#you serve as sworn shield for the princess AND the queen | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jaimeslanisters · 2 years

Text

the pawn in every lover's game (part seven)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you're ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 7.1k notes: sorry for the late update!! but this is a big one (: it's time for the tourney folks!

The tourney grounds are alive with the sound of horses braying and people laughing and cheering. Squires run around, carrying swords, shields, and armor as they rush to find their masters somewhere in the crowd. Other members of the royal court mill around, speaking cheerfully to the knights representing their families or eying up the ones that aren’t. It’s loud and joyous, making the Red Keep look more alive than you had ever seen in all the years you had lived there.

It’s headache-inducing.

Your cousins had woken you up far earlier than you were used to in their excitement to get ready and even your grumpy countenance could not quell their anticipation. A part of you had wanted to point out that they had been to tourneys before, fairly recently, as your father had thrown one at Casterly Rock after Loren’s birth to celebrate the arrival of his heir, but, even in your annoyance, you knew that would have been an unfair thing to say.

After all, there’s nothing quite like a royal tourney.

Upon arrival at the tournament grounds, your family had scattered, leaving you with Uncle Tyland and a handful of red cloaks to serve as guards. It was a bit unnerving to have soldiers following your every move - you were so used to walking through the Red Keep completely unencumbered - but you weren’t in the Red Keep. In a clear move to garner support among the smallfolk, Queen Alicent (or Otto Hightower - you weren’t entirely sure of who had had the final say) had opened up the tourney for all of King’s Landing to watch. While there were clear dividers between the nobles and the smallfolk, your father hadn’t had wanted there to even be a hint of foul play and had assigned some of his red cloaks to serve as guards - at least, until you joined up with Helaena in the royal box.

It had been a thoughtful enough gesture but it had made you wonder if there was something in particular that Jason was concerned with. Perhaps you had become complacent in King’s Landing, too used to the relative physical safety of the Red Keep to consider it could ever turn on you. Your years here had been peaceful but Driftmark had proven to you that situations could just as easily turn before you could blink or react. The relative calm of the Red Keep would not hold - you knew this just as surely as you knew that the sun would rise tomorrow. Sooner or later, the shaky peace of House Targaryen would break and erupt into fire and blood and you didn’t want to be caught unaware as you had been as a child. You quietly resolve to push your father to leave you and Tyland some of his soldiers when he returns to Casterly Rock. Even if the gold cloaks and the Kingsguard were sworn to protect the people, it wouldn’t harm to have soldiers sworn to you above all others. You’d rather be overly paranoid now than live to regret it in the future. Your father had just been quicker on the uptake than you.

You shake your head, trying to knock yourself out of your musings. Such dark thoughts had no place on the tourney grounds and you look up to try and start a conversation to distract yourself with your uncle only to see him frowning down at you.

“A gold coin for your thoughts, little one?” Tyland asks, emerald eyes scanning you carefully.

“I’d like to think they’re worth a good bit more than that,” you respond quickly, grinning when he laughs. “It’s nothing, uncle. I’m just thinking about… about the future.”

He hums in response, leading you past rows and rows of tents set up for different knights and other would-be tourney participants.

“Weddings tend to trigger that - though I don’t imagine your thoughts are on whether or not your own wedding celebrations will be as grand as this. Playing a game of cyvasse in your head, little one? Trying to see all the pieces out in front of you and which way they can move?”

“I know the pieces I have available,” you reply. “There are some things I can control easily enough. It’s the pieces that I don’t control that have me lost in thought. There are endless possibilities, endless decisions that other people can make. Right now the game is easy enough, the stakes high but not too dangerously so. I move my piece here or move someone else there and no one tries to check me. No one even knows I’m playing. My concern is wondering when it’ll stop being a game and when someone will just tip the board right over.”

“The game doesn’t cease when that happens,” Tyland says, his voice casual and breezy as if he’s talking about the weather and not your own paranoid fears for the future. “The rules change, the stakes rise, and you’re no longer hidden but the game continues. It never stops. You should have never moved to King’s Landing if you did not wish to play.” Despite his words, his tone is soft, gentle, and when you look up, he’s calmly watching you.

If you told him you were scared of the future, of the consequences of being so entangled with the Targaryens, he would ship you back to Casterly Rock without a second thought, any potential matches be damned.

The thought causes a smile to flicker onto your face. “And leave you alone in a pit of dragons?” You tease. “Banish the thought. We’re at a royal wedding, the likes of which haven’t been seen in decades! Let us focus on getting through that first.”

Tyland gives you a moment, as if giving you one final chance to try to leave court politics behind, but your smile never drops. You couldn’t leave. You wouldn’t leave. As much as the future worries you, leaving Aemond and Helaena behind is such an unthinkable sin that you can’t even fathom doing it.

Eventually, however, your uncle breaks and he starts telling you about the last royal wedding, tactfully ignoring the disaster that was Rhaenyra and Laenor’s. It hasn’t been nearly as grand as this one - the death of Aemma Arryn years prior loomed over the festivities - but it had been a decent enough time if Tyland was to be believed. Of course, he had spent most of the time awkwardly trailing behind Jason and Johanna, then pregnant with Cerelle, but he had still managed to create connections that he would later leverage into being named Master of Ships. All in all, he brags to you, it had been a very successful social event for House Lannister.

You would be expected to accomplish something similar but, in lieu of a position of repute, you would have to claim a powerful husband.

You think of Helaena’s teasing words from the opening feast - Lions will ride dragons someday - and as much as they bring an embarrassing flush to your cheeks, you knew better than to place any heavy weight on them. Helaena’s prophecies, if they could be called that, were nearly nonsensical, more poem than any true look into the future. For all you knew, her words were simply saying that eventually, somewhere in the future, a Lannister would bed a Targaryen with no guarantee of a marriage. You could be a Lannister who beds but does not wed a Targaryen.

It would be foolish to place everything you had into the hope that Helaena was right about you and Aemond. You had to make it happen and one way to do that was to ensure that Victor Florent did not place you into a socially precarious situation by asking you for your favor.

That was where Tygett Lannister would have to assist you.

You hear his laugh before you ever see him though, to be sure, your cousin is difficult to miss. Even among other House Lannister members, most of them more visibly Lannister than you, he stands out. Long before he had reached his age of majority, Tygett had grown to be taller than most adult men, towering over his own father. While he wasn’t as broad in the shoulder as Lord Jason and Tyland, he certainly did not lack in muscle and cut an imposing figure even if you knew that he was not as nearly an intimidating warrior as he looked. He was handsome, as all Lannisters tend to be, and, as you approach his tent with your uncle at your side, you can see he’s gathered a small crowd of admirers around him as he tells jokes and charms them all.

He’s a Lannister, through and through, and when you were a child, you had resented him for that reason precisely. Prior to Loren, Tygett had been the preferred potential husband for Cerelle if no male babe had been born to your parents. Of course, that would only be if your father could wrangle his bannerman into obeying him without needing to make concessions such as a marriage to his female heir, something that was far from being a guarantee. Adulthood had taught you your family would have been right in believing that that would have been the easiest, cleanest solution. Despite not being from Casterly Rock or the main line, a Lannister was a Lannister and Tygett would have been preferable compared to a son of an upstart lord with dreams of supplanting the lions of the Rock. Child you had not seen it like that, however. All you had seen through your immature eyes had been your father’s dream - a son of House Lannister, tall and handsome and strong - just out of his reach and you had hated Tygett for representing the one thing you and your sisters could never be for Jason, no matter how hard you could try: a son.

Time and distance had worn down your ire and now, when Tygett spots you and grins widely at you, you easily smile back.

“Cousin!” He greets you exuberantly, reaching you in a few steps and wrapping a warm arm around you in a quick, affectionate hug. He turns to Tyland and gives a quick bow, never losing his cheerful expression. “Lord Tyland. I thank you for coming to see me before the event begins1”

“I see you already have fans,” Tyland responds, a smile working its way onto his face.

Tygett shakes his head, bashful. “Just friends. They’ve all visited once or twice in Lannisport and wanted to wish me luck before the joust.”

“Speaking of which,” you cut in, clearing your throat. “Have you heard which listing you’re in?” You try to sound calm as if his answer wouldn’t dictate your mood for the rest of the day, but judging from your uncle’s suppressed snort, you’ve failed at that.

Your cousin grins, not minding how you leap into business first. “First. I’ll be facing a Stokeworth household knight. I’ll be counting on your favor to tip the odds for me.”

You sigh in relief, readily nodding your assent at Tygett. As an unmarried man with no acceptable noblewoman to charm, tradition dictated that he ask you, the highest-ranking lady of his house at the event, to gift him your favor. If he asked any other lady from any other house, it would be a loud and clear message to the court that he was interested in courting her, and a betrothal meeting would be sure to follow afterward, if only because it was simply what was done. By asking you, however, he could hold off the marriage discussions and declare himself as an uninterested party even if you technically were an available choice to him.

It solved both of your problems neatly enough and it prevented you from having to awkwardly hand your favor to a man who would mean all the implications it would bring.

“Are you feeling confident?” You ask him and your cousin laughs, loud and booming.

“I’ll make it a few rounds,” he says without a hint of embarrassment or disappointment. It doesn’t bother him at all to admit his fault. If not for Loren, he would have been loved as Lord Lannister. “I won’t shame you, cousin, though I’m afraid that I won’t be able to crown you Queen of Love and Beauty unless several notable knights happen to trip getting on their horse.”

You smile wryly. “You’re terribly lucky. Perhaps they will.”

“I’ll put money on you regardless,” Tyland says as he claps Tygett on the shoulder, giving his nephew a firm shake.

Your cousin immediately shakes his head. “I thank you for that vote of confidence but save your coin for the archery event. I’ll win a prize for myself there and, hopefully, bring you a greater return.”

Your uncle smirks. ��We’re Lannisters, Tygett. I can afford to lose some coin on you. But if you insist, any tips on who is best to bet on during the joust then?”

“Lord Tarly’s brother is a surefire bet. Same with Ser Edwyn Sand from House Dayne in Dorne. I heard he’s been promising in past tourneys.”

You blink at that. “Dorne sent knights? Has the Lord Hand made progress toward negotiating unification?”

Tyland laughs out loud. “Unlikely. House Dayne has always been closer to Westeros than the rest of the region, however. They trade often with Oldtown and Lannisport even if they refuse to break away from the Martells to formally join with the Iron Throne.”

You hum in response, mind whirring even as Tygett begins to list off other potential champions (alarmingly, Victor’s name comes up and you manage not to react). Ever since Dorne had managed to shoot Queen Rhaenys out of the sky and survive the rage that Aegon and Visenya had rained upon them after, relations with the region had been tense, to say the least. House Targaryen’s official stance was that the dragons had conquered the desert lands to the South and that Dorne was one of the Seven Kingdoms, a position that Dorne firmly rebuked.

Years before you were born, there had been a chance to unify the continent finally. Just before his dismissal in favor of Lyonel Strong, Otto Hightower had very nearly brokered a betrothal pact between Rhaenyra and the Prince of Dorne but dreams of that had been squashed when Rhaenyra had been ushered into a marriage with Laenor Velaryon to soothe Lord Corlys’ wounded ego and quiet the rumors surrounding her maidenhead. It had been enough of a scandal that you can remember hearing whispers about it even as a child; about how Rhaenyra had rebuked several suitors - including Tyland - and how it had seemed that she had planned to go unwed until her father and House Velaryon had forced her hand. House Lannister had been soothed by Tyland gaining the position of Master of Ships but there had been no consolation prize for Dorne. The kingdom had not taken the insult well and negotiations had reverted back to their icy standoff, slightly worse off than it had been before.

House Dayne sending a knight, even if he was a bastard, was promising, however. It opened doors where there otherwise would be none and you silently note to yourself to try and speak to Ser Edwyn and his retinue when you had the chance or encourage Tyland or Tygett to do so in your place.

A herald shouts that the opening presentation is due to commence shortly and you reach out to grasp Tygett’s arm.

“May the Warrior grant you strength, cousin,” you solemnly tell him, your lips quirking up in a smile when he bows deeply in response.

“And may the Maid grant you luck,” he replies, bright eyes knowing, and your smile grows.

——————————–

The actual tourney grounds are a marvel and you feel like the childish little girl you once were as you climb the steps to reach the royal box, high above the rest of the stands. At Alicent’s direction, the grounds are decorated with black and red Targaryen banners, the blazing green beacon of Hightower cutting into the otherwise dark color scheme. Most of the nobles are already sitting and in the distance, you can see a massive crowd of smallfolk, gathering where they can so they can catch a glimpse of the heraldry.

The royal box itself is already buzzing with activity, House Velaryon and House Hightower making up the bulk of the occupants. Your uncle leaves your side to join up with the other members of the small council and, after a moment, you step forward, moving towards the seats Helaena had told you yesterday were to be yours and hers. In the very front of the box, in front of the Lord Hand and Queen Alicent, there’s a row of empty seats, solely occupied by Aemond.

Even without seeing his face, you can already imagine his bored expression and when you drop into the seat next to him and he turns to face you, you exaggerate a scowl. “Is the tourney not to your liking, my prince? I can force everyone to do something more worthwhile such as reading philosophy if it pleases you.”

He rolls his eyes and your expression quickly clears into a grin. “I can’t imagine even you being able to pull that off but it would, in fact, please me greatly if you’d somehow work out a way for me to leave this complete farce. There’s a pile of proposals for the city’s budget that I need to summarize before the week’s up that I need to get to.”

“Lord Otto will understand if you’re a tad behind,” you say, jerking your head in his grandfather’s general direction. “Besides, it’s important that the smallfolk see you and the rest of your siblings here. They’d like to think that they know their royals and, by being here, you show that you care about them.”

Aemond shoots you a disgruntled look without any heat behind it. “The proposals are for their benefit. They include building more orphanages and bettering the sewage system.”

You smile. “That’s all well and helpful but, just as important as that, is public appearance. There’s a reason the smallfolk sing songs about Good Queen Alysanne’s women’s courts and not about King Jaehaerys constructing the Kingsroad.”

He hums in acknowledgment and you know he understands you even if he’s unlikely to admit it. He’s never liked tourneys and it’ll be even more years yet before I get him to admit they can be useful.

“Will Helaena and Prince Aegon be joining soon?” You ask after you give the box a quick scan to make sure they’re not hiding amongst their family. You even give the Velaryons a cursory glance to be certain but, aside from Princess Rhaenys and Baela, you don’t recognize any of them.

Aemond smirks. “You’ll know when they arrive. You’re not the only one who is preaching the importance of appearances.”

You open your mouth, ready to ask him what he meant, when the roar of a dragon cuts you off and you jump in your seat, hand flying out to grip Aemond’s arm in shock. A hush falls over the tourney and there’s another earth-shaking roar that rattles you down to your bones. Your grip tightens on Aemond and, after a beat, you feel one of his hands come up to grip your own, pulling it off of his arm and instead holding it tightly, intertwining his fingers with your own.

You don’t even turn to look at him, however, too stunned by the sight of two dragons descending onto the tourney grounds, covering the stands in shadow even as the creatures themselves glimmer in the sun. Dreamfyre’s blue scales shine brightly, glittering like the Sunset Sea, but it’s Sunfyre who you can’t drag your eyes away from. You’ve seen Aegon’s dragon before, off in the distance, but this alarmingly close, you suddenly realize why Aegon was so prone to bragging about the beauty of his mount.

Sunfyre glitters like gold, almost blinding in the light, and, from the gasps and exclamations coming from the crowd, you know you’re not the only one who’s noticed. From the curve of his neck to the pink membrane beneath his wings, Aegon’s dragon is more a work of art than a creature that could easily burn entire cities to the ground.

The two massive beasts land, somehow neatly avoiding crushing the fences set up for the jousting, their wings flapping to steady themselves while sending out a massive gust of wind to the rest of the onlookers.

As you stare, marveling, you’re suddenly struck with the memory of seeing Aemond fly with his siblings, of Vhagar dwarfing Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, and your mouth drops as you imagine his dragon being the one to have to land on the tourney.

She’d crush us all under her size you realize with wonder and you finally rip your eyes away from the sight in front of you to tell Aemond that exact thought when you meet his eye already watching you.

His gaze is fond, warm even, and it softens his face in a way you haven’t seen in years, so markedly different from the careful mask he wore around the court. His mouth is curved up in a tiny smile and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of his hand holding yours. The palm of his hand is rough, worn down by calluses formed from years of swordplay, but it’s warm around your own soft skin.

Your mouth dry all of a sudden, you lick your lips and his gaze drops and something in you clenches at the sight of him staring at your mouth so unabashedly.

For a moment, you’re not sitting in the royal box at a tourney, visible to hundreds if not thousands, the most important members of the court all sitting behind your back. You’re sitting in the library and it’s just you and Aemond - the way it has been meant to be.

His eye finally flits back up to meet your’s and the look in his eye makes your breath hitch.

More than an alliance, more than what it will bring to your family, you want him. You’ve always wanted him just for him.

The mad desire to tell him just that almost takes over but before you can do something as foolish as professing your love in front of the royal court, the crowd roars in approval and you’re knocked out of your revelry, looking over in time to see Sunfyre and Dreamfyre take to the skies again, leaving Aegon and Helaena standing hand in hand in the middle of the jousting field.

From this distance, you can’t see the fear in them, the desire to pull away from each and run to the hills, far far away from this marriage that could choke the two of them to death. Instead, you can only see two beautiful Targaryens, dressed in finery that absolutely gleams in the sunlight, tied together by blood, power, and soon-to-be by marriage.

“They’ll write songs about them,” you realize with a murmur and Aemond squeezes your hand, in acknowledgment and in comfort.

“Songs will help,” he gently reminds you and you jerkily nod, looking back at him as Aegon and Helaena approach the royal box to finally be seated.

After a moment, you find your voice. “I hope the singers will write beautiful ones. Helaena deserves that nicety.”

“And Aegon does not?” Aemond asks, his tone low and teasing, and you laugh.

“I think the songs he wants about himself are rather bawdier in nature,” you reply, cheeks warming when he shoots you a look in response.

After a few more minutes, Aegon and Helaena finally reach the seating area and, as Helaena bolts ahead while Aegon flags down a servant carrying a flagon of wine, you turn to face the chair that the princess will occupy, your hand slipping out of Aemond’s as you do so, his fingertips brushing yours.

You find you miss the warmth, even as Helaena snatches up your other hand immediately, squeezing it tightly as if it was the little bug toy Aegon had gifted her that she carried around in her pockets to fidget with.

“Careful, princess,” you playfully scold, voice low and quiet as Otto Hightower stands to officially announce the beginning of the jousting event. “I’m afraid I plan to still have some use for my hand in the future.”

“Sorry,” Helaena says quickly in response, her tight grip loosening only a fraction. “I was nervous and scared of making a mistake.”

You smile encouragingly. “You did marvelous, Helaena. No mistakes.”

Her eyes dull. “No choice. There will be no choice.”

Your heart seizes in your chest and you curl your hand around her’s protectively.

No choice. No choice.

Her most repeated phrase haunts and mocks you, filling your brain with endless doubts and worries. Biting back the pleads that you know will never bring you answers, you nod your head, turning your attention back to the jousting field. The various knights that will be participating in today’s lists ride in front of the box and you can easily pick out Tygett in front of the procession, a golden lion roaring on his impossibly shiny armor.

“I wonder how long my cousin’s squire slaved away polishing to achieve that gleam,” you wonder out loud.

Helaena giggles nervously. “If he’s anything like Daeron, I doubt he got any sleep. I’m sure even now, Daeron is fretting over some aspect of Lord Ormund’s armor that he thinks he didn’t get to prepare to his highest standard.”

You laugh at that. “I’m sure Prince Daeron is out there pacing a hole in the field from his nerves.”

“Lord Ormund is probably calmer than him right now,” Aemond joins in on your gentle ribbing, nodding at the calm Lord of Hightower as he rides past the royal box to the cheers of his family.

Aegon, having gotten his drink, drops heavily into the seat next to Helaena, somehow avoiding splashing Arbor gold all over him and his sister. “Little prick hardly let anyone in the apartments sleep with the way he was worrying all night as if he’s going to do something more taxing than handing our cousin his lance or fetching him some water.”

Aemond rolls his eyes. “And you were beside yourself at the idea of having to open the tourney with Sunfyre as if you haven’t flown countless times in the past.”

Aegon doesn’t seem at all annoyed with his brother’s barb, instead smiling wide. “Careful, brother,” he nearly sings as he takes a sip from his chalice. “Little Daeron and I weren’t the only ones getting worked up about the joust.”

Helaena shakes her head, shooting her future husband a look. “We were all nervous,” she scolds without any bite.

Her older brother merely shrugs, still looking impossibly pleased. “The worst part of it is over for us. Can’t say the same for everyone else.”

You watch the siblings squabble with interest, always intrigued when the Targaryen children duke it out amongst themselves as if they were normal siblings rather than royal children in line for the throne. Your attention, however, is taken away when the first listing is announced and you sit up straight in your seat at attention.

On the field, Tygett steers his horse, a massive white stallion, to stand in front of the royal box. “Lady Lannister,” your cousin calls, his voice booming even over the roar of the crowd. “I humbly ask for your favor in order to bring our house pride.”

“Is it because of the whole lions bit?” You hear Aegon ask sardonically even as you rise to your feet. You hear Aemond let out a warning hiss and you bite back a grin as you stop by the table that held piles of rings of flowers, easily picking out the one you had half-heartedly made on your journey back to King’s Landing, before heading to the railing.

“May the warrior grant you strength,” you call down to your cousin, echoing your earlier words to him. As a child, you had often imagined this moment: tossing a handsome knight your favor as the court watched, letting them all know that your love was real and true like in the songs. You had thought the first time you got to do it that it would be a romantic moment, one that you would remember for years and years into the future, a beautiful story to tell your grandchildren one day.

You feel nothing as you toss the ring of flowers down to Tygett, only a vague sense of pride when you manage to get looped onto his lance. Your cousin bows his head solemnly before galloping off to get ready for the joust and you turn back to your seat, none the worse for wear.

“Thank the Gods that’s out of the way,” you grumble as you sit down, keeping a careful eye on Tygett’s preparations even though you know he’ll easily unseat the household knight the Stokeworths have sent.

“What?” Aemond asks, similarly watching Tygett with keen eyes. “Does your cousin not set your heart aflame? Make you sing beautiful songs of courtly love?”

You roll your eyes. “If he did, I would have spent more than five minutes on the flower ring. As it were, I tried to offload it on one of my other cousins but everyone was too caught up in making and perfecting their own to make mine as well.”

“Shame poor Ser Victor won’t get to ask,” Aegon calls over to you, grinning as you shoot him a glare. “How will the poor man’s heart ever recover?”

“Hopefully it won’t,” you shoot back. “And I’ll get to enjoy the rest of this week in peace.”

Aegon snickers. “I doubt it. Victor Florent will pledge his undying love to you and then promptly meet a terribly tragic end that the court gossips about for a maximum of two weeks before moving on to the next scandal.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you say even as you clap for Tygett as he easily unseats the poor Stokeworth knight. “That’d distract from the wedding and I’d never do that to Helaena.”

“I never said you would,” Aegon says, snapping his fingers for a refill, and Helaena coughs into her hand in order to poorly disguise a laugh.

“Enough of that,” Aemond cuts in, voice cold. “Ser Tygett Lannister has already claimed her favor. She doesn’t have another to give.”

His brother laughs gleefully. “But he might win a crown to bestow. Love has a way of making men stronger than they normally are.”

“He is not in love with me, my prince,” you say, keeping your eyes on the field so you don’t turn to snap at Aegon.

“Of course, of course,” the prince responds, his voice light and laughing, and you fight the urge to snatch his wine away.

“At least he’s enjoying himself,” you grumble under your breath to Aemond and he lets out a huff of air.

“He’ll always find his amusements,” he replies, his voice tight and annoyed.

You look over at him so he can see the exasperation clear on your face. “I suppose I should be glad it’s at my expense rather than something unbecoming.”

“Victor Florent’s behavior is unbecoming,” Aemond says in a steely tone. “You’ve expressed your disinterest and yet he continues unperturbed.”

“Some songs would say that’s romantic,” you point out. “I can name you at least five right off the top of my head right now.”

“Life isn’t a song,” he shoots back, ignoring how the crowd cheers as another knight is unhorsed. “Ladies deserve a choice in their husbands. You deserve a choice and you clearly haven’t chosen him.”

You watch as his jaw clenches in anger and, slowly, your hand reaches out to brush the top of his hands, him having curled them into fists on his lap. His hand immediately relaxes and he tilts his head down to look at you, his platinum hair falling over his shoulder in cascades.

“I don’t choose him,” you say, voice low. “And I wouldn’t choose him. I’m polite because he’s popular in the court and if I dismiss him out of hand without another prospect, people will wonder why .”

I keep him around to rile you into doing something you silently add in your head, pleased as his body loosens and his hand turns to capture yours yet again.

You think you could hold his hand forever if you could get away with it.

“And if there is another prospect?” Aemond asks, his voice heavy with intention, and you stare at him, heart pounding in your chest. His thumb slowly rubs the back of your hand. “Will you reject him then?”

You nod, swallowing thickly. “I would. He’s the last man whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”

“And who is the first?”

You already know the answer.

“My shining lady of Lannister!” Aegon sings and Aemond’s face grows so cold so fast you actually marvel at the speed. “Your knight of the Brightwater rides!”

Reluctantly, you tear your gaze away from Aemond to scowl fiercely at Aegon, uncaring that he outranks you by far as a royal prince and the most probable inheritor of the Iron Throne. You idly wonder if you could get away with smacking him - anyone who has ever met him would probably agree that you had the right of it.

“Does he…” Helaena trails off and you glance at her stunned expression before glancing at the field and your blood runs cold.

Victor Florent is sitting proud as his squire runs around him doing last-minute preparation. His eyes are glued to you and, the moment he realizes your eyes are on him, his face lights up and he raises his arm in greeting and that’s when you spot it.

Tied carefully around his bicep, there is a red and gold handkerchief, the colors the exact same as the dress you are wearing. You, and the rest of the court, can tell without seeing that there is a golden lion stitched onto it.

A favor.

A favor you didn’t give but was made to seem as if you did.

Already, you can feel curious eyes on your back, can hear the gossipy whispers, and you suddenly wish you were actually the lioness that your mother liked to call you. If you were, you could leap from the royal box onto the ground and tear out Victor Florent’s throat if only to watch him realize that you weren’t the demure lady of his dreams.

“He has bravery,” Helaena whispers. “And that is all he will have.”

You’re too livid to register her tone, too furious to say anything other than an incoherent hiss of anger. You can only grip Aemond’s hand tighter and pray that the Tyrell knight he is facing will unseat him.

Except the knight doesn’t. None of the knights do and you watch with mounting fear as Victor rises in the ranks, unseating knight after knight until only three stand between him and the crown.

You want to be sick.

“He knew I would never give him my favor,” you finally say after your cousin is unseated to Lord Roland Tarly, the brother of the lord so desperately in love with your sister Tyshara. “So he fakes a personal favor from me so the court will whisper about a courting that doesn’t exist. He wishes to force my father’s hand.”

“He doesn’t have respect,” Aemond’s voice is dangerously still and you tear your eyes away from the next competitors’ preparation to look at him. His face is a mask, a far cry from the gentleness he had shown earlier, and wiped completely clear of any emotion. “He’s a fool.”

You don’t bother to watch the joust anymore, keeping your gaze on him. “He’s a bold fool,” you finally reply. “That’s more dangerous than a fool.”

“He’s a fool nonetheless,” his eye gleams and you don’t have anything to say in response, only squeezing his hand.

Since Victor Florent had ridden out onto the field, Aemond has not let go of your hand and you wonder if anyone has noticed. Your seats are close enough that it’s not automatically visible that your hands are intertwined, that he refuses to let go and you refuse to do the same. You wonder what the court will think.

You glance over your shoulder, to see if anyone is watching, and meet Queen Alicent’s eyes.

She at least sees.

You only meet her gaze for a few scant seconds before she looks back at the field but you had recognized the look in her eyes.

Fear.

But of what?

Ser Edwyn Sand unseats Lord Ormund Hightower and you don’t even have it in you to feel pity for poor Daeron because your heart immediately begins to pound loudly in your chest.

The next match is the final.

Ser Edwyn Sand vs Ser Victor Florent.

“If he wins,” you murmur under your breath. “I’m petitioning the crown to allow Dorne to live undisturbed in perpetuity.”

“If he wins,” Aegon calls over, his tone oddly contrite for once. “I’ll let you.”

With bated breath, you watch as the two knights ready themselves. Victor’s face is solemn but, just before he puts on his helmet, he shoots a glance at the royal box, staring for just a moment.

Before he raises his arm and kisses the handkerchief, grinning all the while.

Your blood boils and Aemond’s grip on your hand grows tighter.

For a moment, all stands still as Edwyn and Victor stare each other down.

Then the horn blows and they shoot off toward each other, their horses almost impossibly fast. The crowd screams in excitement.

The first pass is a miss and, as they turn quickly to face the other, you pray to the Seven that Victor’s horse will crumble beneath him, that his lance will shoot off to the side while Edwyn’s will strike true.

But the second pass is a miss too.

The crowd jeers and begs for a hit while you pray for a draw at the bare minimum.

Do not give Victor Florent that crown. Please. Please. Please.

This was the piece you couldn’t control. The move you couldn’t predict.

The horn blows once more and the two knights race towards each other again and, for a moment, you think Edwyn has done it.

But then there’s a loud crack! and Edwyn falls to the ground, showered by the wooden splinters of Victor’s lance as it shatters against his armor, knocking him down.

The crowd explodes into incomprehensible screams, so loud that you can feel your ears pop, while the royal box cheers, but you, and the rest of the front row, sit in stunned silence.

Aemond’s grip on your hand has grown so tight that it hurts but you can’t find it in you to shake him off, to tell him to let go, not when you want to keep yourself tethered to him.

You can’t reject the crown. You can’t.

In centuries of tradition, the Queen of Love and Beauty has never been able to reject the title. Even when the Queen in question is married to another, she has always been made to accept it and weather the storm that follows.

There is no choice. None you can make.

Victor Florent has laid out the perfect trap and you will be forced to step right into it.

You watch, your blood pumping in your ears, as Otto Hightower rises to his feet. On the tourney grounds, a squire runs out to Victor, carrying a pillow with a crown of blood-red roses placed on it.

You don’t even have it in you to laugh at the irony.

“Congratulations to Ser Victor Florent for unhorsing all of his opponents and winning the tourney,” Otto pauses to allow the crowd to roar their approval. “Alongside the pot of gold, you have won the crown for the jousting event. Who shall you crown your Queen of Love and Beauty?”

The crowd screams and screams and Victor beams happily up at the royal box.

For a moment, you manage to delude yourself that he’ll call his good-sister’s name or even Helaena’s. It’s her wedding. It’s only right to honor her like this.

It won’t be you. It won’t be you.

“I humbly ask my lady love, the beautiful Lady of Lannister, to accept my crown,” he declares, voice loud and firm, and you want to snarl at him, you want to rage, you want to scream.

I’m not yours. I’m not yours. I’m not yours.

But you can’t do any of that.

You can only rise in muted anger, the rest of the court rising with you so they can get a better look at your crowning. Aemond holds your hand, firm and unyielding, and he only lets go at the very last moment, arm outstretched to do so.

You know the court saw that but you can’t even find it within you to care about the gossip and the scandal that will follow.

All you can think is that you want to cave in Victor’s chest for putting you into this position, maneuvering his way into appearing to all the world as your only choice in marriage.

Just like the songs, you walk down the steps of the royal box and out to the field where Victor is waiting, the crowd screaming all around you. Just like the songs, you bow your head as Victor places the crown of roses on your head and allow him to grab your hand to press a sweaty kiss on the back of it.

Your hand still in his, you turn to face the royal box, keeping your face perfectly still as you look up at them, not smiling or blushing like you know they expect you to.

You look up and you see Aemond.

He’s not watching you. His eye is on Victor. While the court claps and cheers around him, he stands stock still. Even from here, you can see the hungry and vicious gleam in his eye as he stares down at Victor.

You’ve only ever seen it once before; when King Viserys had thrown him away on Driftmark, when Aemond had been aching for blood and retribution.

In this moment, you realize that he is all the worst things people say about him. He’s cruel and he’s vicious and he will tear out Victor’s throat for this. The look on his face is cold and frightening and next to you, you can feel the exact moment Victor notices, when his overeager waving slows as he realizes that he’s drawn the ire of a dragon.

In the distance, you hear Vhagar roar, loud and distinctive even over the crowd’s cheers, and finally, you allow yourself to smile, a thrill running down your spine.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x reader #as promised some pre-marital hand holding! (:#and also a bunch of other stuff that's going to propel the plot forward but we're all here for the hand holding right?

254 notes · View notes

safely-in-vhagars-belly · 6 months

Text

HOTD TRAILER QUOTES GRAPHICS BY A CERTIFIED FAILED GRAPHIC ARTIST.

𝒜𝐿𝐿 𝑀𝒰𝒮𝒯 𝒞𝐻𝒪𝒪𝒮𝐸

''There is nothing so hateful to the gods as a war between Kin, and no war as bloody as a war between dragons.''-Princess Rhaenys, House of the dragon (From the season trailer teaser)

''Men-at-arms, your king has joined you! Hold to your courage, hold to your wits, for the Seven have blessed and shielded this host with divine purpose! For the one true king, Aegon! Advance!''-Ser Criston Cole, House of the Dragon

''The war will be fought. Many will die. And the victor will eventually ascend the throne.''-Alicent Hightower, House of the Dragon (teaser of season trailer)

''When the desire to kill and burn takes hold and reason is forgotten, we will not even remember what began the war in the first place.''-Rhaenys, House of the dragon

''I'm as fearsome as any of them.''-Aegon II Targaryen

''I mean to fight this war. And win it.''-Rhaenyra Targaryen, House of the Dragon

''My uncle is a challenge I welcome, should he dare face me.''-Aemond on Daemon, House of the Dragon

''The realm will soon tear itself apart, if men do not remember the oaths sworn to King Viserys, and to his rightful heir.''-Jacaerys Targaryen, House of the Dragon

''All my life, I've endeavored to serve, both my house and the realm....And somehow, none of it matters.''-Alicent speaks on her duties, House of the Dragon

''My father, chose me, his first-born child, to succeed him. He held his decision until his death. And yet, Alicent's son, sits my throne!''-Rhaenyra Targaryen, House of the dragon

''Plot against the king, and I will pay it back a hundred times over.''-Aegon on Treason, House of the Dragon

''The hightowers are marching, you must crush this beast at its head.''-Corlys Velyaron, House of the dragon

''We will prevail and bring forth peace,but you must accept that the path to victory now, is one of violence.''-Otto warns Aegon.

''We fight for our Queen!''-Daemon Targaryen, House of the Dragon

''You have no idea, the sacrafices that were made to put you on that Throne.''-Alicent Hightower, house of the dragon

''Our terms are simple: Renouce the false king, and bend the knee to the Queen, or your house burns.''-Daemon Targaryen

''They wish now not for the good of the realm, but for the satisfaction of vengeance!''-Otto Hightower, House of the dragon

''I fear what I have begun.''-Rhaenyra Targaryen, House of the Dragon

''Good! To war, then!''-Aegon Targaryen, House of the Dragon

....

......

i wish I could end it here, it would be such a cool read, me thinks.

Sadly, there is one last quote.

''Only weeks ago, my lord husband was alive, and the realm was at peace. On his death bed, he knew that the realm would never accept a Queen. Rhaenyra's supporters will believe what they wish, but Viserys wanted Aegon to succeed him.''-Alicent Hightower, House of the Dragon

-----

Like, i wanted to end with the ''good to war'' and ''i fear what ive begun'' but thats not in the stars, alas. I should say, I happen to collect a lot of quotes from books/movies/series so thats why it keeps saying ''from house of the dragon'' a dozen times over, xD.

#Aemond targaryen #Alicent Hightower #Rhaenys Targaryen #Corlys Velyaron #Jacaerys Targaryen #Criston Cole #Aegon II Targaryen #Rhaenyra Targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #Daemon targaryen #Otto Hightower

8 notes · View notes

dragonbanexxi · 2 years

Text

The Dragon Queen

Not Canon Compliant!!!!

Jaehaera Targaryen x Aegon III Targaryen

Chapter 11: Jaehaera

“Beloved cousin!” The mock in his tone as clear as day. “How lovely to see you again.” His smile oozing of cocksure arrogance.

The Green Princess doesn’t return his fake delight, in her best disinterested voice she simply says “Prince Viserys”

The Prince’s smile drops a bit, understanding what she’s doing. Making her boundary known. They maybe blood related; ‘cousins’ as he said, but he wasn’t her family.

Jaehaera wouldn’t outright proclaim him as an enemy either, that would be foolish. She’d have the ire of the whole of King’s Landing if she harmed him, that’s why she had a kitchen maid prepare bread and salt on try.

Jaehaera motions Paroh forward, and she coats the bread in the salt eating it infront of her cousin.

Guest rights, a Westerosi tradition that out dates both the Andals and Valyrians in Westeros. By eating the offering show vows no harm will come onto him by her hands, nor could he harm her.

The child walks up to the newcomer, who in return regains his arrogant smile once more. Jaehaera’s little translator blushes cutely at the Valyrian prince. Damn near swooning infront of him.

The Green Princess must admit her cousin was handsome. His pale silver hair cut neatly to his shoulders. A strong jawline, and his eyes the purest amethyst. He stood a good head taller than her.

Viserys chuckles as he finishes his offering.

“My cousin I’m surprised you still remember Westerosi customs.”

The Princess shares a look with Ser Robert. “Why do you say your grace?”

The handsome man steps forward, causing Ser Robert to tighten his grip on the hilt of his steel sword.

“Well seeing that you’ve been frolicking around Essos for the better part of a decade, I had assumed you had turned half savage.”

“Mind your tongue boy!” Ser Robert snarls “You’re not in Westeros anymore.” The gleam in the knight eyes dangerous.

The threat only works to make Viserys even more annoying. “Ahh yes, Ser Robert I presume?” The prince drawls. “You’ve gained quite the name back home you know. Ser Robert The Deserter.”

Ser Robert doesn’t react he simply says “A Kings Guard serves his King for life. My TRUE king…” the older man emphasizes the word true, “ordered me to protect the princess at all cost.”

Now it’s Viserys turn to snarl “The Usurper you mean, he was no King! Only a pretender! My Mother was the rightful queen!”

Ser Robert smirks just as arrogantly as prince did earlier “Not for some”

If looks could kill, her sworn shield would have been six feet under. Viserys face looks murderous like he could lunge at him any second now. The prince opens his mouth to retort something back but is interrupted.

“Alright that’s enough from both of you. I will not have you both come to blows in my courtyard.” She steps closer to her estranged cousin but faces her sworn shield.

“Ser Robert, Prince Viserys for the time being is my guest, he will be treated with respect.” The man nods, begrudgingly so. Though she knows he will obey.

“Prince Viserys, Ser Robert is my sworn shield. I will not have anyone in my council disrespected by you, while you’re here.” Her voice grows stern, “Both of you understand, yes?”

“Yes…” both men say in unison.

“Good” she hums. “Now, I will not beat around the bush Prince Viserys.” Their eyes lock, his face serious.

“What brings you to Meeren?”

The prince’s air of arrogance resurrecting once more. A small smile ghosting his lips. “Can’t a man pay a visit too his long lost cousin?”

He doesn’t get a reaction out of her. Her emotions were well kept to herself just as when she was a child.

“Seeing as how you or any of your folk haven’t visited before, one can only grow suspicious.” She sees his amethyst eyes travel from her collarbone to her neck slowly. She doesn’t like it. Oddly it feels like she his prey.

He interrupts her thoughts, “Our folk cousin. They’re your blood too.”

Jaehaera couldn’t help but sour her face at the comment. The remaining blacks meant nothing to her and she wouldn’t flatter herself in believing she meant something to them in return.

“Let us speak with truth Prince Viserys.”

He pouts at her feigning hurt. “Very well cousin, but let us speak over wine” his smile mischievous. “It’ll do me better to speak with truth over good wine and pretty company.”

Giving a dejected sigh she says “Very well, let us head inside.” Jaehaera turns walking towards the entrance. Her Unsullied guards close at behind. They make there way through the long hallway that was lit up by burning torches. The light of the flames and the bronze color of the walls made the hallway glow gold.

“It’s a nice dig you’ve acquired for yourself cousin.”

He didn’t see her eye twitch nor her nose scrunch up since she had her back towards him. It was absolutely insufferable how informal Viserys was acting towards her.

“Yes the Great Pyramid has its charm, as does the rest of the city.” Her voice neutral.

“The art is very erotic for my taste however.” His voice smug. “Harpy’s fucking mermaids… now that is just horrifying.”

“Do you ever keep quiet?” She says before she can stop herself.

“Yeah, only when I’m using my mouth for other activities.”

“Yes well the art of silence doesn’t hurt to learn.”

He lets out a childish huff. Jaehaera ignores it but smirks triumphantly.

They finally made it to her private quarters, it had a large living room to host company. She motions her cousin to sit in cushioned seat. Ser Robert standing outside her door loyally. The knight gives a reassuring nod, meaning he’s ready to cut the newcomer down if need be. Jaehaera smiles gratefully at him. She owes this man the world.

Viserys ignores her heading straight for the pitcher of wine.

“Finally!” He exclaims happily. “Red wine! I’ve been surviving on nothing but white Essosi and I’m tired of it.” Cheerfully filling up two goblets for he and Jaehaera. Handing it too her.

Looking at her expectantly to see if she drinks. Jaehaera mutters a quiet thank you, taking a ladylike sip. She allows herself to partake only because she saw him pour it. Had he been facing away from her, the wine would have been untouched.

Viserys sits down with his legs crossed, leaning back languidly. His pale hand swirling his wine in his goblet.

“You’ve changed Haera.”

Her Lilac eyes finding his at the mention of her nickname. Her palms grow sweaty, she grips her dress gently.

“Haera…” her voice quiet. A sad half smile gracing her face. “I can’t remember when was the last time someone referred to me as such.” It didn’t feel right however. Haera was too intimate, a nickname given to her by Jaehaerys.

“I think I told you once not too call me that when were children.”

It earns her an impish grin from the Targaryen Prince. “Yes you did, but when do I ever listen?” His tone playful.

Jaehaera only sighs with a small roll to her eyes. “Why are you here Viserys? What does your brother want?”

Her cousin drinks from goblet smirking a bit at her. “My brother wants peace cousin.” The vague answers irritating her but she keeps a civil face.

“Peace?” She repeats seeing him nod once.

“Peace, cousin. To end the war, and keep our family… united.”

Her pale brows fur. “The war has been over for almost ten years now. Surely there isn’t anything left for us to parley.”

“You’ll be surprised cousin dearest how much you’re missed back home.”

Jaehaera scoffs very unladylike. Westeros miss her? After ten years of self imposed exile. That’s pure rubbish.

“You’re full of shit Viserys”

His eyes sparking in interest, liking her off the cuff attitude. Viserys likes haughty women, and his cousin like him burns of dragon fire.

“Ahh there she is, I was beginning to wonder when my tart tongued cousin was going to appear!”

Jaehaera clenched her jaw not liking being called tart tongued at all. “You haven’t changed one bit, still as obnoxious as ever.”

The man snickers into his goblet, sipping happily. Gods he hopes he can convince her to return back home with him. Jaehaera’s dryness could give his sister Baela a run for her money.

“I’m not lying cousin. Aegon wants you to return home so the war can end once and for all.”

She gives him an incredulous look. The Dance of Dragons ended ten years ago.

“There is no war. Aegon is King now.”

“True, but his grace needs more stability.”

Her brow raises signifying that she doesn’t understand.

“The noble houses who supported your father are making Aegon’s life difficult at court.” He elaborates.

That makes Jaehaera snort. “And that is my problem because…?”

“Tis your problem because they want to replace my brother with you.” Blood pumps painfully through her heart now.

“The Lannister’s and Baratheon’s are not happy that they’ve been made to pay most of the reparations towards the Riverlands. They think by getting rid of us and installing you, you’ll make Lord Tully return the gold and money they gave him.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She mutters, “that contradicts the purpose of them siding with my father.”

The mention of Aegon the Second brings a small sneer on her cousins face.

“Yes well it doesn’t take away from the fact that it’s treasonous.” Viserys says flatly. “Aegon is the rightful King.”

That statement was true. Only because her uncles and brothers are no longer alive. Apart of her is whispering to defend her faction. “If Jaehaerys would have lived, he would have been the rightful King.”

Her cousin’s fingers grip the goblet tightly, “Let’s not do this Jaehaera.”

She gets a chill from how frosty his tone turned. Jaehaera doesn’t show it however, it’s her turn to be obnoxious.

“No I will speak with truth. My Father was the rightful heir by the laws of Seven.”

“I would prefer to speak of something else.”

She put on her best diplomatic face. “Fine,” she growls “Have it your way! Write to his grace and inform him that I have no plans nor any want to return to the Seven Kingdoms. I’m quite content here in Meeren.” She sets her goblet down on the well crafted table.

“I don’t think you understand cousin. He doesn’t want to make a hostage out of you.” His voice still serious.

“I don’t care what he wants!” Jaehaera roars. She stands up abruptly. Walks towards to window. Looks outside to her city. Everything looks so tiny from up where she’s at. Like a tiny ant colony.

“Aegon wants peace? Tell him to leave me be and find stability elsewhere.” Her heart racing like a stampede.

“Fuck Westeros! Fuck you! Fuck the King! Just leave me alone!” The anger in her voice was powerful.

“Now Haera we both know that is impossible.” His footsteps were light, Jaehaera notes. He was standing behind her.

His breath hot in her ear, “Not when you have three baby dragons in your possession.” He whispers, causing her to shiver. He traps her between the window seal and his body, encasing her with his long arms.

Her lilac eyes widening like those of an owl. How did he know about her dragons? Her thoughts turning to babies. Would they kill her and take them back to Westeros?

She turns to face him. The urge to slap the smugness off his face strong. Glaring up at her cousin, utterly annoyed that she only reached up to his neck.

She pushes him away from her, making space between them.

“If you even think about-“,

Viserys cuts her off. Taking her dainty hands in his large ones in a firm grip so she doesn’t pull away. His amethyst eyes sincere as they sought out her lilac ones.

“I’m not thinking anything Jaehaera, I want you to trust me and Aegon.” He pulls a piece of parchment from out his doublet handing it too her.

It’s warm in her hands, and smells of Viserys. Sandalwood and spice ash. It smells like a man. “It’s a letter written for you personally by Aegon. Read it later. We can speak more tomorrow.”

She nods in agreement.

“Good. Now I have an important request from you cousin.” His voice back to his normal smugness.

“Oh? How may I be of service?”

His feline smile gracing his face once more. “Well you see, I brought a whore with me from Astapor. Could she stay in quarters while I’m here?”

The shock on her face must have hilarious because Viserys busy out laughing. That was the last thing she expects him to say. Finding the humor in this, she too laughs along with him.

“Very well, that’s alright with me.”

“Try not to be jealous cousin.”

“Oh please, I pity the poor woman. She has to put up with your nonstop chatter.”

“Not when I’m using my mouth to-“

“Do shut up!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just the first glimpse of their chaotic friendship that’s soon to come :)

Thank you guys again ❤️ Comments are always welcomed!

#aegon iii targaryen #jaehaera targaryen #jaehaera targaryen x aegon iii targaryen #jaehaera x aegon iii

39 notes · View notes

baelonthebrave · 2 years

Text

'til queendom come, ch. 10 (finale)

[masterlist] [Ao3] [playlist]

aemond targaryen x targaryen oc

wordcount: 15,249

ch. 10, soldier, poet, king: "No matter what comes after this life, no matter what comes in this life, I fear you’re rather stuck with me, Prince Aemond.”

His laugh was boyish, high and sweet. “Then eternity shall have to do, Princess Visenya."

warnings: canon-typical violence, canon-typical incest, abusive parent/child relationship, nsfw/18+, rough sex, choking, mentions of canon sexual violence & abuse (including against minors), spoilers for HoTD/F&B

a/n: wow 🥹 that's it, folks! So emotional to be at the end, but I'm so freaking glad this has been so warmly received and I cannot wait to hear if you all liked the ending. Comments, asks, reblogs, replies <3 it all means a lot to me! And I think there WILL be a shorter 20 - 30k sequel at some point in the future, although when exactly I cannot say... but watch this space!

Once King’s Landing loomed before Sena and she officially had a crown upon her head, she no longer had the luxury of worrying by Aemond’s bedside in peace. The work of piecing the realm back together started and it didn’t stop, in fact it was all she could do to stem the tide. She threw together a Small Council based solely off of people she felt she could afford a basic level of trust and in those shaky early days she often wondered what in the Seven Hells she had gotten herself into. But Princess Rhaenys came into the role of Hand of the King like she was born to it, lending experience and steadiness where Sena had little and less. Lord Cregan Stark thankfully took up the role of Master of Laws at her bequest to right some of the furious mess the kingdom was in, and Lord Corlys Velaryon retook his role as Master of Ships. From there, Lord Tyland Lannister as Master of Coin returned the crown’s fortune to the royal coffers, Ser Criston Cole resumed his role as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and the newly legitimised Lady Alys Strong of Harrenhal arrived in the capital to serve as Mistress of Whispers.

And so, they got to work. The great roads in and out of the city were thrown wide open to trade, as was their ports on the Narrow Sea. Despite some initial hesitance, slashed taxes encouraged traders back to the market squares and the smallfolk to go out and spend their hard-earned coin. The Faith of the Seven worked with the crown through Queen Alicent to feed and clothe the most desperate; it was amazing what the royal coffers could pay for when they were not fielding armies and paying sellswords.

A smaller, more personal victory for Sena was convincing Daeron to knight Jarrad for her in recognition of his loyal service during the Siege of King’s Landing, so she might take him on as a sworn shield. The first morning she was able to steal away from the castle for a few hours, she visited Ser Jarrad and his wife, Marigold in their new home just past Cobbler’s Square.

It was on her return from that visit that she finally slipped down a familiar hallway of Maegor’s Holdfast.

She had been trying to see Helaena since she had first set foot back in the city, nearly a whole week ago now, but she was continually rebuffed by the former Queen’s household, telling her she was receiving no visitors. So, Sena finally took it upon herself to sneak in. As much as anyone can sneak anywhere when they were attended by a Kingsguard.

The guard on Helaena’s door took one look at the distinctive missing fingers on her sword hand and her white-cloaked companion and stepped aside for her without a word. Sena nodded a thanks and opened the door.

The air was stale and sour as she slipped into the room.

Through a slim gap in the curtains, a little light spilled in, and dust motes danced on the air. At the table in the centre of the room were abandoned dishes and food that was growing fur. Sena fought to keep from wrinkling her nose, her already sensitive stomach churning.

On the bed, there was a mound of furs and blankets. Sena drew closer on shaky feet. “Helaena?” She whispered. “Helaena, sweetheart?” The mound of furs did not stir, but there was a change in the steady rise and fall. It grew a little quicker, a little more harried. “Helaena, it’s me, it’s Sena.”

Helaena finally raised her head, letting her blankets fall, and she looked so tired. Her beautiful hair was a wild tangle with what looked to be matted clumps in the back. The neck of her nightgown was yellowed with sweat. “Oh Helaena,” Sena breathed.

“Sena,” Helaena whispered. She let out a breath and let her head fall back to the pillows, watching her oldest friend approach.

Sena nodded. “It’s me,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

Helaena shook her head. “You were here. For months, you were here, locked up and alone and I did not come to you. Not even once.”

“Helaena, do not…” Sena trailed off. She reached the side of the bed. “May I?”

Helaena watched her with large, lamp-like eyes and nodded slowly. Sena climbed up onto the bed, burrowing under the covers, and pulled Helaena into her arms. The girl smelled sour, like sweat and filth, but Sena just pulled her closer, tucking her head under her chin. “Sweet girl, do not apologise to me,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to Helaena’s hair, wiping at her cheeks with her healing hand. “I am so sorry you had to do this alone.”

Helaena was moving in slow motion, so Sena held herself steady as the girl reached up and took her disfigured hand in hers. Helaena had bitten her nails to the bloody quick. Large rashes splayed down her fingers, the backs of her hands, turning her skin to scales and flakes. Sena’s heart ached in sympathy. “Your sword hand, Sena- what happened to you?” Helaena asked softly, wetly, taking in the bandages that covered Sena’s hand.

Sena reached out with her left hand and gently pulled Helaena’s gaze up to meet hers with a finger. Dark bruises marred her under eyes. She could not get out of bed and she could not sleep. What a hellish limbo to be stuck in, staring at the wall, the ceiling, seeing her children’s bodies every time she closed her eyes. It gripped Sena in a dark pool of fear, resisting the urge to reach for her own belly.

“I won, Helaena,” she said, pressing a kiss to the girl’s forehead. “I won. That’s what happened.”

Helaena met her eyes shakily and nodded. Tears tracked down the bridge of her nose, dampening her already soiled pillow. Sena pulled her into her chest, kissed the crown of her head. She felt a growing damp spot on the throat of her gown as Helaena weeped against her. “Shh, shh,” she soothed. “We ended it. We ended it. I know it will not bring them back, Helaena, I know. But we ended it.”

“I do not know how to go on,” Helaena sobbed. “I do not know how to get out of this bed. Even the ladies, my maids have given up on me. I cannot… I cannot…”

Sena nodded against her head, smoothing down her hair, sliding her hand over the top layer so she did not catch on the tangles. “Do not worry about that, Helaena. Let me worry about that,” she drew back and met Helaena’s eyes, pressing their foreheads together. “We can make a deal. We can make a deal right now. You let me figure it out, you let me find out how we go on from this. In return, you promise me - you breath. You blink. You sleep. You sup water. You eat when you can, whatever you can. Do you think you can promise me that, Helaena?”

Helaena blinked away more tears. She curled her fingers into Sena’s. “I will do my best, Sena.”

Sena nodded, relieved. “And that is all I can ask of you. That is all you can ask of yourself, sweet girl.”

They lay like that for awhile, Sena cradling Helaena against her chest, holding her as she cried, tears tracking down her own temples. She held Helaena as she shook and shivered and sobbed. She breathed for the both of them, drawing deep, steadying lungfuls of air. Her hand ached where they were twined into Helaena’s, throbbing with pain but she did not pull away, just gritted her teeth.

“Helaena,” she whispered after what felt like hours, after the girl had awoken from a fitful slumber. “Helaena, can I ask you to do something for me? It is a big ask, but it is important.”

Sena met soft lilac eyes and Helaena nodded shakily. “For you? Anything.”

Sena kissed her cheek and drew a breath. “Will you come with me? Get up with me? It’s your brother, it’s Aemond,” she whispered softly into the space between them. “He wants to see you but he cannot get out of bed. He is okay, he is growing stronger every day, but the journey to the Capital was hard on him.”

Helaena drew breath. “I do not want Aemond to see me like this, Sena.”

Sena shook her head. “Aemond loves you,” she said softly, “exactly as you are. He asks for you day and night. We can take the hidden passages. Remember we used to sneak through them as children? Do me this one thing, Helaena, and I swear I will never ask anything of you ever again.”

Helaena drew a deep breath, steadied herself, and nodded.

The sky was darkening outside as Helaena was gently coaxed from bed. Sena helped her shirk off the old nightgown, replaced it with a fresh one. She pulled Aemond’s hair ribbon from her own hair and bound Helaena’s hair at the base of her neck loosely. She cupped Helaena’s cheek in her hand. “There is so much beauty in your strength, it makes my heart ache, Helaena,” she murmured.

Helaena shook her head weakly. “Do not jest, Sena. I am not strong. I wield no sword, I sit on no council-“

“You endure. With a kind heart, with love for every living creature the Gods put on this world,” Sena said, holding Helaena’s gaze with the sureness of steel. “You have been to hell and back and you are still kind, Helaena. What could be stronger than that? I need you in my life, Aemond needs you. You let us see the forest, not just the trees. You keep us kind, Helaena. There is no nobler fight than living in a cruel world and remaining kind.”

Helaena nodded, her eyes brimming with fresh tears, and allowed Sena to lead her from her rooms. Into the hidden passages, through the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast. Sena rested her hand on a rusting handle and pushed.

The hidden door creaked on its hinges, and Aemond’s rooms opened out before her, her fingers still twined tightly into Helaena’s, keeping her going.

A valiant fire crackled in Aemond’s hearth - Alicent had taken over keeping it stoked for her for the day - and the Prince perked up in bed, raising his head from his pillows. Their mother raised her head from her reading - a ledger for the next planned soup kitchen for the needy, by the looks of things. They both took in Helaena, gaunt and tired, and gave her pure looks of love.

Sena helped her friend to the edge of Aemond’s bed and Helaena rested back against the headboard, sitting next to her recovering brother.

Daeron had left for Dragonstone at Sena’s command, to take his brother Aegon home once they had received word of the former king’s seizing of the keep. Sena would trust Daeron with her life, knew he would bring Aegon back safe so they could all kneel at the foot of Aegon III’s throne alongside Rhaenyra.

But there would be time for all that tomorrow. Right now, Aemond reached out for her. He was growing stronger and was awake for most of the day now, weaning himself off of the pain relief so he could claw back his mind. The maesters had not yet assented to him replacing his sapphire eye, so the socket still gaped where his left eye had been, but none of the women who loved him in that room minded at all. Sena rounded the bed and sat down on his other side, pulling his hands into her lap and pressing a kiss to his head. Helaena smiled softly at them.

“My darling girl,” Alicent breathed. “I have so missed your smile.”

Helaena turned to look at her mother, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Aemond took one hand from Sena’s lap and reached out to grip Helaena’s fingers. “Hello, sister,” he said in his croaking voice.

Helaena squeezed his hand. “It seems you two have been getting yourselves in trouble,” she said quietly.

Aemond laughed, low in his throat. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Alicent raised her eyebrows. “We are lucky to still have the both of them, Helaena,” she said, shaking her head minutely. “Fools, the pair of them.”

Sena grinned, remembering the look of pure exasperation the Queen Dowager had given them when she had arrived at Harrenhal weeks ago to find one of them near death and the other with child. But then the emotions had caught up and she had burst into tears of joy, pulling Sena against her and weeping into her neck. Sena had held her tightly, a little bewildered, combing her fingers through rich brown waves and patiently answering every question about a wedding, and what they would serve, and who they would invite, and would she be showing by then? The scandal. But she supposed she understood - a certain amount of scandal would be inevitable in their situation. Even if you put aside the entire civil war, there was still the small matter of a broken betrothal and a child conceived out of wedlock, and the scandal would only grow as her belly did and she remained unmarried.

In truth, Sena could not wait to wed Aemond. She would have found the first septon she could lay her hands on by now if it was not for the fact they would not do it without Helaena at their side. And what was scandal and gossip to the House of the Dragon? Seeing as there was currently no higher power in the land than Sena other than her own seven-year-old brother, her dissenters could answer to Vermithor.

“Did you tell her?” Aemond asked his betrothed, looking up at her with a soft smile. Sena looked across them and met Helaena’s eye.

“Tell me what?” Helaena asked, taking in the looks on their faces and thankfully smiled with them. Good news, at last.

Sena twined her fingers into Aemond’s and brought their hands to rest on her stomach, where a small bump was growing, day by day. “We are to be married, Helaena,” she told her softly, “but we might have put the cart before the horse, I’m afraid. The Grand Maester thinks me due in five moons.”

Fresh tears broke free of Helaena’s eyes as she tackled her brother to the bed, kissing his cheeks and giggling happily. Aemond protested weakly, not meaning a single word of it, and held her to his chest, laughing his boyish laugh. Alicent smiled at them from her seat by the fire, her own eyes glistening. “Do not attack me!” Aemond laughed, “Sena is the one with the bastard in her!”

“Your bastard,” Helaena grumbled, smacking his chest playfully. “Honestly, brother. Pious, honourable Aemond! Have you no shame?”

There was no heat in her words though and brother and sister laughed heartily. Then, Helaena reached over her brother to pull Sena into her arms. “Oh Sena,” she breathed.

Sena held her tightly, feeling a lightness in her chest at long last. “I have so missed you, Helaena. We will never be apart again, I swear it.”

Helaena kissed her cheek, gripped her hands. “I will make sure you have the most beautiful wedding ring in the known world. I swear it.”

Aemond made a sound of protest, lying between them. “Perfectly capable of doing that myself, thank you,” he grumbled.

“Shut it,” Helaena said.

“Stop ruining the moment, ñuha prūmia,” Sena chided.

The Prince lay back on his pillows with a playful scowl and shook his head at them. “I do not think I deserve you three,” he said, gazing at them all with a happy smile.

“Four,” Helaena corrected, cradling Sena’s tummy gently.

“You will never have to earn our love, sweet boy,” Alicent said, watching the three of them with a misty, joyful look. “You earn it just by being you.”

Sena laid herself down next to her Prince, her betrothed, the father of her babe and kissed his shoulder.

The only fear in her was that she felt so light she might float away.

-----

The rising sun was just breaking over Blackwater Bay when the small congregation convened. In the depths of winter, there was a distinct chill on the air in Vhagar’s cavern, and Sena was grateful for the heavy robes covering her from neck to wrist, shoulder to ankle. The journey down the sloping, rough-hewn hallway had been difficult for Aemond on his cane, but he maintained with gritted teeth that it was worth it to keep the little ceremony secret.

Sena and Helaena helped Aemond down to sit on a boulder, Sena gripping her betrothed by the elbows until he was down, and allowed him to catch his breath. “Vhagar?” She called, and the large dragon still looked a little disgruntled with her temporary cohabitant, Vermithor curling at the mouth of the cave. Nevertheless, she looked to Sena, looked to her struggling master, ready to obey. “Māzigon kesīr se gaomagon zirȳla bāne?” She asked gently of the dragon. Come here and keep him warm?

After long years spent together and watching Aemond grow from boyhood, Vhagar had a certain fondness for her rider and shuffled closer, coiling her tail around the rock the Prince sat on. Aemond’s strained breathing softened as his dragon kept the cold at bay with her fiery blood and warm breath. Sena pushed his hair behind his ear, unbound today, and kissed his forehead.

Helaena was watching them with a distant look on her face. “Dragons mate for life,” she murmured, “no matter the size of the clutch.”

Aemond looked up at Sena and gave her a wry grin. “It will be a large clutch of eggs if I have any say in the matter,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “When I no longer have a kingdom to run, I’ll give you all the hatchlings you desire, my Prince,” she said. “But until then, you’ll have to make do with one.”

Helaena giggled. “Do not worry, Sena. As soon as he is getting up for a crying babe five times a night, his ambitions will lessen.”

Aemond scoffed in protest. He did not care for the implication that he would be anything but the most energetic and dedicated of fathers, but the ladies laughed. “Come, Aemond,” Sena said, squeezing his shoulder. “It is to be a busy day, we should perhaps get started.”

Helaena turned and looked around. “Will you be okay to stand, brother? I can do it here, if that is better?”

Aemond shook his head and rose with a grunt, one hand firmly on his cane and the other gripping Sena’s for steadiness. “No. No. Sea air and sun, we shan’t do this any other way.”

They came to the mouth of the cave, standing on the edge of a cliff that overlooked the bay, and with Sena commanding a little help from Vermithor, they lit a brazier.

What came next was so sacred, Sena felt entirely bewitched in the moment.

She had stood witness to her father and stepmother’s ceremony, of course, but nothing compared to actually being in it. Holding Aemond’s gaze in her own, his face uncovered, sapphire eye back in place, with only Helaena and the dragons to bear witness as they spoke their mother tongue.

Helaena had been overjoyed to be asked to officiate for them and had learned her words well. She spoke softly and slowly, her voice enchanting and she gently pressed a shard of dragonglass into Aemond’s palm.

Their blood brimmed from their cut lips, their cut palms as the brazier burned. When their blood joined between their palms, the sun fell on Aemond’s fine features, making his white hair shine silver, and Sena could have sworn there was never a more beautiful being in the entire world.

Helaena spoke the final, sacred words and Aemond met her halfway in a kiss that tasted like iron and eternity.

And they just stood like that for a moment, holding each other, their growing child cocooned between their bodies.

Once they returned to the red keep, the rest of the castle was only just starting to stir. Aemond kissed her gently at the door of her childhood bedroom. After today, there would be no more separate rooms for them, and it sent a thrill through her to think of it. “I’ll leave you here, before my brothers come to hunt me down,” he said with a smile. “See you soon, wife.”

“See you soon, husband,” she said with a little thrill, and watched him until he was out of sight, proudly noting he had not put his eyepatch back on when they had come into the keep.

Once they were back in Sena’s childhood room, Helaena helped her out of her robes and headdress and into a gown of rich, deep blue. Strategically chosen for its meaning of peace, secretly chosen for its resemblance of a glittering sapphire.

Helaena dabbed sweet, smoky perfume on both Sena’s wrists, on her throat, behind her ears and then began to twine her curls into braids. Her maiden cloak was a deep, consuming black with a fiery red three-headed dragon clawing at her shoulders. A few errant curls framed her face and her mouth was left bare to let the cut on her lower lip heal, but it made no difference, as once she was ready, she could not take her eyes off herself in the looking glass.

“My beautiful friend, finally my sister,” Helaena said, leaning down to meet her gaze in the reflection. She lay her hands on Sena’s shoulders and Sena reached up to take them in her own. Even the stitched, healing stumps of her right hand could not mar the beauty she saw in the mirror, staring back at her. If anything, it added something, showed what they had both done, what they had sacrificed to be here. “Thank you for including me this morning.”

“It only felt right,” Sena said. “From day one, it was you, me and Aemond. I only wish you could come to the ceremony in the sept, I’m rather afraid to face them all alone.”

“Not alone. Aemond will be there,” Helaena gave her a watery smile. “I wish I could come too, though.”

Sena nodded. “Too much too soon, isn’t it?”

“I just… could not bare to have everyone staring at me. And Jaehaera,” she said softly.

“You have been so brave today, Helaena. We’re all so proud of you,” Sena said, and squeezed her fingers. Helaena kissed the crown of her head.

There was a light knock at the door, and a page made himself known. “The sept is ready for you, Lady Regent,” he said.

Sena inclined her head to him as her stomach twisted with nerves and she stood, rounding the dressing table.

“Wait!” Helaena squeaked, and Sena turned back to her, alarmed. “Wait. Your crown.”

Sena scoffed, so anxious had she been to go and get married before every lord and lady in the Kingdom that she’d nearly forgotten. She sat herself back down and watched in the looking glass as Helaena crossed to the mantle and returned with the golden crown of the Conciliator.

Jaehaerys’s crown still rested heavy on her brow, but Sena considered it a good reminder of the weight of the responsibility on her. As she did every time she donned the crown, she sent up a silent prayer that whatever Gods were listening - whether they be her mother’s, her father’s, or Aemond’s - would give her the strength and wisdom to wear it.

Then, she kissed her goodsister farewell and followed the page from the room.

The city’s largest sept, atop Visenya’s Hill was already brimming with lords, ladies and knights from each corner of the Seven Kingdoms when they arrived. The only major exception was House Baratheon, Lord Borros having made some weak excuse about not being able to be absent from Storm’s End for a wedding and a coronation. In truth, he still smarted over Prince Aemond’s spurned betrothal, but that was a problem for another day, Sena said to herself with a resolute firmness.

Sena walked the length of the Sept, standing on her own without an escort. She mounted the marble steps and took her place by Aemond's side, her husband casting her a jubilant smile. Daeron mounted the steps and together, the two brothers helped her remove her maiden cloak. Sena looked out over the Sept and the gathered worshippers, could name nearly every face in the crowd at this point, from her own family to Lord Benjicott Blackwood, Lord Ormund Hightower, Lady Sabitha Frey and more, all assembled for the nuptials of Aegon’s Regent.

In the front row of witnesses, King Aegon III took pride of place. He was to be coronated in the Dragonpit a week from today and Sena noticed with a pang that the circlet of Valyrian steel and rubies on his brow was very nearly too large, slipping low over his brow. He was too young right now but she hoped when he was a man grown he would understand why she had put it on his head in the first place.

To his left, seated in a wheelchair was the last king, Aegon II, looking impressively put together for once. He caught Sena’s eye and sent her a wink that made her begrudgingly smile. The high collar of his black doublet hid the burns on his throat and clavicle, but he was weaning himself from the milk of the poppy at his younger brother’s insistence, day by day. To Aegon the Elder’s left stood his mother. Queen Alicent beamed up at Sena, ready to finally call her daughter.

To Aegon the Younger’s right was his mother. Rhaenyra was resplendent in crimson red, brow adorned with a circlet of gold and rubies that befitted her station as Queen Mother and had once belonged to Queen Rhaenys the Conqueror. Then was… Prince Daemon.

Sena stopped looking then. She had laughed in his face some weeks ago when he had asked at dinner if he would be escorting her in the Sept, like she was some prized bovine in his possession that he was finally deigning to hand over ownership of to Prince Aemond. What stilted communication they had had between them had ceased and they had not spoken since, but she could not tell if her father’s pride was hurt or if he was secretly relieved.

Once Daeron had carried off her maiden cloak, she turned back to the High Septon who stood above them. To her side, Aemond felt her nerves and reached out to grab her hand, giving her a little squeeze. “Breathe,” he reminded her and she had not even realised she’d been holding it. He looked positively beautiful, the silver fastenings of his black doublet that he preferred today replaced with bronze, just for her.

This ceremony did not quite hold the same magic she had felt that morning. The sense of wonder and eternal binding was replaced with sickening anxiety, with everyone in the realm watching her and the crown weighing heavy on her head. At least that was how she felt until Aemond stepped away from her and took a cloak Daeron had ready for him, placing the heavy mantle over her shoulders, two dancing bronze dragons on her back. Then, Sena’s heart surged, her head feeling impossibly light, and they stood together at the altar, husband and wife, cloaked in black and bronze.

When Aemond kissed her, she took his face in her hands and held him to her as long as she dared, applause and cheering echoing raucously in her ears. When they parted, Sena took her husband’s hand in hers and turned them to the Sept to face the witnesses. They stood tall, daring anyone to doubt their dedication to their kingdom, their family or each other ever again.

After the applause quietened down and Daeron’s voice had grown hoarse with cheering, Aemond and Sena walked arm in arm down the steps, Aemond leaning his weight on her as much as he could without it being obvious.

At the foot of the steps, they turned to the altar with the fewest candles at its base - the altar of the Stranger. There were six unlit pillars lined up ready for them and Sena lifted one of the half-melted candles, letting the flame spread from wick to wick as the nobility looked on.

King Viserys, Ser Otto, Jacaerys, Lucerys, Jaehaerys, Maelor. She counted them out under her breath.

Just as they were about to turn away, Aemond stopped her and pulled a fresh candle from below the altar, setting it aflame from the six she had just lit and setting it down. She raised her eyebrow in question at him and he pressed a kiss to her hand. “For Lady Rhea,” he said and she smiled at him as a tear sprang to her eye.

Once in the open carriage outside the Sept, Aemond breathed a sigh of relief, wincing a little as soon as he’d brought his weight off of his bad leg.

“Are you well?” Sena murmured, only loud enough for his ears. “It has been such a long day for you, love-“

He quietened her with a kiss. “And I would change nothing about it. Wedding you in the tradition of our house, just us and Helaena and the dragons, then wedding you again for every last noble and knight and peasant to see we belong to each other? I’ll do it all again, if you wish it.”

That made her laugh and she leaned over in the carriage, kissing his cheek. “I think I have been married enough for one day, my love,” she said.

“For an entire lifetime, I should hope, my Princess,” he quirked a brow at her and she laughed once again.

As their guests spilled out of the sept and the procession readied to pull away, Daeron halted their progress and boosted himself up the step of the carriage, leaning over them with a wild grin on his face. “Brother, sister,” he said with a glint in his eye.

“Daeron,” Sena quirked an eyebrow. “What mischief are you up to?” She asked, eyeing the brothers and then- was that Addam Velaryon behind Daeron, giving her a shy smile?

Daeron gave her a wounded look and pulled a small box from his doublet. “Just following an older brother’s orders,” he said with a devilish wink and passed the box to Aemond. “Congratulations, Visenya, Aemond.” He gave them another sweet smile and dropped back down to the ground, hurrying off with Addam to their horses as the procession set itself into motion.

“What in the Seven Hells was that about?” Sena asked, laughing heartily as the carriage rolled forward. The streets were lined with smallfolk celebrating the official end of the war and they began cheering as they laid eyes on their King escorted by his Kingsguard, then the Princess Regent and her new husband. Sena leaned into Aemond’s side as hundreds of pairs of eyes watched them.

“The fool was supposed to give it to me in the Sept, but I suppose this works too,” Aemond said, a grin on his face. “Better, maybe. Just you and I.”

Sena gestured around. “We’re hardly alone, Aemond.”

“Well, alone as we’re like to get today,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Shh, just- stop bickering with me for one second and come here, insufferable woman.”

Sena laughed heartily and turned towards him, allowing him to take her left hand in his and pulling it into his lap. “Insufferable wife,” she corrected.

“Darling, insufferable wife,” he said, running his thumb over the back of her hand, then opening the box. “A token of our union. From your devoted, bullheaded husband.”

Sena’s breath caught in her throat. A sapphire glittered on a band of smokey, dark metal, catching the light every way it turned. “Aemond.”

“The band was your predecessor’s wedding ring, when she married the Conqueror. We have no smiths who can craft Valyrian steel, but I found one in Braavos who can rework it. I just had the ruby removed, replaced with a sapphire mined on Tarth…” he trailed off, watching her face carefully with his serious gaze. “Do you… like it?”

Before she could stop herself, she practically seized him and pulled him against her in a searing kiss. The crowds of smallfolk around them roared and Sena laughed happily into the kiss, Aemond holding her chin in one of his hands, his tongue flicking over the cut on her lip. “Devoted, bullheaded husband… ñuha prūmia, I love it,” she said, kissing the cut on his own lip. “Put it on for me?”

Aemond gave her a nervous smile. “I hope I got the size right,” he said as he took her left hand again, pulling the ring from the box. “I knew Helaena would stick her nose in and argue with me about it if I asked her to borrow one of your rings for size, so I might have guessed.”

Sena laughed. “Fool,” she said, watching as he slipped it snuggly onto her finger. “I would have worn it on a chain if I had to.”

He looked down at the glittering, irregular sapphire on her finger and grinned. “Fits perfectly. Look at that.”

“I shall,” she said, “every day for the rest of my days.” He gave her the softest, sweetest smile. “Now I just need to dream up a ring for you.”

They were the last two to enter the great hall, set up for a subdued banquet given the circumstances, but a merry one nonetheless. When they make their entrance, everyone in the hall stood for them, applauding as they made the long walk to the high table. Aemond’s cane clicked on the flagstones and a bright blush bloomed in his cheeks. Sena held her head high so the crown did not slip but gripped her husband’s arm in hers with all her strength. He felt it and leaned into her, reassuring her with his presence.

At the foot of the plinth that the high table sat at, Sena swept into a deep curtsey before the boy king and Aemond bowed at the waist. Little Aegon thanked them politely for their obeisance, as he was prompted to by his mother, and Sena helped Aemond up the steps and to his seat.

When she finally sat, her head was spinning. Under the golden crown, the weight of her dress and her cloak, she felt ready to pass out. She pressed a kiss to her little brother’s head. “You’re not terribly bored, are you?” She asked him.

Aegon considered it for a moment then gave his blonde locks a shake. “It’s okay, Mother said you are serving lemon cakes for dessert,” he said with a little smile. “You look pretty.”

Sena smiled at him and Aemond grazed his fingers over the back of her neck, evoking a little shiver. “Doesn’t she just, nephew?”

The entire high table had been carefully arranged to show the end of their family’s division to the realm. Aegon III sat at the centre of the table, with his mother to his left hand and his now-Princess Regent sat to his right. To Aemond’s right hand was Lord Corlys to act as a buffer between the Prince, Princess Rhaenys and Prince Joffrey, then Prince Daeron, who was doing a good job of charming Addam and Alyn Velaryon. Queen Alicent was sat on Rhaenyra’s other side, speaking as easily and amicably as they could manage. Little Jaehaera was at her grandmother’s side, then Aegon II, then - unluckily for them - Sena’s sisters.

She had apologised to Baela and Rhaena profusely ahead of time for seating them where she had. But in truth, she could not think of anyone else who would have been able to keep a tight leash on their father, who sat moodily on their other side, taking in the proceedings with something between stark disinterest and open malice. Sena gritted her teeth. How she wished she could have a glass of wine right now. Or, come to think of it, maybe the entire flagon.

“You’re tense,” Aemond murmured in her ear, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand where she gripped the arm of her chair. The servants were bringing out the food now and everyone around them was filling up their plates, but Sena felt so anxious she could not truly stomach it.

She gave him a look. “Can you blame me?” She asked and caught his hand in hers.

He smiled. “No,” he said. “But please try to relax. We have an entire room of spectators to save face in front of. Nothing can go that badly.”

She cast him a mournful look. “If it were up to me, we would have had a small dinner with our sisters, Daeron, maybe your mother and that would be it.”

“Well, Baela is looking at me right now as though she is ready to eat me, so I would still have my objections to that,” he murmured low in her ear and Sena surreptitiously glanced up to see Baela was indeed glowering down the table at her new goodbrother. “Besides, if it were up to me, it would just be you and I and a bottle of Arbor red. And that’s all. Not even any clothing.”

She smirked at him and shook her head. “Well, I cannot drink the Arbor red, so you must be confident you would still be able to perform after drinking it all by yourself,” she said with a wicked grin. “I like confidence in a man, even when it is utterly foolhardy.”

Aemond shook his head with mirth. “I would take you up on the challenge but I intend to remember my wedding night. Every detail, Princess.”

The title still sounded so strange to her ears and she fought the urge to correct it even as it sent a thrill through her. “We have the rest of our lives, I suppose,” she said.

He raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed her. “We do, don’t we?” He said. “Now, pass me your plate. I know you struggle to eat when you’re tense but as your husband, I am going to politely ask that you keep our daughter fed and growing strong.”

She shook her head and laughed but passed him her plate, watching as he started loading it up with the best cuts of meat, a reduction of foraged snowberries and potatoes roasted in goose fat. Okay, maybe she could eat. “It could be a boy, Aemond,” she pointed out.

Lord Corlys gently broke in and Sena found herself hoping desperately he had not been listening the entire time. “It could be, but fathers have a sense for these things. I called both of mine correctly and all the grandchildren,” he said proudly, raising one snowy eyebrow at her.

Aemond tensed a little at the mention of Lord Corlys’s grandchildren but Sena squeezed his hand and smiled warmly at her cousin’s husband. “I suppose I have seen too much already in my life to laugh at the claim of a sixth sense among fathers, my lord,” she said.

Lord Corlys laughed. “Imagine what you will be prepared to believe in when you reach my age, Princess Regent.”

Under Aemond’s watchful eye, Sena dug into her wedding feast and the second she had actually managed to force down a bite, some of the nerves in her stomach abated. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Fine food, treasured company, a band of musicians playing merrily. After she had eaten, she looked out across the hall and managed to catch the eye of Lord Cregan Stark, her Master of Laws, who inclined his head warmly to her. She smiled and nodded back. It was pure luck and force of will that he was even still here, so desperate was he to return to the frozen north, but Sena was beginning to suspect that had more to do with the dark-haired maid of House Blackwood sat to his right than it had to do with her skills of diplomacy.

Aemond followed her line of sight and grimaced, causing Sena to smirk. She leaned in to her husband and spoke in his ear, “I don’t understand why you don’t like him. You know every hour I manage to keep Cregan Stark from running back to the frozen north is a victory, Aemond. My small council are practically holding the realm together.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow and gripped her hand. “You are holding the realm together, dearest. And Lord Cregan is far too handsome and spends far too much time in your company for me to like him.”

She laughed with her entire chest. “Lord Cregan does not have eyes for me, beloved, he is hopelessly transfixed on the Blackwood girl,” she told him, giving his arm a reassuring pat. “Besides, even if he did, there has only ever been one man for me, and I have already tricked him into being mine for eternity.”

“My love” Aemond said, “it was I who tricked you.” He hooked a finger under her chin and pulled her in for a lingering kiss.

Unfortunately, a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye broke the spell and caused her to turn her head. She saw the exact moment her father rose from his seat. The meal was winding down and the front benches were being pushed back to make room for dancing, but some of the din eerily quietened as Prince Daemon got to his feet.

Sena braced herself and Aemond squeezed her hand. How she wished her father was not here. How she wished she did not have to invite him. But they were trying desperately to sew a war-torn realm back together, and that would not be done without uncomfortable truces.

Daemon rounded the high table and stopped before the King, inclining his head to his young son. Aegon smiled at his father happily and resumed eating, missing the thick tension that had settled over the family. Then, Daemon looked to her. Their eyes held each other’s for a moment, and Sena straightened her back to hold the crown of the Conciliator high. “Princess Regent,” her father said, giving her the barest nod of obeisance.

“Father,” Sena greeted coolly.

He drew breath as everyone around him seemed to hold theirs. “I thought with my goodson’s health, you might need someone to begin the dancing with. Prince Aemond will need to conserve his energy for the bedding, after all.”

Sena gritted her teeth and valiantly resisted the urge to lunge at her father with her butter knife. In truth, she had not thought of how she would open the dancing, had just hoped someone would eventually take the responsibility off her hands, maybe Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys or Queen Alicent and Prince Daeron. Because it was true, Aemond was in no fit state to dance. He had struggled enough with standing in the sept for the ceremony.

Sena met Daemon’s eyes, tried to read into the murky violet. There was a slight shuffle in his walk these days, a pronounced tremor in the fingers of his right hand that could have only been a result of the brain bleed, but otherwise, he remained as unreadable as ever. “In truth, father, I had not considered it.”

Daemon quirked an eyebrow. “Well then, let me do the honour, as father of the bride,” he said, then turned his gaze to Aemond, “if my goodson consents.”

“You address the Princess Regent, and a grown woman besides,” Aemond said in a grating tone, “she does not need my consent to do anything. Address your request to the correct person, Uncle.”

Daemon turned back on his daughter and smirked. “Sena.”

“Kneel,” she said calmly. “Kneel and address me as befits my station and I will dance with you.” He glared at her, and the entire hall was watching them now. She lowered her voice. “I wear your brother’s crown, father. Kneel to it if you cannot bring yourself to kneel to me.”

Under the table, Aemond was gripping her knee, lending her a little of his strength as she fought to keep from trembling. Daemon eyed his daughter, then shakily lowered himself to one knee. He bowed his head, slowly and reverently. “Princess,” he murmured. Then raised his voice so the whole room could hear. “Princess Visenya, Princess Regent and Protector of the Realm. Will you do me the honour of giving your father a dance?”

She rose from her seat, her maimed hand resting on the slight swell of her belly, and Aemond watched her warily. She grazed her fingers over his shoulder, willing him to know she would be fine and rounded the table, bypassing her Hand and Prince Daeron’s worried look. She came round the front of the table and took in her father’s bowed form.

Had he always been so small? Had he always been just a man at the end of the day? Barely as tall as Aemond, barely taller than her. His hair short at his left temple where she had struck him and the Maesters had tended to him. His eyes were ringed by dark shadows and deep lines. His right leg trembled where he kneeled on it. “Rise, Ser,” she commanded, loud and clear for all to hear. Her father obeyed, bringing himself back to his feet, standing the step below her. She offered him her hand - the one he had not maimed, adorned with a sapphire set in Visenya the Conqueror’s band of Valyrian steel. He took it and led her to the floor.

As if unsure what to do, the musicians were a little slow to take up a tune. Daemon’s hand felt like a lead weight in hers, icy cold and heavy. When the band kicked in, he drew her into his arms and began to spin her around with what grace he could muster. The whole hall watched with bated breath, none more disquieted than the high table. Prince Daemon pulled his daughter in for a spin and in the closeness of the hold, he whispered, “Everyone is staring.”

Sena raised an eyebrow, eyeing the scar on his neck so as to avoid his violet gaze. “Can’t imagine why.”

“I fear I have not given you enough credit, daughter,” he said as they faced each other, spinning around with their hands palm to palm. The lyre was drawing out a solemn melody. “By your age, all I had done with my life was champion my brother at our grandfather’s Great Council, and I did not even get the title of Prince of Dragonstone for that. You… have done well. You have risen far. You are finally starting to wear that name of yours well.”

She shook her head at him. “I am not a Visenya the way you meant for me to be when you named me,” she told him, their hands intertwined. “I am not here because I covet power or a crown for my babe’s head. I am no Conqueror. Visenya is my name now, father. And I intend to make it mine, just as I made Sena mine.”

Her father nodded thoughtfully and spun her so they were facing the high table. Sena’s gaze caught on Aemond’s and her breath caught in her throat. Would there ever come a day where he did not make her falter, her heart fluttering?

“Do you know why we call you Sena?” Daemon asked her.

She looked away from her husband to give her father a confused quirk of her eyebrow. “It is a shortened version of my name.”

Daemon shook his head. “No, do you know why we started calling you Sena?” She shook her head. No. It had just always been that way, for as long as she could remember. Because no child could bear the name of her legendary forebear, especially not one as gentle-hearted as she had been.

Daemon gave her a small, lilting smile. “When you were a year old, I took you to court for the first time, to present my child, my blood to the King,” he said. “I had little interest in you, as I’m sure you will be shocked to learn. I pawned you off on the Queen so my brother and I could start drinking.” He spun her once more, and when he pulled her back to his chest, he caught her hands. “The Queen had three children at that point, the youngest only a week younger than you. He could not say your name properly. He babbled it in that way babes do. Sena was all he could manage. And by the time my nephew had all the other children calling you Sena, well… it stuck. We started calling you that too.”

Sena’s heart was in her throat, and she turned her gaze to the high table, not caring for the dance, her eyes brimming with tears.

Aemond was still watching her. Beautiful Aemond, with lavender eyes and a soft, rasping voice and lips so sweet she could get drunk on them.

“So,” her father continued. “I guess, in a way, this day was inevitable. You were always meant for each other. And I was the fool trying to sail into the wind.”

Sena watched her husband, barely registering her father’s words. Aemond raised his goblet to her, giving her a soft smile. “No,” she said, barely audible. “Today was not inevitable. Today nearly did not happen, a thousand times over.”

Daemon pulled her back into the dance, into the final melody, spinning her round and round. “Do you doubt that you were meant for each other?”

She shook her head. “No, we were meant for each other,” she said. “But today… today was not given to us. Today we had to earn.”

Daemon had nothing to say to that, just bowed to her deeply as they finished the dance and escorted her back to her seat. As they left the floor, the spell around them seemed to break, and other couples took to the floor. Married lords and ladies, friends, allies, Lord Cregan and Lady Alysanne. Sena felt safer as soon as she was back in her seat, and she pulled Aemond’s hand into her lap, her heart swelling with her all-consuming love for him. He gave her a slightly confused look, but squeezed her hand anyway.

“One more thing,” Daemon said and in truth, Sena had not even realised he was still there. He walked back down to his seat at the table, on the far end beside Baela and Rhaena, and drew something from below the table.

Fear surged through Sena for the barest second and she felt Aemond stiffen beside her. But the sword was still sheathed, and Daemon lay it on the banquet table before her. He nodded to her. “It is probably my son’s to award as he sees fit, in truth, but until his coming of age, I think there is only one Targaryen suited to wield her.”

There were tears in her eyes as she let go of Aemond’s hand and reached for the ruby-studded, cool hilt. “I have no sword hand,” she pointed out to her father. “No thanks to you. I am hardly fit to wield her.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow and held up his shaking hand. “And I cannot swing a sword without nearly severing my own foot, so neither am I. No thanks to you. Your namesake wielded her, my grandfather wielded her, then my father, then me. It is less about what we do with the blade itself and more about what we can do with the promise of it, Visenya. Take it.”

“Father-“ she breathed.

“It’s a gift,” he said, and every one of their family was watching them with wide eyes. “You will learn how to use her again with time and practice. Same as you learned all the rest by yourself… with no one to guide you.”

She lay her right hand on the scabbard and drew Dark Sister with her left. The sword was weighty and unwieldy in her weaker hand, but Daemon was right. She would learn. She always had.

“Thank you, father,” she breathed, turning the sword over and over in her hand.

Daemon nodded and left her without a further word.

-----

“No, Princess, you promised.”

Over the past three years, Sena had grown used to the slight nagging tone in her husband’s voice as he urged her to take a break. He was not wrong, she had promised, she just wished he would not point it out in front of her entire small council. Maegor’s Holdfast was eerily quiet with most of her family already having left, Vermithor and Vhagar had been saddled for two hours at this point and Sena had begged off leaving at first light because there was just one more thing she needed to speak to her council about. Aemond sat to her right as her advisor, giving her a hard look right now, and Princess Rhaenys to her left, a small smirk on her lips. The rest of them avoided her gaze as she gritted her teeth. All except for Alys, who had always enjoyed the married couple’s bickering as long as she’d known them.

“It’s just- this trade deal with the Summer Isles is important,” she complained, a little childishly, shuffling the papers before her and avoiding Aemond’s eye.

“You’re running an entire country, love, it’s all important,” he said with a note of exasperation in his voice, “but so is the King’s tenth nameday and the first major gathering of our family in the three years since the coronation.”

Sena bit her lip. That was precisely why she was a little reticent to go, the thought of so many Targaryens in one place setting her teeth on edge. It was ridiculous, because what had they fought for years ago if not precisely for moments like this? But Sena had found that the thought of family gatherings were a lot sweeter than the awkward, stilted reality of them. “Baela is not going, nor is Princess Rhaenys.” Baela, now Mistress of Laws after the departure of Lord Stark, shot her an irritated look as if to say do not bring me into this.

Aemond was not impressed. “They remain so you can leave for a few days. Princess Rhaenys has more experience than any of us and Baela will fly to you as soon as you are needed.”

Baela arched an eyebrow at her sister’s husband. “Is that the extent of my contributions at this table, goodbrother? Messenger?”

Aemond winced - he had not meant it like that - but Ser Alyn Velaryon, successor to his grandsire as Master of Ships, thankfully intervened, laying a hand on Baela’s wrist. “He only seeks to appease the Princess Regent that if her presence is needed, she will be fetched, ñuha zaldrīzes.” My dragon.

Aemond valiantly repressed a look of disgust. Sena knew he had little taste for public displays of affection if it was not him displaying his affection for his wife, but she was grateful he had learned to bite his tongue before her tempestuous sister. Even now, the two firebrands tended to throw sparks when they clashed.

Ser Criston Cole cleared his throat to speak. “Forgive me, Princess, but you did promise,” he pointed out, “and Queen Alicent did write me to say how excited Helaena is to see you.”

Okay, so they were guilt tripping her now? Sena groaned. “The realm will not survive my own small council mutinying against me, my Lords and Ladies,” she grumbled, glaring around the table at them all in turn. Lord Tyland Lannister was the only one not openly enjoying all of this at her expense.

“But it will survive you taking a week off,” Princess Rhaenys pointed out, levelling Sena with a hard stare that she still found difficult to refuse. “You have worked hard these last few years, Visenya. Now, go and take a break and remember what it is all for. Enjoy a little of the peace that you have created.”

Sena gave the Hand a look, then pushed back her chair with a scrape. “My Lords and Ladies,” she said with a nod.

There was a scattered chorus of farewells and she swept from the room, Aemond looking pleased with himself and hot on her tail. “Enjoy your holiday!” Alys’s distinctive voice called behind her, and Sena had to repress a snort of laughter.

As soon as they were in the air above King’s Landing however, soaring southeast on dragonback, the stress of the last few years seemed to melt away and Sena wondered why she had been dragging her heels at the chance to get away from it all for a little while. Ravens could still reach her at the country palace in the Reach that Helaena had lovingly dubbed Dragonhall. House Hightower had relinquished the summer palace and its earnings to the Crown as part of the nationwide effort at reconstruction after the war and whilst the surrounding farms and lands added handsomely to the Crown’s depleted coffers, King Aegon III had little need for another palace and had relinquished it to his future goodmother at the gentle prompting of Rhaenyra. Helaena loved the place, walked its halls and gardens dreamily, barefoot and far away from the smog and choke of King’s Landing for months at a time, with her daughter and husband close at hand and her mother visiting often. Her only regret was that it took her away from Aemond and Sena, but that was easily rectified by Dreamfyre, who slept soundly in a stable that had once housed twenty horses.

The King’s retinue would follow Sena and Aemond to Dragonhall by horseback, including the Queen Mother and the entire Kingsguard. The Regent and her lord husband were second last of the family to arrive then, the largest living dragons touching down in one of the orchards that had already been trampled by a dizzying array of fire breathers. Sena winced. They would have to rethink this in future.

Sena dismounted, pulled her gloves from her hands and approached Vhagar to help her husband jump the final six feet to the ground. Aemond’s hip would never be what it had been before the war, but he was no longer in a great deal of pain. He just felt the ache on cold, damp mornings which were becoming lesser and lesser as winter gave way to spring at long last. The only indication of discomfort was a little quirk of the corner of his mouth as he landed on his feet, and Sena kissed it away. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For dragging me away. I needed it, even if I wasn’t exactly grateful.”

He smiled at her wryly. “You forget I know you, issa jorrāelagon,” he said, brushing her windswept hair behind her ear. “No thanks are required.”

“Thank the Gods,” came a man’s exhausted, pitiful voice. “You’re here! Please, show some mercy, take her.”

Sena turned around to see Daeron at the opening of the paddock and a small, blurry shape streaking towards them.

Aemond fell to his knees with a little grunt and opened his arms wide, a wild grin on his face, and the tiny, blurry shape crashed into him. “Kepa! Kepa!” She cried. Father! Father!

Sena’s heart melted in her chest as she watched Aemond stand and swing their daughter round and round, laughing joyously. He settled the little girl on his hip and smacked a wet kiss on her cheek, laughing when she grumbled and swiped at it with a “Yuck.”

“Tala, vūjigon aōha muña,” he said. Daughter, kiss your mother.

The little girl reached for Sena with grabby hands, hanging on Aemond’s hip at a precarious angle. “Muña!”

"Rhaea,” Sena kissed her daughter, laughing when she found the child’s face sticky. That explained why Daeron was so ragged and exhausted - he’d clearly been plying his three-year-old niece with sweets. She smoothed down the girl’s wild, tangled silver curls. “Have you been behaving for your grandmother and your Aunts and Uncles?”

Rhaea gave her a somewhat awkward look, as if trying to conjure up an answer that wasn’t an outright lie, and Sena and Aemond shared a knowing glance. Daeron stumbled up to them, giving them a look that said his niece had been doing everything but behaving. “Addam made the mistake of telling her he’d bring her up on Seasmoke if you both allowed it and she maybe hasn’t stopped mentioning it since?”

Aemond grinned. “I think I’ve owed Jaehaera a ride on Vhagar for five years now, so I guess we can maybe arrange something, brother,” he said. He looked down and saw his daughter playing with his hair, promptly pulling it out of her grasp. “When you’ve got clean hands, mayhaps, my lady?”

Rhaea gave her father an affronted look and stuck her bottom lip out so far it would have been impressive if Sena did not see it every single day. Daeron laughed. “You’re fighting with yourself there, brother,” he said, giving his niece a wink.

Dragonhall was bliss, pure and simple.

Sena awoke uncharacteristically late in the morning to find her husband had seen to their daughter so she could sleep longer. She came down to the dining room in her robe and kissed him as a thank you at the table, much to his family’s amusement. He was without his eyepatch, his lips tasted of jam and Rhaea uttered her new favourite phrase, yuck.

After breakfast, Rhaea ran and played in the gardens with Jaehaera, Joffrey and Viserys, two years returned safely to them by way of paying ransom to Lys. Rhaenyra had openly sobbed on the docks when she held her youngest son.

After Sena and Aemond had taken a turn of the gardens with Aemond’s mother, they settled on the grass to watch the children play as Alicent, Helaena and Rhaena took tea behind them. Sena leaned back into Aemond’s chest and watched their daughter run rings around her cousin and uncles, the older children in disbelief at her boundless energy. Aemond was smiling softly, combing his fingers through Sena’s hair. She caught his hand - the one with a bronze signet ring emblazoned with two dancing dragons - in hers and pressed it to her lips.

“Mm?” Aemond murmured into her hair. He had developed a sixth sense for when something was wrong with her.

She watched the children run, shrieking and playing and splashing pond water at each other and she sighed deeply. “I’m so sorry, Aemond.”

He leaned back and tilted her head towards him with a hand. His brow was furrowed in confusion. “What are you sorry for, darling?”

She swallowed hard. Watched their child - their only child - play at dragons and knights. “I know how much you wanted a large family.”

Aemond tensed against her. “Sena, do not ever apologise to me for that again,” he said sharply but not unkindly. “You cannot truly believe I bear a grudge against you for that, do you? If so, I have not done a good enough job as your husband.”

The day Sena had brought Rhaea into the world had been… traumatic, to say the least. There had been so much blood and somewhere in the royal archives, there was a hastily-drafted document with bloody fingerprints and her shaky signature signing the regency over to Princess Rhaenys in the event of her untimely death. Rhaea’s shoulder had been stuck on her pelvis and it had been long, long hours of agony, with her body getting closer and closer to giving up the fight with each push, each effort of the midwives and maesters to get the babe unstuck. She sighed. “I just… can’t help but think about how, if you had married the Baratheon girl, you’d likely have a son by now.”

He shook his head, barely repressing his upset at the very suggestion. “A son with a woman I do not love and could never love, not while you lived and breathed. Not while I had ever known you and loved you,” he pressed a firm kiss to her temple, attempting to pour the fierceness of his affections into her very mind. “The Gods have a plan for us all, my love. And their plan for us was to end the suffering of our family and foster a new era of peace for our daughter to grow up in. Peace we deserved but never knew in our own childhood. I would not change a thing.”

She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. In truth, she had no idea where this was coming from. She had had years to accept it. Maybe it was because she had thrown herself into her work, into piecing the realm back together to distract herself, and it was only now that she was taking a break that all the emotions were flooding to the surface? A month after Rhaea’s birth, Aemond had broached the subject while they were sat in bed together. He had been cradling their daughter to his chest and told her in no uncertain terms that his preference was for her to not have another child, not when the first had been so dangerous. The Grand Maester says it is just one of those things, some women have more difficulty than others. It’s not uncommon in our bloodline - our grandmother, my father’s first wife, your father’s second wife. We can talk about it, Sena. I know it is not my choice to make but I wanted you to know my thoughts. I would be utterly lost without you. You once asked me not to make you carry on in this world without me. Now, I’m asking you.

She had been so weak and so close to death when she had brought Rhaea into the world and even a month later, the agony of it all was still so fresh in her mind and her body that it had been a straightforward choice to start the regular moon tea.

“You won’t remember it, but…” Aemond said, his voice a croak against her hair, “on the day of Rhaea’s birth, one of the maesters asked if I had a… preference.” He choked out the word and it sounded dirty coming from his lips. “If they wanted me to prioritise my wife or my child. I- I threatened to gut him like a fish if he asked such a question again. Or at least that’s what my mother tells me I said, I don’t recall. She made me apologise to him after, thank him for saving the both of you.”

She rested her head against his, felt his steady breathing against her back, gripped his fingers in hers. “I’m sorry for scaring you like that.”

He laughed wetly. “Only you,” he said, “only you would apologise for such a thing. I have scared you like that before. I understand how you felt, now, carrying me back to Harrenhal and sitting by my bedside for weeks.”

“Six years,” she said. “Six years, and Aegon will reach his majority, and we can relax a little. We can even step away from it all if we wish, retire to the country, tame our wild-thing of a daughter.”

Aemond chuckled. “I don’t know what we expected. She has the best and worst of both of us, love. I would call her perfection, but I fear she would hear it and it would be entirely too good for her ego,” he said, watching the little girl play. “Maybe we can come here more often. You, me, Helaena and the girls.”

“I heard my name,” Helaena said, settling herself down on the grass beside them, cup and saucer in hand.

Rhaena smiled and sat down before them, spreading her skirts in a ladylike manor. “In truth, we thought you two looked awfully serious. We thought we had best intervene, remind you both you’re on holiday.”

Sena smiled, but the smile evaporated into a look of shock when Queen Alicent appeared at her other shoulder and settled herself down on the grass next to her son. “My Queen, you do not have to- we can get the servants to bring a chair-“

“I am four-and-forty, not an old crone,” Queen Alicent chided with a smirk and her daughter and son smiled.

“I more meant for your dress,” Sena said quickly, a blush rising in her cheeks. Aemond’s knees squeezed her where they bracketed her thighs. Nice save, he seemed to be saying.

The Queen looked down at her dress, a soft, dreamy blue silk perfect for the spring. She had long since cut green entirely out of her wardrobe, and in truth, Sena never saw Rhaenyra in black anymore. It seemed they were both trying to put their grudges and their mourning behind them and enjoy what was left. “I have long since learned there are more important things in life than propriety and preventing grass stains. Such as watching my grandchildren at play,” she sipped at her tea as Jaehaera chased after Rhaea with a pretend sword in hand, Rhaea flapping her imaginary wings manically.

There was a beat of contented silence before Helaena chirped, “what were you both looking so serious about? Honestly, I’m going to instate a no working policy at Dragonhall if you seriously all struggle to take a break this much.”

Sena grinned and Aemond shrugged his shoulders. “I was just telling my wife how blessed I am to have her and our perfect, mad daughter,” he told his sister with a glint in his eye.

Helaena laughed loudly and Sena wished she could bottle the sound and put it on her shelf for a rainy day. How lucky she was to be able to hear Helaena laugh freely and often again. “She is a little mad, isn’t she? Like her mother at that age.”

“Hey,” Sena balked, and her little family broke into laughter around her. “I wasn’t so bad.”

Alicent raised a perfectly manicured brow. “You were a daily challenge. It was a battle to get you into a skirt or scrub your face, listen to your septa, think of anything but swordplay. We can ask Rhaenyra when she arrives, she will recall it as well.”

Sena shook her head in protest but did not have a good rebuttal. None of it was false, after all. “And Rhaenyra loved me for it,” she pointed out defiantly.

“As did we all, darling,” Aemond said with bemusement in his voice. “Gods, if you grew up to be a Princess Regent, I dread to think what our Rhaea will accomplish.”

Sena groaned at the thought. “She’s going to raise Old Valyria out of the sea, I can tell.” She shared a grimace with her sister then turned to her best friend. “Any hints, Helaena?”

Helaena turned her lilac eyes on her niece and bit her lip a second as she thought. “Nothing,” she said after a moment. “She has a clean slate, as far as I can tell. Thanks to you.”

Sena smiled and rested back against her husband’s chest. She let out a deep, happy sigh, soaked in the sun on her skin and, after awhile, drifted into a light doze as soft voices chattered around her.

That was how the following days at Dragonhall proceeded. The King arrived with his retinue in late afternoon the next day. They all stood in the front courtyard of the palace to receive Aegon, completing the appropriate bowing and scraping, and then came Rhaenyra, hugging and kissing them all in greeting without exception. Sena’s father convalesced on Dragonstone still, attempting to remaster control of his movements and his mind just as Sena trained herself to wield Dark Sister in her left hand in every rare quiet moment she got. She had no doubt her father would one day return to the fold and guide his son as King and she looked forward to the moment with equal measures of fear and anticipation. But for now, they remained in their separate corners of the Kingdom and did their best to heal their wounds.

Sena was amazed to see for the first time how her family conducted themselves when there was no running of the realm to be worried over, no dynastic struggles to settle. Each morning, she lay in bed with Aemond dozing against her back and watched out of the window as Rhaenyra and Alicent took long walks in the gardens together. Sometimes they were chatting and laughing and sometimes they were not speaking at all, just remembering. But either way, they did it together.

The peace would be disturbed before long when the children would beg to go riding or practice sparring. Some mornings, Aemond and Sena would oblige them. Sena would oversee Aegon and Viserys sparring each other with wooden swords and Aemond would instruct his daughter and niece on the basics, play fight with them and always made sure to valiantly and heroically lose to his superior opponents. Other mornings, Daeron, Addam, Rhaena and Joffrey would take to the sky and race each other on their dragons for the younger children’s entertainment.

When Daeron and Addam thought no one could see them, the two men would kiss sweetly in the gardens. But they were not nearly as subtle as they thought they were, coming back from long walks among the groves with ruffled hair and rumpled clothing. Aemond and Helaena would just smirk and respectfully not point it out so as not to embarrass their little brother, and Sena and Rhaena would eye each other over the rims of their teacups knowingly, repressing a laugh.

On Aegon the Elder’s good days, when his mind was not so addled, Aemond would roll him out into the garden under the shade of a great oak tree, and they talked for hours. Sena had quietly asked Aemond one day what it was that they talked about, and Aemond shrugged. “Nothing and everything,” he said. “Our boyhood. Mother, father, the war. Everything that has happened. But sometimes, it is nicer things. He asks about you and Helaena. Jaehaera and Rhaea. I think he likes it here. He perhaps finds it a little boring at times but I think the peace is good for his soul.”

When Aemond was spending time with his brother, Sena would take to the library and pull out volumes of the books she had sent for from Oldtown as Helaena’s last nameday gift. A full set of encyclopaedias on the natural world, as comprehensive a study as there was to be found in Westeros, with full-page illustrations in vivid colours. They had been a damned fortune but worth every penny, she thought, as she sat with Helaena on the grass and studied them with their daughters. She read aloud passages on the properties of peppermint leaves and how to tell insects and arachnids apart. They would lean down close to the surface of one of the ponds and show Jaehaera and Rhaea the pond skaters, and the girls would pick roses in white, pink, red and blue for Sena to braid into Helaena’s hair. A crown that suited her better than any other ever had and, most importantly, made her smile.

Sena’s last night at Dragonhall before she was due to return to King’s Landing came dreadfully quickly. She was catching herself up on missives from Princess Rhaenys she had somewhat neglected when Aemond came into their bedroom after putting Rhaea down to sleep. Aemond gave her a fond sigh and took her by the hand, pulling her away from her writing desk despite her protests. Out on their balcony that overlooked the gardens, he pulled her down onto the soft chaise longue next to him. “Relax, please. Breathe.”

She drew in a dramatic breath to please him and allowed herself to melt into his side, laying her head on his shoulder. Their hands intertwined in their laps. “It’s just… a lot. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” he said and turned his head to look into her eyes. He had been without his eyepatch all week and Sena knew it would be strange to see him don it again tomorrow before they left. “It is a big weight you have on your shoulders, Sena. A job I certainly do not envy you. But my job as your husband is to keep you sane and help you whenever and however I can.”

“I could not do it without you,” she admitted. “Couldn’t do it without you fussing over me. Telling me to look at the whole picture, see the forest instead of just the trees.”

He turned her head with a thumb to look out over the gardens at the lines of rose bushes and the willow trees that swayed gently in the wind. “Have a look at them,” he said, and dipped his head to press a kiss to the corner of her jaw. “We planted the whole bloody forest together, dear. With our bare hands. Never forget it. Never forget how far we have come together.”

He moved his lips lower, to suckle at a sensitive spot on her neck as he brought one hand up to grip her thigh, and she said breathily, “Aemond.”

“Lay down,” he murmured into her skin. “Lay down, sweet girl, and let your husband show you how he loves you.”

He guided her down to the chaise longue with firm, steady hands and leaned over her. His hands pushed up her skirts and he took hold of her thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive insides. He watched hungrily as her breath quickened, lilac and sapphire eyes glinting in the torchlight. She attempted to reach up towards him, to touch his face and his hair but he pushed her back down gently. “Not tonight,” he murmured. “Touch yourself, pretty girl. Your hair, your breasts, whatever you like. Make yourself feel good. Let me handle the rest.” Then, he pushed her skirts up around her hips and dipped his head to kiss the inside of her thigh, dragging just the very tip of his tongue across her skin.

“Aemond,” she whispered like a prayer. “Why are you so good to me?”

He looked up at her over the bunching of her skirts and smiled, pulling aside her undergarments in a deft, well-practiced movement. He kissed the height of her pubic bone and his warm breath blustered against her skin. She shivered. He eyed her cunt hungrily. “The real question is why do you give this to me? Why are you so generous, letting me worship you whenever I wish, however I wish?” One long finger flicked out and parted her lips, catching on the edge of her hole and gathering slick before coming up to gently stroke that little bundle that made sparks fly behind her eyelids. “You give me my family back, my daughter, my entire life, and you do not think that is generous enough. So you give me your cunt, too. You must be some saint, so limitless is your propensity to give.”

Sena stifled a moan as he bowed his head to lick at her hole. “Yes. Truly selfless, Aemond. Laying back and letting you pleasure me with your quick fingers and your clever tongue. What a hard task it is for me.”

He laughed and the vibrations sent a shockwave through her, making her abdomen seize with pleasure. “Every moment spent worshipping you is a gift, Visenya.”

She shivered. He rarely used her true name, only when he was very upset with her or very turned on by her. She looked down and saw him rubbing at himself through his trousers with his spare hand. She sighed happily and leaned back against the cushions. Reached up and pulled down the sleeves of her dress, pulled down the neck. Aemond watched hungrily as she lifted her breasts from her gown. She had insisted on feeding their daughter herself and it had caused the skin of her breasts to stretch and sag, but Aemond had never seemed to mind, tracing the silvery scars as reverently as he did the multitude of other scars on her body and she did on his. Reminders of their power, their strength, their bravery. His lilac eye was nearly consumed by black right now as he watched her circle her nipples with her fingers, pulling and squeezing as they hardened quickly in the cool night air.

She should have maybe been ashamed - this was far too open a place to do this. Outside, on a balcony, where an ill-timed guard or servant could catch a glimpse or hear them or a family member on their floor or above could open their curtains at the wrong moment. But when she watched her husband in all his glory, tall and lean, his hair hanging freely about his handsome face, one hand on his cock and the other on her cunt, she could not bring herself to care at all.

He dipped his head and kissed her nub, running the tip of his tongue over her folds as one finger plunged into her, then another. She let her head fall back against the cushions in a breathy sigh. Squeezed her breasts as he brought his hand from his cock and pinned open her thighs to allow himself full access to her. “Good boy,” she moaned as he slipped his fingers into her past the first knuckle and gently started to crook, move, scissor them apart. His tongue laved just below her pleasure, building her arousal, watching her steadily for every spasm of pleasure, every breathy moan. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart,” she whispered, reaching out a hand to tuck his silver hair behind his ear.

He pulled away from her for a moment and she whined at the loss. “Don’t whisper,” he said, “don’t stifle yourself, don’t hide.” Then, he pulled his fingers from her hole to swap them for his tongue.

He mouthed at her hole then pushed his tongue past the resistant ring of muscle, and it was so wondrous that Sena threw her head back, unfortunately cracking her skull off of the arm of the chaise longue. “Ow!” She winced and Aemond pulled back hastily, his lips and chin glistening with slick and spit.

“Are you alright?” He asked quickly, worried he had hurt her, but when he watched as she rubbed at her head and dissolved into a fit of giggles, he smothered his own laughter in the crease of her hip. “C’mon, wife. Focus.”

That only made Sena giggle harder. “Focus on what? Coming on your face?”

He gave her a playful scandalised look. “Dirty girl,” he chided. Then raised an eyebrow as he filled her hole with his fingers once more, drawing a hearty moan from her. “You like that, don’t you? Riding my tongue, making a mess of your husband?”

She nodded and her eyes flitted shut as he pushed in another finger. The drag of the third felt divine and his fingers crooked inside her, pressing against a place that made her toes curl. “Mhm,” she moaned in the affirmative, grinding her hips against his hand, trying to find some friction for her pleasure on his palm. “Especially like it when you’re thrusting your tongue and your- your nose nudges me-“

“Well, then, your wish is my command.” With that, he plunged his face down into her cunt. His spare hand looped around her hip, holding her flush against his face and he lapped and suckled at her pleasure as his fingers pumped in and out of her. She let herself melt into the pillows, let her every sense be overtaken and devoted to Aemond working at her between her legs. It was pure ecstasy and she could see a little movement in his hips, see how he was grinding his hips into the chaise longue as he poured all his concentration into pleasuring her.

Aemond pulled his fingers out of her with a slick sound and before she could even whine and complain, he had replaced them with his tongue, grabbing her other hip and holding her down before his onslaught. The probing, thick muscle lapped at her insides as the wave inside of her gathered height and momentum. The juices that Aemond could not catch with his tongue dribbled down his chin and neck and between the cheeks of her arse. It was sticky and dirty and hot. And just as she thought she had reached heaven, he began to roll his movements, thrust his tongue, and his long, straight nose bumped against her nub repetitively. The rhythm was so perfect it was like he could read her mind, like the spasms of her walls around his tongue directly translated into his brain. Faster, harder, make a mess, make me forget every word but your name.

“Fuck,” she moaned, and it sounded tearful and desperate. She reached for a pillow to hold to her face, to drown out her sounds but Aemond reached up to grab it out of her hand.

He pulled away from her cunt. “Every time you try to hide, you bring yourself further from your goal,” he warned her as the wave inside her subsided from its peak. And Gods was he a sight like this, his lips red, his chin glistening, her slick dripping onto the collar of his jerkin. "Don’t hide, darling wife, let them hear you. Let the whole realm hear you. Let them know you are mine, and I am yours.”

She nodded desperately, her curls sticking to her forehead, damp with sweat and watched with all-consuming fire and hunger and he lowered his mouth back to her. His tongue plundered her, his nose rubbing her as he breathed harshly. He even spared a hand from her hip to slip down between her arse cheeks and thumb at the ring of muscle there, spreading her dribbling slick. Her hands flew down and knotted into his hair as she felt herself lose control, and she was grinding her hips up into his face, listening to his heavy breathing, watching the jerking of his hips against the pillows. She watched herself, watched her hips roll against his face in a jerky, desperate rhythm, watched her breasts jolt and bounce with their movements, watched her legs thrown over his shoulders, somehow urging him closer.

Her orgasm felt as thought it was punched out of her and she moaned loudly, her head falling back, her hair tangling wildly around her. “Aemond,” she whined and he groaned against her core, sending impossible shivers through her. Her juices gushed, her walls spasmed around his tongue and the sensation where she totally lost control - she could not breathe or moan or do anything but shiver against him - seized her.

She fell back against the pillows with a tired, happy moan, and Aemond pulled his tongue from her cunt, nosing and kissing at the dark, damp curls just above. “Come up here,” she moaned.

He grinned. “Do you mean it?”

It took her a second to catch on in her tired state, but when she did, something wicked glinted in her eye. “Yes.”

He did not need to be asked twice, moving up her body and straddling her chest. She helped him unlace his breaches and pull his hard, leaking cock free and then they worked at his erection together. He used her slick still coating his hand and chin to wet his grip on himself and positioned himself over her face which was red and sweating. He stroked himself hurriedly and she looked up at him hungrily, mouthing at the swollen, red head of his cock with bitten, plush lips, tasting the sweat on his skin and reaching up to fondle his balls. He grunted like an animal and tugged harder, faster. “Sena,” he moaned. “Sena, I’m going to-“

She pulled back as his hips snapped erratically and closed her eyes as his balls went tight in her palm and he coated her cheeks and tongue with his seed, warm and salty. He groaned loudly, gripping the back of her head with his spare hand and milking the last of his seed into her willing mouth. “You’re fucking perfect,” he hissed as she opened her eyes again, her cheeks glistening, looking up at him with innocent violet eyes. “Fucking perfect, you know that?”

She reached up and helped him through the final shivers of his orgasm, watched with wonder as his cock softened and his seed dripped from her chin onto her breasts. Gods, how she loved his cock. “That at least makes me worthy of seeing you like this,” she breathed and he moved back on shaking thighs so he could kiss his own cum from her lips.

“Fuck,” he sighed shakily. He looked around. Grimaced when he could see nothing to clean them off with, so he pulled off his shirt over his head.

“Aemond,” Sena scolded, but in truth loved to watch the ripple of his body, his slim waist and strong shoulders in motion.

He grinned at her as he wiped her cheeks, then his face, then cleaned up some of the mess on her cunt and his cock. “You’ll have to delay leaving for a further hour tomorrow, Princess Regent. I’m afraid I’ve left you in need of a bath.”

She laughed and settled back down into the pillows, pulling him down on top of her and wrapping her legs around him. “Mm, as long as we can take the bath together.”

He kissed her, his breathing still ragged. “Now, that sounds like a plan. How does an early morning ride sound, wife?”

She laughed and slapped at his shoulder but let him drag her into a comfier position, her back to his chest. He peppered her neck with little kisses and she sighed happily, relaxing against him. “Eighteen years,” she said with a little smile, closing her eyes and listening to his breathing. “That’s how long I have loved you.”

He kissed her bare shoulder, tucked her hair behind her ear. “We could make it eighty and it would not be enough, couldn’t we?”

She shook her head. “No, I rather think this is eternal. No matter what comes after this life, no matter what comes in this life, I fear you’re rather stuck with me, Prince Aemond.”

His laugh was boyish, high and sweet. “Then eternity shall have to do, Princess Visenya."

She fell asleep like that, half undressed, outdoors with a spring evening on her skin, nestled into and warmed by Aemond’s chest, Aemond’s breath.

He carried her inside to bed, took off her dress and tucked her under the covers. Once he’d rid himself of his own clothing, he crawled in next to her and pulled her against his chest.

Tomorrow would come, with all its trials and challenges, but tonight… tonight belonged to them.

taglist (dm/ask/reply to be added): @stargaryen22 @trap-house-homiecide

#aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd #tqc #aemond targaryen fanfic

80 notes · View notes

loksthegreat · 8 months

Note

PLSSSS tell me more about miss cassella & her children … also Any other asoiaf ocs u have IM SO INTRUIGED!!!

Yes sure, I’d love to tell you more about Cassie!!

So as soon as Aegon XX hears that he has another daughter he publicly denounces her as a bastard, that can’t be his, problem is little Elaena has her fathers Valyrian looks and there is really no other male Targaryen around at the time to explain that and the queen is also very much known for her loyalty and piety sooooo… Aegon stays firm and demands Cassella leave and never cross his way again (bro wanted to set her aside (read as: westerosi divorce) so bad for not giving him a child, but the high Septon didn’t get his boy math, when Cassie was standing right there with the baby). Her sworn shield Ser Arthur Swann and the men of the small council beg her not to go, but Cassie’s done with this shit, just before she leaves, she says to her shield and the hand: “I can bear to set my dignity aside for the realm, for it is just I that must suffer the shame, but for my daughter I can not. I will not allow for her to see her mother so low. Mayhaps I had not grown to allow myself such indignity, had my own mother not. My Elaena will be queen and she will never have to suffer as I have, as his whore has and as his next surely will.”. So Cassella and her daughter are supposed to go to Dragonstone, but Cassie hates the foggy, wet climate, she misses her home in Dorne, but she knows that she has no place at sunspear where her cousin (Nellaria is still mad that she didn’t get to be queen) now is the ruling princess in all but name, after Cassie’s uncle Nymor fell sick after a accident with a horse and a snake. So instead they go to Godsgrace where Lord Antoras Allyrion welcomes them. The lord is very found of feasts and banquets and showers his guests in gifts, while his mother the elderly lady Ashana who used to serve Cassellas aunt as a lady in waiting, spends lots of time praying and reading the seven pointed star with Cassie. Everything’s great until one evening at a feast that last long into the night, Cassella leaves the hall to have a breather, a young lady with a veiled face and striking green eyes approaches her. The girl curtsies but as Cassella goes to pull her back up she strikes at her with a dagger dripping with poison, the two struggle with each other, Cassella manages to push her away but the girl trips over the railing of the open corridor their in and falls down into the yard. Caseload is sure she is dead and is guilt ridden, she runs to the sept and spends all night there, but in the morning she discovers the body is gone and no one knows anything about it… after this incident Cassella leaves Dorne for good, she goes to high garden where her trusted friend Lady Elinda rules.

However it is soon after that she is ordered to return to court, to witness the wedding of Aegon XX and Lady Beliana Blackwood, who Cassie finds to be a long faced, tall woman who seldom smiles or speaks, but her younger sister Jeyne strikes Cassella’s interest, she is pretty to look at, but nervous around company and easily frightened by men. Jeyne was fostered at Cider hall from a very young age and struggles to choose between the faith of her house and the faith she was taught all her live. Cassella and Jeyne strike up a friendship of sorts, and Cassella returns to politics though unofficially. Aegon has somewhat cleaned up his act, he drinks and whores less but he has grown cruel and resentful over the few years that have passed. In the following winter, Beliana gives birth to a daughter, a girl named Aelora I. The king is unhappy but his new wife was as little care for his feelings as she has for childcare, so when three years later Beliana is found cut open with to strikes from breast to belly, hanging in the weirwood tree of the godswood of the red keep Argon isn’t all that mad (some even say he had her killed himself for supposedly cheating on him with her friend and cousin, ser Brynden the black knight or even her own brother, lord Tytos), Jeyne however is heartbroken, she can not bear to stay in this place and Cassella feels much the same, she asks Jeyne to come with her to the Reach where Lord Wylan Hightower is offering them hospitality, however Jeyne wants to raise her niece in the ways of the old gods at Raven tree hall, Cassella can’t understand why Jeyne wants to spend her live preaching a lie, when she believes in the seven, they fight but ultimately go their separate ways. Cassella and Elaena return to the Reach and stay at the Hightower where Elaena and lady Meredyth Hightower soon become best friends. Cassella dutifully comes to both of Aegons following weddings, attends the funeral of her uncle and lives to see her daughter turn sixteen, before she dies in the company of Elinda Tyrell of an illness.

That would be Cassella’s live! Hope you enjoyed and let me know if you have any more questions!!

#asoiaf oc #hotd #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfic #asoif/got #cassella martell

2 notes · View notes

writingsofwesteros · 1 year

Note

exactly, the kings sister would offer her company to alicent, taking her on long strolls in the gardens, sitting by her side at the feast, having picnics and little parties with her most loyal ladies in waiting and the queen herself. this way alicent to become a not so easy target for ambitious men to creep on her and manipulate her, she's no longer alone. haha, I can only imagine harwin and criston spending a lot of time together as they guard their precious royal ladies. they might be friendly even, no drama there. larys is also not such threat to harwin this way, he's not an enemy of the queen, nor the strong heir - his oath strips his of all the possessions.

some background on the princess: she's somewhat a 'bad' targaryen: doesnt care about targ purity at all, would never harm her family but their crown or ugly iron throne means so little to her. she too find some aspects to of their 'culture' whack af. frankly, she's even surprised her egg hatched at all, her dragon is so pretty. it's a dragon lady, her colors are pastel and she's huge, she could fuck up any other dragons in the family lol. you know she took her devoted guard on a ride once he found courage to fly with her. the dragon can feel their love and is like "girl you're too are disgustingly sweet and horny, cool it down a little when you're with me". she's happy for her rider tho, she trusts harwin too.

how did harwin become her shield: her previous guard was getting too old, he served their family long before she was born. she kindly let him retire with a big allowance, he was like a father to her (ser barristan or harrold vibes). with heavy heart she took a look at the knights lined up before her to choose from. she immediately recognised harwin, he's used to visit a lot with his father. she found it odd that a potential heir of harrenhal would ditch his title and fortune, but she couldnt resist choosing him - they always get on well and there was such sweet tension between them anytime they met during harwin's visits, whether they were shy teens or now, approaching their young adult years. if she only knew how he defied his father, letting go his station, breaking his back to offer his services to the princess as soon as possible. lyonel admitted that there's a certain prestige to be a princess' sworn shield and after all, harwin was not his only child capable to inherit. and he always prefered spending his time training, fighting, and hunting rather than learning about formal duties.

they became inseparable and no one would question it so far, a good guard does always stand by his princess' side, does he not? every tourney he asks for her favor and since he often wins, she's his queen of love and beauty. it's not like he's supposed to court any other lady. haha the circumstances are very much in their favor so far, they can get away with quite a lot :)

Apparently, my mind is working over time about this. bless you for such a great idea! and yes, I will forever roll my eyes at the tapestry scene, fuck those men.

LOVE ALL OF THIS !

I can't possible even add!

I love how she doesn't feel so connected with her family traditions and her dragon sounds so beautiful and amazing.

....I see Alicent giving Rhaenyra the throne; her father can't whisper and they all move..maybe they get Dragonstone or go further..

sorry , just had the king's sister adopt Alicent and everything oopsie

#au #the king's sister (strong au)#i can't add anything to this master piece

8 notes · View notes

horizon-verizon · 2 years

Note

In the book, when was Dragonstone officially in Rhaenyra? When did she start taking care of it? And when did she take up residence there? And when did Viserys decree that Rhaenyra should settle for Dragonstone and stay exactly there? (I think it was after the kids fight?)

Oh anon, I think you caught my mistake from another post.

In the book, she's 16 (age of majority) when she inherits Dragonstone in 113 A.C. But she doesn't begin to actively rule or live in it until she has Lucerys in 115 A.C. and leaves the court at King’s Landing when things get even worse between her and Alicent.

"Do keep trying,” Queen Alicent told Ser Laenor, according to Mushroom, “soon or late, you may get one who looks like you.” And the rivalry between the greens and blacks grew deeper, finally reaching the point where the queen and the princess could scarce suffer each other’s presence. Thereafter Queen Alicent kept to the Red Keep, whilst the princess spent her days on Dragonstone, attended by her ladies, Mushroom, and her champion, Ser Harwin Strong. Her husband, Ser Laenor, was said to visit “frequently.”

(Fire and Blood; A Question of Succession)

There was no decree that she would settle there from Viserys until after Aemond claims Vhagar and fights with the V boys in 120 A.C., when she is 20:

To prevent further conflict, and put an end to these “vile rumors and base calumnies,” King Viserys further decreed that Queen Alicent and her sons would return with him to court, whilst Princess Rhaenyra confined herself to Dragonstone with her sons. Henceforth Ser Erryk Cargyll of the Kingsguard would serve as her sworn shield, whilst Breakbones returned to Harrenhal.

(Fire and Blood; A Question of Succession)

Now maybe it’s my literature brain talking here, but when the text uses Rhaenyra as the active subject and says “herself” instead of “Viserys__her”, I get the impression that Viserys never actually decreed she would stay at Dragonstone in exile or as punishment. Rather he says Alicent and his kids with her will go back to the Keep. Did Viserys seek to punish Alicent, both women, or did he just want a separation and decreed no punishment at all and Rhaenyra secluded herself at Dragonstone?

*EDIT* (9/22/23) I do not think the below anymore.

But yeah, Rhaenyra has been living full-time at Dragonstone since before the fight. Whether she’s decreed to stay there...?

Why I think she would “confine” herself in Dragonstone:

her son almost got his eye taken out after Aemond accused her of treason

she and Alicent already grew beef so hot they couldn’t stand the sight of each other 5 years ago (probably so bad that they would have fights in front of the courtiers? That can't continue)

she truly had to grow some experience actively ruling with no interruptions or intercessions from enemies and her authority would remain uncontested, so staying at Dragonstone seems a fair move to me

#rhaenyra in dragonstone #asoiaf asks to me #a song of ice and fire #dragonstone #fire and blood comment #Fire and Blood #rhaenyra i #rhaenyra i targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra's characterization #characterization

6 notes · View notes

baashirdayne · 2 years

Text

| closed starter for @myriamas | | set before going to fight the reachmen |

Baashir Dayne has seen a lot of fighting in his years. The first time he took a life he was 14 and those actions only bothered him slightly. And as he got older he learned the difference between killing a man and murdering him. When you killed a man it was in battle, an act of defense for ones self or ones king or in his case Prince and Princess. When Dorne stayed it’s own kingdom and a Princesguard was started he made his way to Sunspear to offer his sword and his talents tot he crown. They didn’t require celibacy and he could still be the lord of his house and lands. He could marry and have children and that seemed a good trade for a Lord to call himself a knight.

To be the sworn sword and shield of the Princess consort Myriam Allyrion now Martell. When her husband ascends she will serve as the Princess of the realm. Ruling higher than any Queen in the North. A ruler over the Dornish stands taller than anyone else. Baashir took his position seriously as he did with most things in life. Some whispered of his laughter and the way he could easily break into a smile but it was whispered because it happened so rarely and most wanted to know why it happened so often.

“Princess.” Baashir greeted her as he walked to sit on the edge of the table. “I’ve been waiting for you and I think it’s best to speak with you now. I want to fight the Reachmen. Word is Armaan Yronwood will be taking his men and it only makes sense I go with him.”

The sword of morning finds pride in know he guards and shields her. When she returned to Godsgrace he went with her and took up his role easily. But he believes he can serve her safety better keeping things in order in battle. They kill the Reachmen and the bandits then their lands are safe and they can focus on more important things. Improving the realm, relations, building, and whatever else their lands needed. His love for Dorne is the purest form of love a man can have for anything.

“Will you give me leave?”

#.*. look over the flames even in their differences they're the same #.*. myriamas001

6 notes · View notes

last-ofthe-starks · 2 years

Text

HOTD SPOILER

~don’t read below the gif if you want to avoid a rather large spoiler/foreshadowing~

This scene between Sir Criston and Rhaenyra in episode 3 is incredibly significant for a number of reasons, so I wanted to discuss.

First, we get subtle cues that in the three years that Criston has been serving as her sworn shield, the two have become friendly. This means Criston has analyzed and considered Rhaenyra’s character in great detail. He has likely had many conversations of a similar nature with her, where she expresses her frustration and anger of the situation with her father, the marriage to Alicent, the pregnancy, and eventually the birth of Aegon.

In all that time, he’s made an assessment of her character, no doubt. So when she asks him this vital question, his response is incredibly telling.

“Do you think the realm will ever accept me ask their queen?”

He pauses,

“They’ll have no choice but to, Princess.”

It is true that for the subjects of the realm, they have no say in who comes into power next. But they do have opinions, and much of the key players in the show believe the realm is not yet ready for a woman to sit on the throne. Especially now that Viserys has a son. This answer is a non-answer, and in a moment where he could offer Rhaenyra a compliment or reassurance as a friend, instead he gives this answer, which we could learn later on that this was a calculated response.

There are no obvious indicators yet for people who have not read the books, but Sir Criston plays a pivotal role in the events of this story. It will eventually be Criston who encourages the young prince Aegon II to take the throne from Rhaenyra, and essentially start the Dance of the Dragons upon the death of Viserys.

His belief that the realm will have no choice but to accept the named heir will later apply to naming Aegon II to the thrown as well. Sir Criston knows that with the right push Rhaenyra could easily be replaced. At present, the only person who truly wishes to see her sit upon the throne is Viserys, and–in a departure from the books–Alicent is seemingly reluctant to take away that station from her as well. That will change when the King dies.

Criston's motives in supporting Aegon II Targaryen in the Dance of the Dragons are/were largely unclear. It could possibly be due to self serving ambition, as he later is named Lord Commander of the White Cloaks and given a position of influence and power. Aegon would have been easier to control and manipulate than Rhaenyra.

There is also the suspected fallout between himself and Rhaenyra after the two are rumored to have had a secret relationship. Many think Rhaenyra tried to seduce Sir Criston, but he denied her. Some think he took her virginity, confessed his love and asked her to run away together, but she refused him. Others believed that Criston supported Aegon II simply out of respect for ancient Andal custom which gives precedence to sons over daughters.

Since the events of Fire and Blood are all told in third person, the truth of that will undoubtably come to light and will likely be some combination of all three rumors in the show. What I love about HOTD is that the showrunners and writers have complete and total control over confirming what the truth of this book actually is. Each event in Fire and Blood, including the actions of Sir Criston, are all told in third person with different recollections. The show gets to choose the truth, which is so rare for a television series to have the opportunity to dictate the source material.

I have a hard time believing that there was no personal motives behind Sir Criston’s decision to betray Rhaenyra, but I held my breathe for a moment when this scene took place because it is the very first piece of a very complex puzzle falling into place here between these two. I am curious, nervous and excited to see how the show decides to tackle their storyline, because it is deeply interwoven into many other characters and their subsequent actions.

Long story short, at this point in the show I don’t think there is any bad blood between these two. I genuinely think Sir Criston cares for Rhaenyra and finds her to be a fascinating woman. But his feelings towards her drastically change, and we’ll have to wait and see what the show runners decided would be the root cause of his anger and defiance.

#house of the dragon #hotd spoilers #house of the dragon spoilers #hotdedit #rhaenyra targaryen #game of thrones #gotedit #daemon targaryen #asoiaf #hotd #sir Criston Cole #Criston Cole

105 notes · View notes

baelathebold · 2 years

Text

The Greens & House Lannister parallels pt. 1: Cersei

UNDOING REFORMS

"Until our new queen is crowned." Lord Beesbury said, in a waspish tone.

"King," insisted Queen Alicent. "The Iron Throne by rights must pass to His Grace’s eldest trueborn son."

"Maegor's laws—"

"—could be undone." She let that hang there, waiting for the High Sparrow to rise to the bait.

He did not disappoint her. "The Faith Militant reborn . . . that would be the answer to three hundred years of prayer, Your Grace. The Warrior would lift his shining sword again and cleanse this sinful realm of all its evil. If His Grace were to allow me to restore the ancient blessed orders of the Sword and Star, every godly man in the Seven Kingdoms would know him to be our true and rightful lord."

DISREGARD OF THE KING'S LAST WILL

The discussion that followed lasted nigh unto dawn. Lord Beesbury spoke on behalf of Princess Rhaenyra. The ancient master of coin, who had served King Viserys for his entire reign, and his grandfather Jaehaerys the Old King before him, reminded the council that Rhaenyra was older than her brothers and had more Targaryen blood, that the late king had chosen her as his successor, that he had repeatedly refused to alter the succession despite the pleadings of Queen Alicent and her greens, that hundreds of lords and landed knights had done obeisance to the princess in 105 AC, and sworn solemn oaths to defend her rights.

But these words fell on ears made of stone.

The eunuch carried the letter to Cersei. The queen glanced at the words. "Protector of the Realm," she read. "Is this meant to be your shield, my lord? A piece of paper?" She ripped the letter in half, ripped the halves in quarters, and let the pieces flutter to the floor.

"Those were the king's words," Ser Barristan said, shocked.

HEIR TRUSTED WITH DIPLOMACY, ONLY TO START A WAR

Arrax fell, broken, to be swallowed by the storm-lashed waters of the bay. His head and neck washed up beneath the cliffs below Storm's End three days later, to make a feast for crabs and seagulls. Prince Lucerys's corpse washed up as well.

And with his death, the war of ravens and envoys and marriage pacts came to an end, and the war of fire and blood began in earnest.

If Joff had only done as he was told, Winterfell would never have gone to war, and Father would have dealt with Robert's brothers.

Instead Joff had commanded that Stark's head be struck off, and Lord Slynt and Ser Ilyn Payne had hastened to obey. It was just there, the queen recalled, gazing at the spot. Janos Slynt had lifted Ned Stark's head by the hair as his life's blood flowed down the steps, and after that there was no turning back.

PIRATE FOR A MASTER OF SHIPS

To take Ser Tyland's place as master of ships, Ser Otto looked to the Iron Islands, dispatching a raven to Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, the daring and bloodthirsty sixteen-year-old Lord Reaper of Pyke, offering him the admiralty and a seat on the council for his allegiance.

"There is talk that you mean to make Aurane Waters the master of ships." "Has someone been informing on me?" When he did not answer, Cersei tossed her hair back, and said, "Waters is well suited to the office. He has spent half his life on ships."

"Half his life? He cannot be more than twenty."

"Two-and-twenty, and what of it? Father was not even one-and-twenty when Aerys Targaryen named him Hand. It is past time Tommen had some young men about him in place of all these wrinkled greybeards. Aurane is strong and vigorous."

SOFT POWER

The crown's gold was divided into four parts. One part was entrusted to the care of the Iron Bank of Braavos for safekeeping, another sent under strong guard to Casterly Rock, a third to Oldtown. The remaining wealth was to be used for bribes and gifts, and to hire sellswords if needed.

I could have hired a Faceless Man to kill Bronn for half of what I've spent on hippocras, she reflected when they were gone at last.

RELIANCE ON RESOURCES OF USURPING HOUSE

Harrenhal left His Grace feeling vulnerable for the first time. Subsequent rapid defeats at the Burning Mill and Stone Hedge came as further blows, and made the king realize that his situation was more perilous than it had seemed. These fears deepened as ravens returned from the Reach, where the greens had believed themselves strongest. House Hightower and Oldtown were solidly behind King Aegon, and His Grace had the Arbor too… but elsewhere in the south, other lords were declaring for Rhaenyra, amongst them Lord Costayne of Three Towers, Lord Mullendore of Uplands, Lord Tarly of Horn Hill, Lord Rowan of Golden-grove, and Lord Grimm of Greyshield. Other blows followed: the Vale, White Harbor, Winterfell. The Blackwoods and the other river lords streamed toward Harrenhal and Prince Daemon's banners. The Sea Snake's fleets closed Blackwater Bay, and every morning King Aegon had merchants whining at him.

A group of merchants appeared before her to beg the throne to intercede for them with the Iron Bank of Braavos. The Braavosi were demanding repayment of their outstanding debts, it seemed, and refusing all new loans. We need our own bank, Cersei decided, the Golden Bank of Lannisport. Perhaps when Tommen's throne was secure, she could make that happen. For the nonce, all she could do was tell the merchants to pay the Braavosi usurers their due.

#HOTD #house of the dragon #asoiaf #alicent hightower #cersei lannister #dance of the dragons #the blacks and the greens #aegon ii targaryen

25 notes · View notes

cicada-bones · 4 years

Text

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 32: The Battle for Mistward

Sorry for the wait! (and sorry that im posting this in the middle of the night - again.) This one was really hard!

Also - its a monster: over 8,000 words. But I really hope you enjoy! (sorry in advance about the angst! but y’all already know how this goes down, so you really should be prepared).

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Early that morning, Rowan hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.

He’d woken up shaking and sweating, his dreams fading behind his eyelids. This time however, as he held Aelin’s dead body in his arms before the burning mountain cottage, it was Namonora’s words that echoed through him.

You must save her, but not for you.

She is different. She could be something different.

You cannot let that girl die.

Rowan’s silent vow in return still ached in his very bones. Because when he’d agreed, he hadn’t really been promising Namonora. He’d been promising himself – swearing that he wouldn’t let his blood oath be the reason for her death, no matter how it tortured him. No matter how it twitched and writhed in his chest.

It had been an acknowledgement of what he knew he wanted, deep down.

Rowan wanted to be sworn to Aelin, not Maeve. To serve her, and be in her court, and at her side. Always. Rowan wanted to give Aelin the blood-oath. And it wasn’t only because she deserved it, or because she needed him.

It was because he wanted to do something good. Because he wanted to be good.

Rowan hadn’t been good in centuries. He couldn’t have recognized good if it had stared him in the face. But now, with this princess, with this Queen just within his grasp, Rowan found that he wanted to be who she needed. To follow the old ways.

To be good, once more, before he died.

Aelin sighed lightly, and turned over on the bed, her golden hair twisting around her shoulders.

Her scent wafted around him, all-encompassing. Overwhelming. That familiar desire coiled in his gut, the desire to reach out and touch her. To reach out and claim her. To bite her, in that lovely space between her neck and her shoulder, or at the tips of her ears. To bite her all over.

Rowan was sure that he would be able to recognize her scent anywhere. That even in a crowded ballroom, he would be able to find her from scent alone. That he would be able to track her down from thousands of miles away.

But it was more than just scent – in the back his mind, or perhaps somewhere deep in his chest, he could sense her. Could feel her presence. In the weeks they had spent breathing in each other’s scents, they had become bonded. No matter how far away she was, Rowan would be able to feel her there. Feel her close.

Rowan closed his eyes, despair joining the desire smothering his limbs. The world had now shown him just exactly how good life could be, and it was about to take it all away.

And Rowan could see it all, could see every detail of that alternate future. It teased him, a delicious fruit just out of his reach.

In that other world, Rowan would leave Wendlyn with Aelin. He would help her form her court, would stand at her side. If she wanted, he could help her take her revenge, or regain her throne. In that other world, he could claim his lands and title, and he could make his suit with her. He could offer her wealth and men and material, and in that other world, he might be able to profess what he felt for her. And maybe, in that world, he could find out if she returned those feelings.

But that wasn’t the world they lived in.

Rowan breathed deep through the fury that rose up in his chest. But he wasn’t angry at Maeve, or the other blood-sworn, or even the gods – not really. He was angry at himself. At how weak he had been. How shortsighted.

Rowan threw off the blankets and strode over to the window where he immediately shifted and soared out into the blackness.

The winds were cold and dark and unexpectedly silent. Usually, the sky was alive with the sounds of the night-creatures; filled with the hoots of hunting owls, skittering mice, foxes playing in their holes, and bats gliding atop wind-rivers, scooping up bugs or pieces of dropped fruit.

But there was only quiet, and Rowan was uneasy.

He decided to take a sweep of their perimeter, his mind still consumed with thoughts of Aelin. But what he found there sent all those worries right out of his head.

···

Rowan roughly shook Aelin’s shoulder, relieved when her eyes shot right open. “Get your sword and your weapons, and hurry,” he said, already halfway across the room, slinging on a shirt and padded overcoat. He could hear Aelin doing the same, her breaths coming quick and copper tinting her scent.

“I think we’ve been betrayed,” Rowan continued, now sliding daggers into position along his forearms, shoulders, and thighs.

“They’re coming tonight,” Aelin breathed.

When Rowan turned to look at her, her eyes were wide as she stared out their small window at the silent forest and the advancing line of black. A darkness that blotted about the stars, blacker than the night.

Rowan’s teeth gritted together. They had only minutes to wake the fortress and get everyone into position.

“I did a sweep of the perimeter,” he said, stuffing a knife in each boot. “It’s as if someone told them where every trap, every warning bell is located. They’ll be here within the hour.”

“Are the ward-stones still working?” Aelin began braiding her hair, then strapped Goldryn across her back.

“Yes – they’re intact. I raised the alarm, and Malakai and the others are readying our defenses on the walls.” He’d intended to wake the old male before Aelin, but found Malakai already up and sitting at his desk, staring into a small fire, the empty bed neat and untouched.

Now, Rowan could only be grateful that they had left Emrys with the healers, no matter how it pained Malakai to be separated from his mate.

Rowan strapped his own sword across his back, alongside the hatchet and hunting knife. Aelin was now pulling on her boots, and her voice was hard as she asked, “Who would have betrayed us?”

“I don’t know, and when I find them, I’ll splatter them on the walls. But for now, we have bigger problems to worry about.”

Aelin’s eyes twitched back to the open window, where the darkness on the horizon had spread, devouring the stars, the trees, the light. Her voice was tentative as she said, “…what is that?”

Rowan’s mouth tightened, becoming a thin line. “Bigger problems.”

···

Minutes passed in a flurry of activity. Malakai took up his station behind the battlements, where he could control the flow of information and direct their movements through the battle. A few of the younger, less capable sentries were sent deep into the castle, guarding the emergency escape tunnel. A few more stood by the entrance, front lines for when the soldiers broke through the front gates.

However, the vast majority of the demi-Fae stood atop the battlements, clutching bows between white knuckles and shaking fists, readying themselves to launch volleys of arrows and pour vats of pitch and oil. Rowan and Aelin stood at the helm of the paltry force, each carrying bows of their own, and trying their utmost to emanate waves of confidence. It wasn’t working.

The men were scared. Rowan had done his best to shield them from the knowledge of their fate, but he couldn’t hide it all. They knew the numbers. They knew their chances.

The ward-stones were the last line of defense before the fortress itself, and Rowan had no idea how long the magical shield would last under an assault by the dark creatures. It could be minutes, could be seconds.

Either way, Mistward couldn’t outlast them forever. And when the creatures broke through, two hundred soldiers at their heels, the demi-Fae would have to face them head on. They didn’t have enough arrows to guarantee the deaths of even half Adarlan’s forces. No matter what, they would soon be facing hand-to-hand combat against an enemy clad in iron and wyrdmarks.

Once they ran out of arrows, the sentries would leave the battlements, one by one, and enter the courtyard – where they would wait. Wait for the gates to be breached, so they could use the entrance as a bottleneck. Wait for the fighting to commence.

With each breath, the darkness on the horizon drew closer, bringing their doom along with it.

The wind gave Rowan barely a few moment’s warning before dozens of animals began to stream past the walls of the fortress, fleeing the veil of blackness. Claws clicked over stone, wings flapped overhead, fur and feathers and scales blending into a medley of creatures, all led by the Little Folk. And though they were barely more than a gleam of nightseeing eyes at the edges of the flock, Rowan could have sworn that they kept glancing toward the woman at his side. To the princess.

Barely seconds after the last of the Little Folk disappeared into the woods, heading up into the mountains to safety, the veil of darkness touched the circle of stones. It rested against them, a dark cloud hovering in wait.

“As soon as the barrier falls, I want you to put arrows through their eyes,” Rowan said to Aelin, though his eyes were forward, scouring the woods for their arrival. “Don’t give them a chance to enthrall you – or anyone. Leave the soldiers to the others.”

Rowan still couldn’t hear or see anything to indicate the presence of the soldiers, but he remembered the strange effects the darkness had. It could easily shield an army from sight or sound.

Aelin nodded, gripping her bow more tightly. “What about magic?”

“Use it sparingly, but if you think you can destroy them with it, don’t hesitate. And don’t get fancy. Take them down by any means possible.”

As he spoke, a reek began to rise from behind the barrier, the smell of death and dust and carrion. The demi-Fae around them began to shift in their positions, murmuring uncomfortably. Their sense of smell was nowhere near as sensitive as Rowan’s – but still, they could hardly not notice the otherworldly stench seeping from the blackness. A smell straight from the lands of Hellas.

A few straggling animals darted from the tree line, their limbs awkward and disjointed, foam bubbling from the corners of their mouths. Aelin’s voice floated up from beside him, her words hollow and detached. “Rowan – they’re here.”

As if she had conjured them herself, the creatures emerged from the darkness, halting barely five yards from the ward stones. They were dressed in all black, their tunics slightly open to reveal the stone torques choking their necks. Their veins bled black, their talons sharp and polished, their eyes piercing the fortress like dark blades of obsidian. The cloud of fear around them was so intense Rowan could barely taste anything in the air other than copper.

And once they emerged from the darkness, he almost felt as though he could feel them, a harsh pressure against his skin. Like rough cotton, or unpicked wool. Three distinct presences that pushed on his soul.

Rowan started slightly. Three, not two. Three.

Aelin seemed to realize this at the same time he did. “But the skinwalkers – ”

Her voice cut off as that male, that beautiful male from before, smiled. It was a look born of knowledge, and of familiarity. A look directed straight at Aelin.

Rowan felt the energy in his body alchemizing, intensifying. Shifting from raw power into violent intent. He wanted to kill that creature. He would kill him.

A rabbit bolted from the bushes, racing for the path between the ward-stones. But before it could make it, a whip of darkness lashed out and passed over the animal. It appeared to have no more substance than a shadow, or a cloud of smoke, but the rabbit fell mid-leap. Its fur matted before their very eyes, even as its flesh shrunk, drying up over its now-prominent skeleton.

Rowan held in a shudder. Together, the creatures were much more powerful than apart. He and Aelin had barely escaped the clutches of one of them, even with the help of the skinwalkers. Together, the creatures had the power of a lesser god. Together, they would crush them.

Even as this truth seeped into Rowan’s bones, the demi-Fae all around him stirred, some cursing in surprise and horror.

Rowan collected himself. “The barrier cannot be allowed to fall,” he said to Aelin, though he made sure that the surety and confidence in his tone could be heard by all. “That blackness will kill anything it touches.”

Even as he spoke, the darkness stretched its reaching fingers around the ward-stone borders, encasing them completely in a cloud of pure black. The blanket blotted out everything, the stars overhead, the forest around them – even the wind was stilled. The only light in the fortress came from their torches and candles, a paltry hint of orange in a world of pure black.

The barrier began to hum violently, sparking and buzzing, almost in agitation. But it held. However, Rowan couldn’t feel particularly grateful for it. They were now entirely cut off from the outside world.

It was as if they had been transported to hell itself.

Aelin shifted at his side, a spark of gold in the darkness. She winced in pain as her ears sharpened to points and her canines pricked her lips, but her focus remained undiminished.

Then, Narrok stepped lightly out from the edges of the trees.

He was undeniably their leader, honed and scarred and powerfully built. He moved with a lithe power, making his authority obvious and indisputable. Narrok’s gaze passed over the demi-Fae, pausing on Aelin, and coming to rest on Rowan.

For a moment, they looked at each other. Measuring and weighing.

Rowan half-expected the male to make some speech, to parlay and offer them a choice between yielding to the king’s power or death. To break their morale. But then, Narrok drew his iron blade and swung it towards the ward-stone gates, a delighted look on his face. And there was nothing Rowan could do as a whip of darkness snapped out and struck the invisible barrier.

Before they had time to strike again, before Rowan even had time to register the effect this assault had on their only magical line of defense, he was moving back towards the gates, shouting for the archers to ready themselves, for them to use whatever magic they had to shield against the oncoming darkness.

There was another strike, and the barrier rippled, the air shuddering around them as if it were a physical thing – a stone in an earthquake, the inside of a drum. The ward-stones began to whine in protest.

Behind him, the demi-Fae were moving into position, their terror barely smothered beneath their desperate preparation. In front of him, Aelin was the only thing standing between the fortress and the ward-stones. The only one who had not moved.

“Aelin,” Rowan snapped, and she looked over her shoulder at him. “Get inside the gates.”

Her face didn’t change, and her legs didn’t move. Instead, she met his gaze in that way only she could, her eyes filled with fire and fury, and slung her bow across her back. When she raised her hand, it was clothed in a glove of flame.

Rowan felt panic begin to seep into his bones.

Aelin’s words were measured. “In the woods that night, it balked from the flame.”

“To use it, you’ll have to get outside the barrier, or it’ll just rebound against the walls.”

“I know,” she said quietly, and Rowan had to actively stop himself from sprinting towards her and dragging her back behind the gates.

“The last time, you took one look at that thing and fell under its spell.” The darkness lashed once again, and the barrier groaned in response, placing a dark emphasis on his words.

Still, Aelin did not move, and Rowan stepped once towards her, his blood spiked with adrenaline. Copper swirled all around them, but surprisingly, none of it seemed to come from Aelin. Her scent was completely blank. This did not comfort him.

“It won’t be like last time,” she said, her eyes on Narrok and the creatures. “I don’t know what else to do.”

But before he could shout at her, before he could say that she didn’t need to sacrifice herself, that she didn’t need to atone for anything, that they still had time to escape together – before he could admit that he didn’t know what to do either, a cry echoed through the fortress behind him.

A chorus of shouts joined it, yells of pain and surprise. Calls for aid. Cries of Rowan’s name. Then the unmistakable screech of metal on metal, the clash of steel and iron. The sound of battle.

And it was as if he were far away, as if he were submerged in water or deep beneath the surface of the earth, as someone said, “The tunnel! They’ve been let in through the tunnel!” and a hope Rowan didn’t even know he had crashed about his ears.

They had been betrayed. And the betrayer hadn’t just undone the traps and bells, hadn’t just guided the army around their makeshift protection. They had shown them the escape tunnel. And now the armies of Adarlan were crawling up from within, creeping through the underground network of tunnels and right into the belly of the castle. The ward-stones were far too occupied with the threat from above to even notice the one the snuck up from below.

The sounds of death and combat grew ever louder, but Rowan did not move. He couldn’t. Not while Aelin was still set on her path.

“Rowan – ” her words were cut off by the sound of yet another strike against the barrier stones. And another. Flakes of granite began to fall from the pillars, a shower of dust and sparks. The groaning grew in intensity.

The barriers wouldn’t be able to hold up much longer. And Aelin knew it. She began to take a few halting steps towards the stones.

A vicious growl ripped through Rowan’s chest. “Do not take one more step – ”

He moved towards her, but Aelin didn’t halt her advance. Screaming had begun from inside the fortress, and Rowan felt like he was being ripped in two.

He grabbed her elbow, forcing her to look at him. “That was an order.��

Aelin knocked his hand away. “You’re needed inside. Leave the barrier to me.”

“You don’t know if it’ll work – ”

“It will work,” she snarled. “I’m the expendable one, Rowan.”

His words were barely legible through the growling escaping from his chest. “You are heir to the throne of – ”

“Right now, I am a woman who has a power that might save lives. Let me do this. Help the others.”

Aelin’s eyes pleaded with him. And they were the eyes of a Queen, of the Queen that he wanted. His Queen.

And she wanted everything that he did. Wanted to be good – to do something good. After all that had been taken from her, all that had been done to her and denied her, she still wanted to help. Wanted to be worthy of her name.

No matter how it tore at him, how could he deny her that?

Aelin had the best, the only chance against those creatures. Yet the determination in her eyes worried him. It wasn’t a resolve born of a desperate fight for survival. No, her eyes spoke more of sacrifice.

I’m the expendable one, Rowan.

Rowan looked at the ward-stones, at the fortress and the sentries scrambling to help below. Weighing, calculating.

If he forced her to run, he would be taking away everything she wanted to be, everything that she was. He would be betraying her, in the deepest, most essential way. And he just couldn’t do it. Even if it meant that the hopes of thousands died, right here, right now. Because it meant death either way.

So instead of asking her to run with him, instead of begging her to hide behind the wooden gates, he did the harder thing. Made the more difficult choice. The words hurt as they slipped out.

“Do not engage them. You focus on that darkness and keeping it away from the barrier, and that’s it. Hold the line, Aelin.”

Her eyes did not change, and her scent was clean of fear as she nodded and said, “Understood.”

“They will attack you the moment you set foot outside the barrier.” Rowan released her arm, and it felt like a stone removed from a dam. ““Have a shield ready.”

The scent of her magic rose, cloaking her body in flame and smoke. “I know.” Aelin said, and she turned away from the fortress, away from the demi-Fae. Away from him. Turned to face the enemy that would likely kill her.

Rowan could help but linger. Couldn’t help but wait and make sure that she survived those few crucial moments, even while those screams tore at his eardrums.

Aelin walked out over the patch of yellowing grass, drawing her golden sword, the sword of Brannon, in her right hand, while Mala’s flames enveloped her left. As she walked her flames grew even brighter. Slowly, the Heir of Fire passed beneath the stone arches and into the darkness beyond.

Rowan tore his eyes away, even as plumes of flame and blades of darkness began to clash on the other side of the barrier. He tried his best to forget, tried his best only to think of what he had to do now. To think that if he could kill enough soldiers, that if she could hold off the creatures for just long enough, then maybe they could all flee.

Rowan turned and began to run back through the gates and into the interior courtyard, rallying the sentries to his side. They blocked the gates behind them, and he left two guards with orders to alert him or Malakai should the barriers fall, and darkness reach the castle.

The rest ran with him through the stone passageways down deep into the belly of the fortress, where blood streamed on the walls and ran in puddles on the floor. Where the dead were already piling up.

Rowan drew his sword in one hand and his hatchet in the other, and threw himself into the fray.

It was hell, but it was a familiar hell. So Rowan endured.

He took up position at the head of their makeshift phalanx, directly before the mouth of the tunnel, and there he stood as time began to flow like bees and honey – thick and slow and yet also swift and jerky and filled with action.

This was the part of battle that Rowan was used to. The part that he was most comfortable in. He sword hand did not falter as it rent through flesh, felling soldier after soldier as they poured up from the depths of hell.

Still, he couldn’t be everywhere. The tunnel was wide enough that Adarlanian men could slide past the touch of his steel, and reach the demi-Fae behind him. Rowan couldn’t protect them all, no matter how much he may want to.

And so he had to listen as the demi-Fae sentries tired, and began to fall. It only made Rowan fight harder, swing his limbs swifter, but he knew that even he would soon begin to tire. That this steady tide of soldiers wouldn’t falter until far after Mistward had been overcome.

Minutes passed as hours, and after some unknowable stretch of time, Rowan was pulled aside by Luca, of all people.

The boy was breathing heavily, a cut on his temple streaming blood into his eyes, marking his brow with gore. “It was Bas.”

Rowan started, but Luca just took a shuddering breath, his light eyes shadowed with devastation. “It was Bas who betrayed us. He – he wanted power. And…a home. A place. They told him that they could give it to him.”

The pain in the boy’s voice nearly broke Rowan’s heart, but all he could manage was to place a hand on Luca’s shoulder, hopefully communicating his sympathy without words. Then he pushed the boy behind him, forcing him back up the tunnel and into relative safety, and rejoined the battle.

Bas had chafed against the inferior position of the demi-Fae more than most. He’d risen in the ranks at Mistward fairly quickly, earning himself the admiration of many of the younger demi-Fae, and the respect of most of the older. Even Malakai had liked and trusted Bas a great deal. But it’d meant that Bas always wanted more. And Mistward couldn’t give it to him.

Rowan knew from the agony in Luca’s scent that Bas had already met his end. He could only hope that the boy hadn’t been the one to do it. Could only hope that the stains on this child’s soul were not yet so black as to be irreversible.

That they would live to see the light of day, so that the boy would have the chance to heal, and forgive.

So, with each swing of his blades, Rowan hoped.

···

Gavriel’s paws pounded into the earth, his breaths ripping through his lungs in pained, ragged bursts, his limbs heavy. They had run through the day, night, and day again. Had run until they met up with Lorcan and Vaughan, and then had run some more. And they hadn’t stopped once.

It was starting to weigh on him. But now, with the sounds of battle and the feel of that strange darkness all around them, Gavriel knew that it had been worth it. That they had reached the fortress just in time.

Unless, a dark voice whispered in the back of his mind, you’re too late. Unless they’re both already dead.

Rowan and the princess. The two people he had come to help. To save.

Ahead of him, Fenrys and Connall’s wolves sprinted forwards through the trees, down the hidden path they all knew would lead out of the mountains and down into the secluded valley that concealed the fortress. They whipped around each other, the black and white wolves, playful to the end.

Above, Vaughan flew in osprey form, his great wings cutting through the mists overhead. Behind, he could just hear Lorcan pounding through undergrowth, his Fae legs fighting to keep up with the four-legged creatures. Even so, Gavriel, Fenrys, and Connall had only had to adjust their speed very little to accommodate the male – Lorcan’s massive height was enough to nearly make up for the differences in stride.

Though they had been running together through most of the night, they hadn’t said one word to each other. Perhaps it was because there was nothing more to say. They had all decided to come. Had all answered their friend’s desperate call.

It felt strange. Different, to choose to be together. To travel and fight and work together by their own volition, wholly and completely. It spoke of something…new. New and dangerous.

Then they reached the crest of a hill, and the stone castle spread out beneath their feet.

It had been barely a month since Gavriel had last been at Mistward, and yet now, the male barely recognized it. It was shrouded in a cloak of thick darkness, through which he could only barely see the hint of broken stone and yellowed grass. The towering barrier stones looked old and cracked, and the dark magic that encircled the fortress was clothed in sparks of bright, vibrant gold - the only light in the utter blackness.

Four figures stood before the gates, and Gavriel could only assume that the strange darkness came from them. All around them, he smelled copper and death and carrion, a stench so potent and intense he felt his hackles rise despite himself. And though the figures stood on two legs as men, and were clothed in the guise of men, Gavriel knew, deep in his gut, that they were as far from human or Fae as a thinking creature could be. That they were demons.

The creatures did not turn at their approach, but the darkness began to spread towards them regardless – like blood in water. Gavriel felt himself slowing, almost subconsciously. Ahead, Connall and Fenrys stopped in their tracks, avoiding the touch of the dark mist, out of fear or knowledge – Gavriel wasn’t sure.

But before Gavriel could do anything, before he could shift or speak or even growl, a piercing light breached the black. A golden blade of fire that cut through the darkness like a knife in butter. And through the breach, Gavriel could just see the image of a figure wrapped in gold. A woman, whose scent spoke of ash and spice and citrus.

The flames formed a tunnel through the darkness, and then the wolves were running. Sprinting through the black as fast as they dared. Vaughn swooped down to join them, and then Lorcan was passing Gavriel, dark limbs joining fur and feather in the golden flames.

But Gavriel was hesitating.

Not to follow his fellow blood-sworn through the breach, but to leave with them. To enter the fortress, and leave the woman behind.

Fenrys and Connall were already gone, and he could hear their furious growls shaking the foundations of the castle as they joined the battle within. Vaughn was circling the battlements, surveying the perimeter before joining them, and Lorcan was forcing open the wooden gates, making to follow the wolves into the depths of the castle.

None of them had spared the woman a glance. Had not acknowledged her, or thanked her, or thought to make sure she was alright. Perhaps, in another world, Gavriel would have done the same.

But instead, he paused, the golden tunnel disintegrating at his back.

The princess was in pain. Her face was splattered in gore, her sword hanging limply in tired limbs, her eyes clouded with exhaustion. She coughed up blood, and it shone in the grass.

But still, her words were fierce. “He’s inside,” she choked out. “Help him.”

Gavriel didn’t have to know her to know that she was begging. That she was desperate for Rowan to be safe, desperate for him to survive. Gavriel didn’t have to know her to know that she loved him.

“Go,” she wheezed through broken lungs. “Go.”

Still, he hesitated. Could he allow this woman to sacrifice herself? Could he allow her to die here, alone and without help?

The sounds of death echoed from the stone building, and Gavriel took a step towards the castle. And another.

The darkness swirled around them, barely held back by the woman’s shields of flame. And Gavriel knew that there was nothing he could do. If he stayed, he would only be able to die alongside her. His magic was nothing to those creatures. He could be of no help.

But in the fortress, he could ensure that Rowan survived. For this princess, he could make sure that Rowan lived. And he could bear witness, could remember her sacrifice, her bravery, for the remainder of his too-long life. He could do her that honor.

So Gavriel turned away from perhaps the bravest woman he had ever known, and dove through the gates and into the waiting battle below.

···

Rowan was far from exhausted, and yet his thoughts were scattered, his limbs slow and unsure. Most of his attention was far away from this dark and bloody tunnel, up at the stone gates, with the female that was risking everything to keep the fortress from being overrun.

No, Rowan was not exhausted. He had fought for far longer and in worse conditions. But the demi-Fae were. Each of their swings were slower, weaker. It took more effort each time they faced an enemy to fell them, especially as soldiers continued flooding the fortress, an unending stream.

Rowan yanked his sword from the gut of a falling soldier, his dagger already slicing the neck of the next, when a deep growling shook the stones of the fortress.

Relief, deep and profound, threatened to bring Rowan to his knees.

Many of the demi-Fae around him froze in fear as twin wolves leapt down the staircase, closing their massive jaws around the necks of enemy soldiers. Massive wings flapped, and then white light flashed and a glowering, dark-eyed male was before him, already swinging a sword to decapitate another solder.

Vaughan merely nodded grimly at him before taking position on his left side, never one to waste words. Beyond him, the wolves were nothing short of lethal, not bothering to shift into Fae form as they tore through enemy ranks.

The demi-Fae began to rally once more, taking up arms once again with more vigor than Rowan had yet seen. Now it was the soldiers from Adarlan who looked fearful. Who blanched and stumbled, wide-eyed in the darkness.

That was all Rowan needed to see before he was running, sprinting back up the stairs and dodging the bloodied and worn demi-Fae. Dread clenched its fingers around his quick-beating heart. Darkness had not yet fallen, the stones of the fortress still stood, which meant that she had to still be breathing, that she had to still be holding the line, but –

A mountain cat skidded to halt on the stairwell before him and shifted. Rowan took one look in Gavriel’s tawny eyes before he demanded, “Where is she?”

The male’s eyes tightened, almost imperceptibly, and he held out one arm. As if to stop him. “She’s in bad shape, Rowan. I think – ”

And Rowan was shoving aside his oldest friend, already sprinting up the stairs. Not waiting to hear the end of that sentence. Not waiting to find out what he had allowed to happen to the princess. To his Queen.

Another towering figure appeared on the steps before him – Lorcan.

Even Lorcan had answered his call. Rowan shouldered past him without a second glance – the time for gratitude would come later, and the dark-haired demi-Fae didn’t say anything as Rowan rushed headlong to the battlement gates.

What he saw there nearly drove him to his knees.

The wall of flame was in tatters, but still protecting the barrier. But the three creatures…Aelin was standing in front of them, hunched and panting, sword limp in her hand. They advanced, and a feeble blue flame sprang up before them.

They swiped it away with wave of their hands. Another flame sprang up, and her knees buckled. The shield of flame surged and receded, pulsing like the light around her body.

She was burning out. Why hadn’t she retreated?

Another step closer and the creatures said something that had her raising her head. Rowan knew he could not reach her, didn’t even have the breath to shout a warning as Aelin gazed into the face of the creature before her. And there was absolutely nothing behind her eyes. No fire, no fury. No life.

A wave of emptiness replaced the panic strangling Rowan’s limbs, and it felt as though all of the life vanished from his body. She had lied. She had lied to him. And this realization hurt almost as much as the knowledge that they were about to die.

She had wanted to save other lives, yes. But not her own. She had gone out there with no intention of coming back. Of surviving.

Fury rippled, deep in his gut. He would not, could not, allow it. Even if she had succumbed to her grief, Rowan wouldn’t allow her to just vanish. To let herself be annihilated.

Rowan took in a breath – to roar, to run, to call his power, but then a wall of muscle slammed into him from behind, and tackled him into the grass. And though Rowan shoved and twisted and writhed, he couldn’t do anything against the four centuries of training and feline instinct that had him pinned.

Gavriel knew him, had helped train him, had worked with him for centuries. And Rowan could do nothing to thwart him. Could do nothing about the magical shield Gavriel had raised, nothing about the muscled limbs clenched around his arms and legs.

They both watched as the creature took Aelin’s face in its hands, and her sword thudded to the ground, forgotten.

And Rowan was screaming. Screaming as the creature pulled her into its arms. Screaming as she stopped fighting. As her flames winked out and as the darkness swallowed her whole.

Gavriel held him through it all, keeping him from sprinting through those broken gates and into that blackness that destroyed worlds. The blackness that was well on its way to destroying his.

Rowan was aware of Lorcan lingering behind him, a dark presence at his back. He had no room to wonder why. Why he stayed. Why he watched.

Rowan writhed in Gavriel’s grip, and the barrier fell.

It fell without ceremony, without sound. One second it was there, a dark, crackling energy, and the next it was gone. Had winked out of existence as easily as the sun passes behind a cloud, or a fog fades at break of day.

Rowan hurled his power at the cloud of darkness with all the force he could muster; summoned gales of winds and storms of ice, but nothing could pierce it. The cloak of darkness held, a black shroud that hid his Queen from him. And it did not advance.

Though the barrier had fallen, the creatures did not attack. The darkness did not move. And Rowan thought he knew why.

The creatures and Narrok had captured a prize far greater than the demi-Fae. The joy of feeding on her was something they planned to relish for a long, long while. He had felt their joy as they consumed the female in the caves, had sensed the curling anticipation of the male that had chased them through the woods and into the arms of the skinwalkers.

The creatures fed on pain and suffering, and hers was far greater than any they could’ve possibly imagined.

Minutes passed, and though Rowan did not stop his useless assault on the darkness, time felt stagnant. Nothing changed. The sounds of the battle raging beneath them did not slow, nor did Gavriel’s grip on his shoulders slacken. And Aelin did not succumb.

Rowan wasn’t sure how he knew: he just did. Aelin was still alive. Her heart still beat, and until it stopped, he would fight. With everything he had, he would fight.

Even as he began to hear that soft, warm female voice. Beckoning to him. Calling him to her, begging him to join her. Saying that if only he came, she could live. If only he came, they could be together again, forever. If only he came, she would forgive him for everything, for all of it.

It tore him to shreds. And the minutes ticked by.

“Rowan,” Gavriel murmured, tightening his grip on Rowan’s arm. Rain had begun pouring. “We are needed inside.”

“No,” he snarled. They didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered but the girl dying in that dark. Dying alone. Thinking that he had left her to die alone.

“Rowan, the others – ”

“No.”

Lorcan swore over the roar of the torrential rain. “She is dead, you fool, or close enough to it. You can still save other lives.”

They began hauling him to his feet, away from her. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll rip your head from your body,” he snarled at Lorcan, his commander. The male who had taken him in, who had trained him. Who he had traveled with through the long centuries.

But Rowan said it anyways.

Gavriel flicked his eyes to Lorcan in some silent conversation. Rowan tensed, preparing to fling them off. They would knock him unconscious sooner than allow him into that dark, where Lyria’s beckoning had now turned to screaming for mercy.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

But Aelin was real, and was being drained of life with every moment they held him here. All he needed to get them unconscious was for Gavriel to drop his magical shield.

“Let go,” Rowan growled again, preparing to strike.

But then a rumbling shook the earth, and the three of them all froze. Beneath them, some huge power was surging, so massive and primordial it set the ground trembling. So massive that Rowan felt it in his very bones.

They turned toward the darkness. And Rowan could have sworn that a golden light arced through it, then disappeared.

“That’s impossible,” Gavriel breathed. “She burned out.”

Rowan didn’t dare blink. Her burnouts had always been self-imposed, had always been born of that iron cage, the bars that she hadn’t been able to rid herself of. That she had clung to, through all these long weeks.

The creatures fed on despair and pain and terror. But what if Aelin could let go of those fears? What if she walked through them, and learned to embrace them?

As if in answer, flame erupted from the wall of darkness.

The fire unfurled, filling the rainy night, vibrant as a red opal. Lorcan swore, and Gavriel threw up additional shields of his own magic. Rowan didn’t bother. They did not fight him as he shrugged off their grip, surging to his feet.

The flame didn’t singe a hair on his head. It flowed above and past him, glorious and immortal and unbreakable. It embraced him. Welcomed him as a friend.

And there, beyond the stones, standing between two of those creatures, was Aelin, a strange mark glowing on her brow. Her hair flowed around her, shorter now and bright like her fire. And her eyes – though they were red-rimmed, the gold in her eyes was a living flame.

The two creatures lunged for her, the darkness sweeping in around them.

Rowan ran all of one step before she flung out her arms, grabbing the creatures by their flawless faces – her palms over their open mouths as she exhaled sharply.

As if she’d breathed fire into their cores, flames shot out of their eyes, their ears, their fingers. The two creatures didn’t have a chance to scream as she burned them into cinders.

She lowered her arms. Her magic was raging so fiercely that the rain turned to steam before it hit her. A weapon bright from the forging.

He forgot Gavriel and Lorcan as he bolted for her – the gold and red and blue flames utterly hers, this Heir of Fire. Spying him at last, she smiled faintly.

A Queen’s smile. Full of relief and friendship and care and tenderness. It was a smile he wanted to look at for hours. A smile he wanted to see every single day until the day he died.

But there was exhaustion in that smile, and her bright magic flickered. Behind her, Narrok and the remaining creature – the one they had faced in the woods – were spooling the darkness into themselves, as if readying for attack. She turned toward them, swaying slightly, her skin deathly pale. They had fed on her, and she was drained after shredding apart their brethren. A very real, very final burnout was steadily approaching.

The wall of black swelled, one final hammer blow to squash her, but she stood fast, a golden light in the darkness. That was all Rowan needed to see before he knew what he had to do. Wind and ice were of no use here, but there were other ways.

Rowan drew his dagger and sliced his palm open as he sprinted through the gate-stones towards Aelin.

For even if it was all for nothing, even if he couldn’t help her, even if it made no difference at all whatsoever, he would at least be by her side. Neither of them would be alone. They could be together, as the darkness consumed them.

Rowan reached her, panting and bloody, and he held out his hand for her to take.

They were carranam, and he had come for her, just as she would have for him. And Rowan saw in her eyes that this would work. That she believed it too. He didn’t know if his power was strong enough, didn’t know if they would survive.

He didn’t know, but he hoped.

Aelin held his gaze as she grabbed her own dagger and cut open her palm, right over the scars that marked her blood-oath to avenge the death of her friend, her oath to save her nation.

And even though she knew he could read the words right off her face, she still asked him, “To whatever end?”

Rowan just nodded, and she gripped his outstretched hand, joining them. Blood to blood and soul to soul. He wrapped his other arm around her, grasping her tightly and feeling her heartbeat on his skin, the contours of her body against his. He leaned close and whispered softly into her ear, “I claim you, too, Aelin Galathynius.”

The wave of impenetrable black descended, roaring as it made to devour them. But they were together, no longer alone. They had both survived horrific things, had both weathered darknesses much greater than the one they currently faced.

So Rowan was not afraid of that crushing black, not with the Queen in his arms. The woman who had lit up his night. Who made him want to live once more.

Rowan breathed deep, and let the barriers within his mind fall, one by one. And he felt as Aelin’s mind entered his, felt as her fire flickered in his veins, her power new and bright and hot.

She drew his power into her, and it flooded out of him in a great rush, Rowan letting it flow freely between them as their blood dripped down their entwined arms.

Her well of power was near-empty, but its sheer size still astonished him.

It was fathomless, an enormous, hollow expanse. Was as vast as the sun – as the very core of the earth. She was the Heir of Fire, the Heir of Brannon, and she had no equal.

Rowan felt vulnerable in a way he never had before as Aelin sucked his magic from him. Vulnerable, but completely unafraid. To her, who’d had nothing and no one, who had been left completely alone, he gave the one and only thing he could. Himself.

Aelin’s knees began to buckle as the weight of their shared power took its toll, and Rowan held her in place, supporting her body while her mind bore the immense weight of their combined magics.

Then, Aelin struck.

The black wave had not even hallway fallen before Aelin shattered it apart with an arc of golden light, leaving Narrok and the remaining creature gaping.

She didn’t give them a moment to recover. Aelin reached into Rowan, drawing his power into her own body, his ice and wind and lightning becoming fire and light and heat in the alchemy of her blood. And then it exploded out of them in a torrent of golden flame.

Together they burned, surrounded by the force of a thousand stars. Embers crackled in the air all around them, flickers of flame like millions of fireflies. It was like standing on the surface of the sun.

Narrok and the creature were shrieking, and the sounds tore up his eardrums, a blade digging in and twisting. He and Aelin clung to each other as she crammed the light down their throats, burning up their black blood.

There was a sudden silence. And before he was destroyed completely, Narrok looked at Aelin, his eyes piercing her deep. For a moment they stared at each other, seeming to exchange something. A final goodbye.

Rowan clung tight to Aelin, keeping her anchored to him as the light around them intensified, becoming so bright it was actually painful. But Rowan forced his eyes to remain open. Forced himself to watch.

Aelin called the light to her, bending it to her will. And then she forced it into the creatures, pouring all of that beautiful, golden light into every shadowy corner of them.

The ironclad expression on Aelin’s face did not shift as she stared back at Narrok, and burned him to dust and ashes.

The remaining creature only managed to crawl two steps before he succumbed as well, a silent scream frozen on his dark face as he was incinerated.

Slowly, the light and flame receded, and Aelin’s exhausted mind fell away from his own. And all that remained of Narrok and the three creatures were four Wyrdstone collars steaming in the wet grass.

Their bloody palms fell apart at last, and Rowan felt Aelin’s soul slip out of his grasp. He shivered, suddenly cold.

Rowan looked up for the first time, and found that the darkness was completely gone, utterly eradicated. And though Aelin had burned as hot as a falling star, the trees around them were still green, the mists still chill. Towards the east, Rowan could just see the faint rays of dawn beginning to peek around the mountain peaks. The tips of Mala’s fingers stretching to greet them, washing the last of the darkness aside.

Aelin swayed slightly, utterly spent, and Rowan wrapped his arm around her more tightly, guiding her over the uneven grass and up the blood-spattered steps, towards their rooms. But before they left, Rowan leaned over and scooped up the stone collars, sliding them onto his swordbelt.

Gavriel and Lorcan were already gone, presumably to assist below. The sounds of battle had died down, the clash of metal and shouts of pain dwindling into silence. The fortress halls were quiet and empty as they walked side by side.

The second Aelin’s head hit the pillow, she was dead asleep.

Rowan pulled off her boots, rolling her over in order to pull the blankets out from underneath her. Then he tucked her into bed, carefully arranging the covers over her sleeping form.

But before he left the small stone chamber, his fingers found their way into her golden hair. Rowan smoothed the golden strands back behind her ears, gave her one last, lingering look, and walked out.

...

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

...

@aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @booknerdproblems @queen-of-glass @westofmoon @morganofthewildfire @fangirlprincess09

(let me know if you would like to be added to this taglist!)

68 notes · View notes