loss of his eye? Did you ever visit him as he healed? Do you know how much you hurt him?”

No reply.

“Do you know how it hurt him to know how much you didn’t care – don’t care? Do you know what it does to someone to know their father does not love them?”

She had to take another calming breath before she continued. “He could hardly believe it when I told him I loved him. I actually don’t know if he does believe it, not entirely. That is what you did. When you brushed what Luke did aside simply because Aemond called them bastards – which I know you know they are – and when you did not rebuke Rhaenyra for calling for his torture –!

“By the gods, she was serious, uncle! She was willing to torture an already mutilated boy in order to maintain her lie! A lie that no one believes! That is the woman you want to be Queen?” she scoffed.

“You took away his ability to believe he could be loved. If his own father had such disdain for him, why would anyone else feel any different? Even if he became the greatest warrior, the best scholar in the world, the most dutiful son, he could never feel worthy of anything beyond the indifference you showed him.”

Arianwyn leaned back, tilting her head to the ceiling to try and stop her tears from falling. “The Stranger is close. I know you’re supposed to forgive people when they’re on their deathbeds… but I can’t.”

She looked back at her uncle, not seeing the broken, dying man that lay before her, but the man he had been on Driftmark. The man he had been when he brushed Aemond aside, when she first began to hate him.

“You broke him, Viserys,” she cried. “So thoroughly, I don’t know if I will ever be able to fix him.”

Lacing her fingers through his, ignoring the chill that went through her at the feel of his cold, papery skin, she continued. “But I will try. If it takes all my life, I will not stop until he is whole again. I promise it.”

Abruptly, she stood, wiping away her tears and smoothing her skirts. She looked upon the King’s hollow face one last time, watching him take a slow, shaky breath.

“There,” she said. “A deathbed promise. That’s better than forgiveness, isn’t it?”

Though she knew it to be futile, she waited for a reply. But, of course, it did not come.

“Goodbye, uncle,” she said and turned away.

She left the room so quickly that she did not see his fingers uncurl as he reached out for her. The sound of her own crying was too loud for her to hear him whisper.

“Aria, I’m sorry.”

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