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Of Dragons and Maelstroms: Aemond POV

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

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

Chapter Eight

“You do not know what you are asking for, but make no mistake, you are asking a great deal.”

Aemond found himself back at Harrenhal mere hours after the ball had ended, seeking solace away from the hustle and bustle of the Red Keep. As the first rays of light filtered through the window, they flickered off his sharp features, casting shadows across his furrowed brow as he leaned his head against his arm, his silver hair falling forward.

In the quiet of the room, Aemond felt the weight of desperation pressing down on him. Time was running out, and with Maera's reputation restored and the allure of the Master of Coin's dowry drawing every nobleman to her side, the Prince knew he needed to act swiftly. He couldn't afford to lose her to another suitor if he was to secure his great destiny.

Alys's penchant for speaking in riddles only served to exacerbate Aemond's frustration. Despite her purported great powers, he found her presence irksome. Her dull, long dark hair and cat-like green eyes got on his nerves, as did the enigmatic smile she always seemed to wear. The fact that he was entertaining these fantastical notions of magic and prophecy grated against his sense of logic and reason. Yet, the overwhelming desire to claim Maera for himself had clouded any semblance of judgment he had left.

"A daughter of a minor House will never be betrothed to a prince, especially during times of war when marriages are needed to secure allies," the Prince proclaimed with an edge of exasperation as he rose from his seat, his movements agitated as he inspected Alys's array of trinkets on the nearby table. “She needs to have something of use to the crown.”

Turning to face the witch, who lounged in her chair beside the hearth, Aemond's gaze bore into hers with intensity. "I don't care how you do it but find a way," he commanded, the tension in the room thickening with each passing moment.

Alys furrowed her brow, her green eyes meeting Aemond's with a piercing intensity. After a moment of contemplation, she broke the silence. "She has an aunt, does she not? In Morne?"

Aemond nodded curtly, acknowledging the mention of Maera's maternal aunt. "Her mother's twin, married to Lord Byron of the Fortress of Fog," he confirmed, his tone clipped with anticipation.

"Lord Byron controls quite a fleet," Alys continued, her voice taking on a thoughtful tone as she retrieved a scroll from her shelves and unfurled it to reveal a world map, laying it on the table beside the Prince. "And while the Lannister fleet is strong, the fleet of Morne possesses superior knowledge of the East Waters, akin to the Velaryon fleet."

The Prince shook his head in disbelief, a furrow deepening on his brow. “Lord and Lady Morne have children. The fortress and the fleet would pass to them,” he stated firmly, his voice edged with incredulity at the suggestion.

Alys merely shrugged in response, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Not if something were to happen to all of them,” she retorted, her tone tinged with an unsettling confidence.

Aemond recoiled slightly, taken aback by the brazenness of her proposal. “You’re talking about erasing an entire House,” he protested, his words heavy with disbelief and moral indignation.

The witch's smile only widened, her gaze unyielding. “I’m talking about securing the fleet to Lady Maera’s dowry in order for her to be your bride,” Alys persisted, her words cutting through the air like a blade. “Or do you not wish the prophecy to come true? For the King of Kings to be born?”

Aemond's eye flashed with frustration and anger, his jaw tensing as he struggled to contain his emotions. “I know, witch!” he snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. He turned away from her, his gaze darting around the room as he grappled with the weight of Alys's proposition. “She will never forgive me. Lady Viserra is the last connection to her mother. She writes to her.”

Alys remained unmoved, her demeanor devoid of any semblance of empathy or remorse. "Her heartache will pass," she declared coldly, her words ringing out with a callous certainty that left Aemond feeling unsettled and conflicted. “You will be King. And she will be your Queen,” the witch reminded him. “Through the binding of a son and daughter the King of Kings will be born, to unite and conquer the world.”

His jaw tensed as he contemplated the ramifications of Alys's plan. While Aemond didn't care about wiping out an entire House, he couldn't ignore the fact that the news would devastate Maera. He remembered her speaking fondly of her Aunt Viserra, the twin of her late mother. Losing her mother at such a young age had already inflicted enough pain on Maera, and the thought of causing her more suffering didn't sit well with him.

However, Aemond couldn't deny the strategic advantage their deaths could bring. Maera would inherit the fleet, a valuable asset for the war effort. This would give Aemond a reason to marry her, fulfilling the prophecy and potentially bringing forth the King of Kings. It was a tough decision. But Aemond also thought about all the years Maera had not been in his life, all the dark and twisted turns fate had led him down. He could not lose her again.

“Just see it done,” Aemond relented through gritted teeth, his frustration evident in the tense set of his jaw and the furrow of his brow.

The witch grinned wickedly, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. “I will need something from you. After all, the Gods need payment for granting you this path.”

“Fine,” Aemond said tersely, dismissing her request with a wave of his hand. “More hair, more blood, whatever, just take it.”

But Alys shook her head slowly, a coy smile playing on her lips. “No, my Prince,” she replied, her voice taking on a sultry tone that sent a shiver down Aemond’s spine. “I need something much, much more valuable.”

As she attempted to brush her finger across his jawline, Aemond reacted instinctively, seizing her wrist firmly to halt the contact. His grip was firm, his violet eye flashing with a mixture of anger and suspicion as he stared into her emerald gaze. “The bloodline will come from your seed, my Prince,” she continued, undeterred by his reaction. “Therefore, that is where we must start. We must join together physically, to enable old magic and the blood of old Valyria to bind together as one.”

Aemond’s grip tightened further, his nails digging into her flesh as he struggled to contain his fury. “You expect me to lie with you?” he spat, his voice laced with contempt. “A witch, a whore?” With a forceful push, he shoved her hand away from him, his gaze burning with indignation and disgust. He could not believe she had the sheer audacity to ask this of him.

Stooping so low to sleep with a whore was one thing, but the potential consequences of this was an entirely different matter- children. Illegitimate children. Bastards. Aemond thought back to all the times his mother received news that another silver-haired babe had been born in a brothel in Flea Bottom. The shame and disappointment that would cloud Queen Alicent’s face was a horrendous sight to behold. There was no way Aemond could let that happen.

And then there was Maera, the woman he would be doing this for. If a child was born from lying with the witch, there would be a high possibility she would never know. However the thought of that ate away at his soul. It would be the ultimate blow to her. To kill her family in order to secure him to his side, and bring a bastard into the world through doing so?

"I will have no bastards running around the Riverlands," Aemond spat, his words laced with venom as he glared at the witch.

Alys met his gaze with equal fervor, her expression hardening as she retorted, "I can have no more children. My last birth damaged my womb, nothing can grow there."

Aemond's resolve remained unshaken, his tone resolute as he declared, "I am not risking it. The answer is no."

Turning away, he moved toward the chair where he had been seated moments before, intent on gathering his belongings and leaving. But Alys's voice cut through the silence, her words dripping with malice. "Very well. I am sure Lady Maera will make a gracious wife to Lord Warren Tully. If he is named Lord Grover’s heir, she will be the Lady of Riverrun. And she will give him many children."

Aemond froze mid-step, his muscles tensing as he processed her words. Memories of the harvest moon ball flooded his mind—the way Maera and Lord Warren exchanged smiles, the subtle blush on her cheeks, the intensity in the Lord’s gaze when he spoke to her. Despite the pain it caused him to even consider Alys’s proposal, the thought of Maera in the arms of another man felt like a stab to Aemond’s stomach.

A cold fury boiled within him as Alys continued to taunt him, her voice like a dagger twisting in his gut. "Then you can return to being the second son, the loyal lapdog of your brother, carrying out his duties with no thanks or rewards to show for it."

Unable to contain his rage any longer, Aemond stormed back across the room, his movements swift and purposeful as he seized Alys by the throat, his grip firm and unyielding. Despite Aemond's firm grip around her throat, Alys remained composed, her defiance unyielding as she continued to provoke him. "You are angry because I speak the truth. It is a hard thing to swallow, isn't it? Reality?"

Aemond's silence only seemed to fuel Alys's audacity, her taunts cutting through the air even as his fingers tightened around her neck. But she met his gaze with a steady smile, undeterred by his fury. "Your time is running out. This is your last chance."

The Prince hesitated, biting his bottom lip in contemplation. Despite his disgust at the idea of sleeping with her, he couldn't deny the power of her foresight. It was thanks to her abilities that Maera's reputation had been restored. Yet the urgency made him feel that he was being backed into a corner, like a trapped animal. He despised the idea of succumbing to Alys's demands, but he couldn't shake the allure of what her plan could offer—a marriage that would lead to glory, perhaps even happiness.

With a dark glower, Aemond released his grip, his expression a storm of conflicting emotions as he grudgingly acquiesced. "Let's get it over with."

He made his way over to Alys's small bed in the corner of the room, feeling the contrast with his own grander accommodations in the Red Keep. As he lay back, Alys climbed atop his lap, straddling him as her hands moving to unbutton his doublet, a sly smile on her face. With a scoff, Aemond shoved her back, refusing to let her touch him more than necessary. He felt a surge of revulsion at the thought of being intimate with her. This was a means to an end and he would not bear himself before her.

Instead he slid his hand down to his dark trousers and unlaced them, releasing his cock and began pumping it quickly to make it hard. His gaze flicked up momentarily to Alys, who watched him with bated breath. The look on her face caused him to recoil, and he tore his gaze away from her, focusing on a distant point in the room. After a moment he looked down, to see that his body had reacted to the stimulation before his head hit the pillow in defeat.

The Prince could hear the rustling of Alys's skirts, and feel the warmth of her hovering about him had him desperately trying to find a way to occupy his mind, focusing on anything but the situation he found himself in. Yet as he felt her move his cock and her slowly slide down on it with a groan, he froze. It was all too similar to his first night in the brothel with Aegon. The seedy atmosphere, the unfamiliar room, the feeling of being trapped underneath someone. It was too much to bear.

He steadied his breathing, knowing if the task was to be completed, for the spell to be cast, he needed to focus. Alys’s gasps filled the air, yet the sound transported him somewhere more pleasant. Aemond vividly pictured Maera's ferocity with the sword, her determined expression, and the intensity of her breath as she faced him in the courtyard for the first time a few moons ago.

He recalled the moment he had pinned her beneath him, forcing her to yield. The flush on her face and the glistening beads of sweat on her forehead were captivating. He remembered how he had sliced her tunic, revealing more of the expanse of her chest, a sight that had stirred something within him.

And then, he remembered the cut he had inflicted upon her, just above her left breast. The image of the blood staining her turquoise tunic and running gracefully across her pale skin remained etched in his memory. Gods, if it had not been for the crowd of onlookers, he would have bent down and ran his tongue across her soft skin, tasting the coppery red liquid with glee. To see her completely submitted to him in that moment stirred something primal within him, and it was a sight he wanted to behold every day until the end of his days.

With a quiet groan, Aemond released his seed, Alys continuing to rock against him until he was completely spent. Once it was done, he shoved Alys aside and rose abruptly from the bed, his demeanor cold and distant as he stuffed his cock back into his trousers and began gathering his belongings.

"You are leaving?" Alys inquired, her tone tinged with curiosity, and slight hurt.

Aemond shot her a disdainful glance, his lip curling in a sneer. "Well, I certainly would not stay," he retorted, his voice dripping with contempt. "I need to bathe before I return to my duties."

As he made his way to the door, Aemond paused, casting one final glance back at Alys sitting on the bed. "This was disgusting and it will never happen again," he spat, his words laden with bitterness. "And you better pray that it will work. My patience has reached its limit." With that, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

After a number of days of attending to duties on his idiot older brother’s behalf, Aemond soared through the sky on the back of Vhagar towards Kings Landing, the setting sun painted the horizon in hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the landscape below. Despite the beauty of the scenery, Aemond's thoughts were consumed by the disturbing memory of his encounter with Alys.

The image of Alys climbing atop him, her touch repulsive and unwelcome, made his stomach churn with disgust. He felt a profound sense of regret and shame for allowing himself to be manipulated into such a degrading act. Even as the wind whipped through his hair and the rhythmic beating of Vhagar's wings filled the air, Aemond's thoughts remained troubled. He couldn't rid himself of the unease that lingered, casting a pall over what should have been a serene flight home.

When the dragon began her descent, Aemond's keen eye caught sight of a vivid splash of turquoise atop the sand dunes below. His heart quickened as he recognized the color, knowing it belonged to Maera's distinctive attire. However, his excitement turned to a bitter taste in his mouth as he saw her accompanied by a man, their figures silhouetted against the setting sun. Fuelled by a mixture of curiosity and a rising tide of jealousy, Aemond commanded Vhagar to land behind a cliffside, seeking a vantage point from which he could observe discreetly.

With a powerful beat of her wings, Vhagar gracefully descended, her massive form casting a shadow over the rugged terrain below. As her claws touched down on the sandy ground, Aemond dismounted, his mind racing with questions and uncertainty. As the Prince ducked down towards the ground on his approach, his determination to observe without being seen intensified. The sound of Maera's lively chatter reached his ears, carried by the gentle sea breeze, stirring up conflicting emotions within him.

Peering up, Aemond's gaze fell upon the man accompanying Maera, and a surge of anger coursed through him. It appeared the wretched Tully cunt had used Aemond’s absence to sink his claws even further into Maera, demonstrated by their apparent courting on the shoreline, chaperoned by her newly appointed supposed protector. The sight of them together fueled Aemond's frustration, and he could no longer stand idly by. With a determined stride, he made his way towards them, his anger barely concealed beneath his stoic facade. His tense jaw and piercing stare locked onto Maera's, betraying the tumult of emotions raging within him.

The Lord and Lady stood to acknowledge Aemond's presence, and the Prince couldn't help but notice the irked expressions on their faces. Ignoring the tension, Aemond enjoyed the momentary satisfaction of seeing Lord Warren bow respectfully and Lady Maera curtsy, and decided to play along with the ridiculous charade for a moment.

"It is a beautiful evening to be walking by the sea,” the Prince commented, gazing out to the shoreline momentarily before setting his gaze back onto the couple.

"Indeed,” the Tully Lord concurred eagerly. “Though the night is not half as beautiful as Lady Maera."

Each word the trout spoke grated on Aemond, fueling his frustration as he dug his nails into his palm to suppress his rising anger. Seeing Maera's receptiveness to the compliments only intensified his inner turmoil, causing him to grit his teeth in frustration.

As Aemond's frustration mounted, he found himself not only seething at Lord Warren but also at Lady Maera. Why was she so obstinate in resisting the potential fulfillment of their shared destiny? Though she remained unaware of it, Aemond couldn't help but feel that the Gods should be guiding her towards him, not away.

Eager to disrupt this mummers farce unfolding before him, Aemond began sarcastically divulging information about Lord Warren's courtship of other ladies at court. He could not be seen as the valiant attentive lover that he so obviously was not. Lord Warren was a vile little serpent, like every other ridiculous man who appeared at court and wanted to gain power.

Observing Maera's reaction, Aemond noted the fury in her eyes, yet it wasn't directed at Lord Warren as it should have been. Instead, it was aimed squarely at him. Despite her anger being misdirected, Aemond found himself strangely grateful for the intensity of her emotions. Being the recipient of her fury felt like a peculiar blessing, amplifying his resolve to assert his claim over her.

As Lord Warren stepped forward, matching Aemond toe-to-toe, the Prince stifled a laugh. They were of similar height, but Aemond exuded a quiet confidence in his own prowess. Oh, how he longed for Lord Warren to make the first move so he would have an excuse to gut him like the fish he was, right in front of Maera.

However, fate intervened in an unexpected manner. Suddenly, distant shouts pierced the air, drawing everyone's attention. Out of the sky descended the wild dragon, Ēbrion, its deep blue and black scales glinting in the sunlight as it landed on the beach with a resounding thud.

The beast skulked along the sand towards them, its scales gleaming in the fading light, each step seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. Its massive form cast a daunting shadow over the four figures below, its wings folded against its back, and its orange eyes fixated on them with an unsettling intensity, glinting with a primal intelligence.

Aemond, feeling an innate urge to move, positioned himself in front of Maera, his stance protective and resolute. His muscles tensed, ready to react to any sudden movement from the dragon, his single violet eye narrowed in focus.

Glancing back at Maera, he observed her reaction closely. Her lips were slightly parted in silent awe, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her green eyes fixed on the gigantic beast hovering above them. Despite the looming danger, there was a curious glint in her eyes, a hint of fascination mixed with a steely resolve.

Aemond attempted to command the dragon, his voice firm but futile against the creature's primal instincts, the beast responded with a low, bone-chilling growl. Its massive form remained imposing, its orange eyes burning with a wild intensity, as if challenging any attempts to control it.

Uncertain of what would happen next, Aemond felt a sudden movement behind him, the sensation of someone reaching for his belt. Whipping around, he saw Maera standing there, a dagger in her hand, her gaze fixed on the dragon with an unexpected calmness. It was a sight that left Aemond, along with Lord Warren and Ser Arryk, utterly astounded.

Maera's demeanor was strikingly composed as she gently shushed the dragon, as one would soothe a restless child. Her actions defied logic and expectation, yet there was an undeniable air of authority in her presence, a quiet confidence that seemed to resonate with the beast. As Aemond watched in awe and admiration, Maera took the dagger to her palm, slicing through it with a swift motion. Blood began to drip onto the sand below, and despite her wince of pain, she remained resolute.

Stepping in front of the Prince, Maera presented her palm to the dragon, her expression determined yet strangely serene. Aemond held his breath, his gaze fixed on the unfolding scene, his heart pounding in his chest. Studying the dragon's response intently, Aemond noted the subtle changes in its demeanor. The beast's pupils dilated, and its tense muscles seemed to relax ever so slightly in response to Maera's soothing efforts.

Ēbrion slowly leaned forward, bridging the gap between them, Aemond watched in amazement as Maera reached out to touch its snout. The dragon seemed to inhale deeply, its nostrils flaring as it took in the scent of her blood. Despite the inherent danger, there was an undeniable sense of trust in the air.

Aemond couldn't help but release a shocked laugh, a mixture of disbelief and awe. His understanding of dragon body language, honed from years of experience with Vhagar and extensive research, confirmed what he was witnessing. The blue dragon was accepting Maera's presence, calmed by her command in a way that was truly extraordinary.

As the beast seemed content and began to depart, his massive form turning gradually, Aemond couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over him. The tension in the air began to dissipate as the dragon made his way back towards his cave lair, leaving them behind on the beach.

However, Aemond's attention quickly shifted when he heard Maera let out a shaky exhale. He turned to see her momentarily losing her balance, causing her to step backward. Acting on instinct, Aemond reached out and caught her, his hands gripping her upper arms firmly. In that moment, he offered her support after the harrowing encounter, silently reassuring her with his presence.

She had a faced a dragon head on, yet Ser Arryk and Lord Warren hovered around Maera, fussing over her like she was a fragile creature, causing Aemond to roll his eye in annoyance. The sight of them coddling her as if she couldn't handle herself grated on his nerves. It was ridiculous. Despite the commotion, Maera let out a shaky laugh, her emotions still raw from the encounter with the dragon. Aemond couldn't help but admire her resilience, even in the face of such danger.

Growing tired of Lord Warren’s familiarity with Maera as he cupped her face, Aemond forcefully shoved him aside and stepped closer to her. With a soft touch, he tilted Maera's chin up to inspect her face, concern evident in his one good eye.

After a moment more of shaky laughter, Maera synchronized her breathing with Aemond's, a gesture that helped to calm her nerves. As they settled into a shared rhythm, Aemond couldn't help but feel a sense of connection with her, as if they were in sync not just in their breathing, but in their understanding of each other.

Lost in the depths of her forest green eyes, Aemond felt a silent understanding pass between them. It was an unspoken bond that seemed to transcend words, a connection that he couldn't deny. In that moment, with his finger lingering beneath her chin, Aemond felt as though the Gods were with him, guiding them both towards a path they were meant to follow.

"She's just a bit shaken, but she'll be fine,” the Prince assured the knight and lord.

Lord Warren, however, was far from pleased. His anger flared, and he retorted sharply, emphasizing Maera's wounded hand. "She has a gaping wound on her hand; she needs the Maester to look at it." His words were laced with frustration.

Aemond, his patience wearing thin, responded with equal vehemence. "Maera is tougher than she looks, and she doesn't need a mere trout like you to protect her," he spat out, the tension between the two men palpable, their gazes locked in a silent battle. But Maera intervened, her voice steady as she insisted that Aemond was correct. It was merely shock, and she was fine. She expressed her desire to continue her walk with Lord Warren, her words serving as a diplomatic bridge between the two proud men.

Aemond, in response, repeated the phrase he had spoken to Maera at the ball, coveting it in High Valyrian so Lord Warren could not understand; "Se zaldrīzes se klios gaomagon daor rholagon.” The fish and the dragon do not mix

With a stoic face, Aemond accepted Maera's request for him to leave, acknowledging silently that he had achieved his goal of disrupting her time with Lord Warren, and that was enough satisfaction for him. With a curt nod, he bid them farewell and turned to walk away.

However, as he strolled away, an inexplicable feeling urged him to linger for a moment longer, to observe the couple from a distance. Aemond made his way towards the dragon keepers, using the opportunity to scold them for their lack of control over the massive blue dragon. Yet even as he chastised them, his lilac eye remained fixed on Maera and Lord Warren in the distance, unable to shake off the curiosity and concern that gnawed at him.

The Prince watched as Maera glanced in his direction while Lord Warren conversed with her, a smirk playing on his lips, knowing he had captured her attention. Yet his satisfaction was short-lived as his expression twisted from gleeful to enraged. Maera extended her hand to cup Lord Warren's face, muttering words before boldly pressing a kiss to his lips. Aemond seethed with fury, his fists clenched at his sides as he stormed away from the dragon keepers who were still talking to him.

With swift, purposeful strides, he marched along the beach towards the Red Keep, the sand crunching beneath his boots as his mind raced. He was done being tested by the Gods, by the witch, by Maera, by everybody. It was time for Aemond to once again seize control of his destiny. And the first step would be getting rid of the trout. He needed to go.

Night descended upon the Red Keep, the torches lining the corridors flickering to life, casting dancing shadows that seemed to stretch and sway with the gentle drafts of air. The once bustling halls now grew quiet, the echoes of footsteps fading into the background as the inhabitants of the castle retired to their chambers. In the depths of the Keep, where the shadows clung eagerly to the stone walls, the darkness seemed to deepen. The torchlight struggled to penetrate the gloom, casting eerie silhouettes that lurked in every corner and crevice.

Alone in an alcove, Aemond sat with his back against the cold stone, his fingers absently tracing the intricate patterns of his dagger's hilt. The soft glow of torchlight barely reached him, leaving him enveloped in a cocoon of darkness as he grappled with the tumultuous thoughts swirling in his mind.

The Prince’s one-eyed gaze flicked up as he heard the telltale sound of footsteps echoing through the corridor. His jaw clenched instinctively, anticipating the source of the intrusion. As Lord Warren's figure came into view, striding purposefully down the corridor, Aemond's lip curled with disdain. The ridiculous smile adorning Lord Warren's face only served to deepen Aemond's irritation, his grip tightening on the hilt of his dagger as he realised the Lord was making his way to the Master of Laws’ chambers.

In the dimly lit corridor, Aemond emerged from the shadows, his voice carrying a casual yet pointed tone. "A little late for political visits, do not think, my Lord?"

Lord Warren, with a hint of exasperation, turned to face him, plastering a forced smile on his face. "With a matter such as this, my Prince, I do not think it can wait."

Aemond took a deliberate step closer, his gaze unwavering as he pressed further. "And what matter would that be, hmm?"

Lord Warren chuckled softly, his expression shifting to one of sincerity. "Speaking with her at the ball piqued my interest," he began, his smile growing warmer. "Spending time with her this evening has only made me more sure."

As Lord Warren bid the Prince a respectful nod and made to depart, Aemond halted him with another question, his tone laced with skepticism. "You think yourself worthy of her hand?"

The Tully Lord pivoted back around, meeting Aemond's gaze with a confident demeanor. "Do you, my Prince?" he countered, closing the distance between them until they stood face to face. His smile took on a sly edge. "I only ask because you seem very interested in her."

The Prince’s lips curled into a knowing smile, a facade concealing his true intentions. He refused to give the satisfaction of confirming such a notion to someone so beneath him. The dragon need not concern himself with a the opinion of a mere trout.

“You wish to be Lord of Riverrun, do you not?”

The Tully Lord furrowed his brow, silent for a moment before stating, “I only wish-“

“Spare me,” Aemond waved his hand dismissively, cutting through the man’s excuses like a sword through parchment. He had no interest in hearing platitudes about family, duty or honour; in Aemond’s view, all men of the court were nothing but power-hungry leeches, and Lord Warren was no exception.

During his two weeks away from King's Landing, Aemond was diligent in attending to his duties. Despite the regrettable encounter with Alys, he remained focused on the matters at hand, which were a welcome distraction. At Harrenhal, Aemond had established a miniature council of nobles to assist him in overseeing the war effort. This council served to keep him informed on war plans and to delegate tasks effectively.

Among its members were the sharp Lord Peake, the elderly Lord Vance, and the skeptical Lord Butterwell. It was Lord Butterwell who had just provided Aemond with an important update in regards to House Tully, an update that the Prince could use in this moment.

"I have information to secure Riverrun for you. Information about your cousins and their whereabouts," Aemond declared confidently, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Lord Warren responded with a skeptical smile and a disbelieving laugh. "You do not," he countered, his tone tinged with doubt.

Aemond tilted his head, his gaze steady and unwavering. "You find that so hard to believe?" he questioned. When Lord Warren offered no immediate response, Aemond pressed on. "The crown is at war. We receive information about our enemies much quicker than you do."

There was a brief moment of hesitation in Lord Warren's expression, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. After a beat, he relented. "What do you know?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of curiosity.

Aemond's smile widened, sensing his advantage. With a mockingly playful gesture, he wagged his finger in the air. "Ah-ah. On one condition," he declared, his tone laced with cunning. Lord Warren furrowed his brow, awaiting the stipulation. Aemond's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he delivered his ultimatum. "Abandon these notions of proposal to Lady Maera. And swear by the Seven that you will leave at first light."

Lord Warren's gaze flickered between the corridor leading to the Master of Laws' room and the path back to his own quarters, as if weighing the potential outcomes of his decisions. A sense of conflict danced across his features, mirrored by the uncertainty in his eyes.

"You want her for yourself," Lord Warren accused, his tone edged with defiance, as he turned his attention back to Aemond.

Aemond responded with a dismissive roll of his eye. "Do we have an understanding, my Lord?" he pressed, his voice firm and resolute.

Lord Warren held Aemond's lilac gaze with his own blue eyes, a silent battle of wills passing between them. After a moment of tense deliberation, the Tully Lord relented, dropping his gaze and nodding in defeat.

"Good," Aemond sneered, a smirk playing at his lips as he cleared his throat. "Your cousins have set up their base near High Heart. There is a weakness of guards on the east side of the camp."

Lord Warren sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping with the weight of his decision, before offering Aemond a respectful nod. With a resigned air, he turned on his heel and began to make his way back to his chambers.

As Lord Warren departed, Aemond couldn't resist one final taunt. "Go now, little trout," he called after him mockingly. "Return home upstream."

With Lord Warren manipulated and Maera's suitors thwarted, Aemond's plan was falling into place. The prophecy was on the verge of realization, and all that remained was to seek the King's approval for a marriage proposal. Maera would soon be his.

Notes: whoooo this took a while to write. It was hard to write, I feel so sorry for our boy. I feel sorry for Maera. I feel sorry for everyone 🤣

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

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fanficapologist · 6 days

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

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

Chapter Seventy-Six

In the late afternoon, just outside of Harrenhall, a small lavender field bloomed in all its glory. The air was infused with the delicate fragrance of lavender, carried by a gentle breeze that rustled through the rows of purple blooms. Bees buzzed lazily from flower to flower, collecting nectar as the sun cast a warm golden hue over the scene. The lavender plants stood tall and proud, their slender stems adorned with clusters of vibrant purple flowers that swayed gracefully in the breeze. Each bloom seemed to dance in the sunlight, their petals glistening with dewdrops from the morning's light rain.

As Maera walked with Ser Arryk through the flowers, the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the scene, illuminating the rows of purple blooms. With a basket in hand, they strolled leisurely along the fragrant pathways, surrounded by the soothing scent of lavender. Just an hour before, Maera had visited Maester Cain to check on her pregnancy, relieved to hear that all was progressing as it should. The Maester had assured her that the babe was growing steadily and that there were no signs of complications.

He had recommended using lavender oil for its soothing properties and to promote relaxation, which had led Maera to decide on a walk to the lavender field. Wandering among the flowers, Maera plucked a few stems of lavender, carefully placing them in her basket whilst chatting animatedly to her protector about the morning’s meeting.

"You should have seen her face," she chuckled to the knight, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Not a single soul in the room supported her idea of sending me back to the capital."

Ser Arryk's smile mirrored Maera's joy as he listened to her recount the events. "Would it be too bold of me to suggest that the Prince has finally grown a pair?" he quipped sarcastically, his tone teasing.

Maera gasped in mock astonishment, playing along with the banter. "Why, yes, Ser, I do believe it would be," she replied with exaggerated surprise, a playful glint in her eyes.

"Then I shall refrain from saying it," Ser Arryk declared with a laugh, the sound echoing through the tranquil surroundings as the two shared a moment of lighthearted camaraderie.

As Maera bent down to pick another stem of lavender, she was interrupted by Ser Arryk's voice, his tone suddenly serious. "Princess," he uttered, his gaze fixed on something across the field.

Puzzled, Maera straightened up, her hand instinctively resting on her growing bump as she followed her protector's gaze. Across the field, she spotted Alys amidst the blossoms, her figure hunched over as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Good, Maera thought. For all the pain and suffering the witch had caused, finally it was being reflected back to her. And yet… the Princess was unsure if it was due to her own pregnant state, or concern for the child within Alys’s womb, but something compelled her to go over to her.

With Ser Arryk close by her side, she called out to the weeping witch, her firm voice cutting through the somber air. "Do not cry so, Alys," she urged, her steps careful as she navigated through the fragrant lavender blooms. "It is not good for the child."

When Maera finally reached Alys's side, she observed the tears upon the witch's reddened face, her gaze drifting down to the prominent swell of Alys's pregnancy bump beneath her faded green dress. Despite her emotional state, Alys offered a quiet acknowledgment of Maera's presence with a subdued "Princess."

Sensing the tension in the air, Maera broke the awkward silence, her tone both empathetic and assertive. "You're upset because of the meeting this morning," she observed, her words carrying a subtle hint of triumph. "The Lords and my husband would never have supported your idea. My place is by my husband's side, and that will never change."

Although it may have been somewhat cruel to confront Alys so directly, Maera knew it was necessary to assert her position. However, when Alys remained silent in response, Maera sighed softly, her expression softening with a hint of compassion. "How are you faring? The child, I mean," she inquired, gesturing delicately towards Alys's swollen stomach, her concern genuine despite their strained relationship.

The witch wiped her eyes on her sleeve before offering a subdued reply, her voice tinged with weariness. "The Maester says a few more weeks, then he will be here."

Maera couldn't help but roll her eyes at Alys's insistence on referring to her unborn child as a "he," knowing full well that such knowledge couldn't possibly be accurate. The delusion stemming from Alys's supposed prophecies frustrated Maera to no end. The witch then attempted to stand but struggled due to her advanced pregnancy. Maera glanced at Ser Arryk, his hazel eyes staring back at her as they exchanged a knowing look. Despite her reservations, Maera nodded, and the knight stepped forward, offering his arm to help the heavily pregnant witch to her feet.

As Alys rose to her feet, she gestured towards the field of lavender surrounding them, her voice carrying a tone of authority. "The lavender will help you ward off any infections and prepare you for the pain of labor," she advised Maera, her hand instinctively moving to her own swollen belly. "At this stage, the plant is also known to induce labor. At least it did for my other children."

Maera and Alys began to walk side by side among the fragrant flowers, Ser Arryk steadfastly at Maera's side. Despite the unusual camaraderie between the women for the moment, there lingered an unspoken tension between the princess and her protector, both sharing suspicions about the witch's intentions, even in her current state of distress.

As they walked through the lavender field, Maera couldn’t help but inhale deeply, the scent of lavender reminding her of the birthing rituals her stepmothers performed using the flowers. Memories of Rain House flooded her mind—the stormy weather, the laughter of her younger siblings echoing through the halls. Despite the turmoil of war, Maera longed for the comfort of her family’s home. She made a silent vow to visit them once the conflict had ended, curious to see how her younger siblings would react to her dragon companion.

Lost in her thoughts, Maera momentarily forgot about Alys's presence beside her until she re-focused on their conversation. It occurred to her that Alys had been a wet-nurse, but she hadn't made the connection that the woman was also a mother herself. Alys didn't strike Maera as a maternal figure, so she found herself curious about her companion's experience with motherhood.

In an effort to ease the awkward atmosphere, Maera initiated conversation. "How many children do you have?" she inquired, her voice softening with genuine curiosity.

A note of sadness crept into Alys's reply as she spoke of her past. "I had four," she confessed, her gaze momentarily clouded with sorrow. "But none of them lived. Each were stillborn."

The weight of Alys's words hung heavily in the air, stifling further conversation. It was Alys who eventually broke the silence, her voice tinged with a hint of bitterness. "You are most fortunate, Princess," she remarked sadly.

Maera's response was swift, her frustration evident in her retort. "Fortunate?" she scoffed, her head shaking in disbelief. "I am here walking with my husband's whore, who is also carrying his child. How is that fortunate?" Her words dripped with bitterness as she grappled with the complex emotions swirling within her.

"You are high-born," Alys declared, her demeanor unwavering despite Maera's evident disdain. "Your child will receive the best care and live a healthy life." Maera remained silent as the witch pressed on, her tone taking on a softer, more contemplative quality. "Your status gives you power, Princess," she insisted, her gaze steady as she met Maera's eyes.

With a resigned sigh, Maera admitted, "It is a gilded cage," her hand drifting instinctively to her pregnancy bump as the child within stirred.

As they walked, Alys came to a sudden halt, causing Maera to pause and regard her with curiosity. "Low-born women have little options, particularly bastards," Alys explained, her words tinged with a hint of bitterness. "You do not have to sell your body or talents to gain some semblance of power. It is born within you."

This was true- low-born women had few prospects in life, often at the mercy of their circumstances. And though Alys spoke of lack of power, her words struck a chord with Maera, but in a different way than perhaps intended.

Despite her highborn status, Maera had felt utterly powerless in the face of Alys’s manipulation and promise of prophecy. The witch’s influence, bolstered by her supposed visions, had cast a shadow over Maera’s life, leaving her feeling vulnerable and disregarded by her own husband. It was a bitter realization that even those with privilege could be at the mercy of those who wielded power in subtler ways.

While she could understand the challenges Alys had faced, she refused to let the witch’s victimhood diminish her judgment of Alys’s character. The resentment and mistrust Maera harbored for Alys ran deep, and no amount of sympathy for her past could erase the harm she had caused.

"I have never felt more powerless in my life than being here," Maera sneered, her frustration palpable.

Alys chuckled softly, her laughter tinged with a hint of irony. "You wish to talk of powerlessness?" she retorted, her gaze unwavering. "I came to be because a Lord of House Strong raped my mother." Maera blinked in surprise at Alys's revelation, her resolve faltering slightly in the face of the witch's vulnerability. Yet Alys pressed on, her voice filled with quiet determination. "My children came to be because the Lords of House Strong forced themselves upon me too.”

The Princess froze, that familiar sense of dread gnawing at her insides. It was a sensation she knew all too well—the icy grip of fear that tightened her chest and sent shivers down her spine. Memories of her own encounter with Aegon came flooding back, vivid and unwelcome—the crushing weight of Aegon's strength as he pinned her down, the sound of her own desperate pleas falling on deaf ears, and the overwhelming sense of powerlessness that had consumed her.

Glancing at Ser Arryk, Maera was reminded of the pivotal role he had played in her life. It was his intervention that had saved her from a fate she dared not imagine. The witch’s declaration hit home and Maera began to struggle to maintain her composure, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her cloak as she listened to Alys’s anguished confession.

"But that was not the worst of it," Alys continued, her voice thick with emotion. "After losing each of my babies, I was forced to feed the nobles' children," Alys revealed, her tone heavy with anguish. "You cannot imagine the pain. How your body cries out for its child while you provide their milk to a stranger in your arms!"

The story Alys painted was too difficult to even think about. The love Maera already felt for her unborn child surged within her, and the thought of losing that child whilst having to care for another was crushing. Despite her loathing of the witch , Maera couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the woman before her.

The intensity of her own pregnancy had perhaps softened her resolve, allowing her to recognise that they both had something in common- they loved their children. Tears threatened to spill from Maera's eyes as she struggled to maintain her composure, her lips pressed tightly together in a silent show of strength.

Rubbing her stomach tenderly, the witch continued, her voice trembling with raw emotion. "The Gods promised me a child one day, a child of great importance. And here he is, almost ready to be born." Her gaze locked with Maera's, burning with a fierce intensity. "But the Gods' path is being desecrated, and I fear I will lose another child."

"Enough," the Princess interjected firmly, her voice cutting through the emotional turmoil.

Maera was no monster. The struggles and hardships Alys had endured were undeniable, and it was clear that she had fought tooth and nail to ascend to her current position of power. Maera couldn’t help but sympathize with the pain and desperation that must have driven Alys’s actions. The child in her belly was innocent as well, and had not asked for any of this. The babe was probably like a beacon of hope to the witch, her chance to a mother once again.

However, Maera also recognized the inherent danger in Alys’s lack of attachment to what was happening around her. With nothing left to lose, Alys posed a significant threat, capable of unpredictable and potentially destructive behavior. And as dreadful as everything Alys had been through must have been, it did not excuse what she had done and the choices she made.

And though moved by Alys’s story, Maera remained steadfast in her determination to assert her own position of authority, not only for herself but also for the sake of her trueborn child. She couldn’t afford to appear weak or vulnerable, especially in the face of someone as unpredictable as a witch.

"Your child is a bastard, nothing will change that. My husband will not legitimize them, nor give them the dragon egg we found." Alys swallowed a sob, her features contorted in a mixture of grief and resignation. Maera let out a heavy sigh, her own heart weighed down by the weight of the conversation. "But your child will be provided for, and never go hungry or sick," she promised, her voice softening with empathy as she placed a comforting hand on Alys's arm. "I swear this to you." The witch did not reply, instead sniffling and nodding in response, acknowledging the Princess’s vow to her.

As Alys and Maera reached the end of the lavender field, the tension between them lingered in the air, but there was a newfound complexity to their dynamic. Alys offered a small curtsy before they parted ways, leaving behind a sense of unresolved tension mingled with a hint of mutual understanding. Walking with her basket of lavender and Ser Arryk by her side, Maera found herself reflecting on her conversation with Alys. Despite the lingering tension, Maera couldn't deny that she now had a deeper insight into what drove the witch's actions, and to comprehend the motivations of one’s enemy was a valuable insight.

On that quiet night at Harrenhall, the castle seemed to hold its breath, enveloped in a serene stillness that draped over the ancient stone walls like a comforting blanket. The moon hung high in the sky, its soft silver light filtering through the windows to cast gentle patterns on the polished floors. Within the chambers, the air was hushed, disturbed only by the faint crackle of the dwindling hearth and the occasional rustle of fabric as the night breeze whispered through the curtains. Shadows danced silently across the walls, painting fleeting images that seemed to sway with the rhythm of the night.

Nestled against her husband’s chest, Maera’s breathing was slow and steady, her features softened in the gentle glow of the moonlight filtering through the window. Aemond’s arm draped around her, offering both warmth and security, as if he were a steadfast shield against the uncertainties of the world. Beneath the surface, the child in Maera’s belly seemed to rest as well, its movements gentle and subdued, lulled by the soothing rhythm of its mother's heartbeat. In that moment, all was calm and still, as if the world itself had paused to catch its breath.

As the peaceful silence of the night enveloped the chamber, it was abruptly shattered by a sudden commotion echoing from the corridor outside. The tranquil atmosphere was shattered by the clamor of men shouting, the sharp sound of blades being unsheathed, and the resounding banging against the heavy wooden door.

Aemond's senses sharpened in an instant, his instincts roused by the unexpected disturbance. With a jolt, he sat bolt upright in bed, his movements swift and decisive. The sudden motion startled Maera awake, her eyes snapping open in alarm as she grasped the gravity of the situation. In the dim light of the chamber, Aemond's hand darted beneath the bed, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword with practiced ease. With a determined grip, he withdrew the weapon, the glint of steel reflecting the urgency etched on his features.

Wide-eyed and alert, Maera shifted closer to Aemond, her heart pounding in her chest as they both fixed their gaze on the door, anticipation mounting with each passing second. The sound of running footsteps drawing nearer only served to heighten the tension, their presence an ominous harbinger of the danger lurking just beyond the threshold.

With a thunderous crash, the door burst open, sending Maera's heart into a frantic rhythm as she braced herself for whatever threat awaited on the other side. Relief washed over her as she recognized Ser Arryk's familiar figure entering the chamber, his presence momentarily easing the tension coiled within her.

“My apologies my Prince, Princess. But we have a situation.”

Her breath caught in her throat as Maera listened intently to Ser Arryk's words, the gravity of the situation dawning upon her with each passing moment. The panic etched on the knight's face and the urgency in his voice shattered the fleeting sense of relief, signaling that something was gravely amiss.

Without hesitation, Aemond sprang into action, his movements swift and purposeful as he hastily donned his tunic, pants, and boots. With sword in hand, he wasted no time in leaving the room, his departure leaving Maera with a sense of helplessness as she watched him vanish into the darkness beyond.

Restless and unsettled, Maera found herself unable to find solace in sleep after the harrowing interruption to their peaceful night. With a heavy sigh, she slipped out of bed, the soft fabric of her nightgown enveloping her as she moved with a sense of urgency. Pulling on her black robe for warmth, she made her way to the hearth, drawn to the comforting glow of the dwindling flames.

With a furrowed brow, Maera tended to the fire, adding more wood to stoke the flames and bring renewed warmth to the room. As the crackling fire grew brighter, Maera settled into a chair before the hearth, her thoughts consumed by the tumultuous events unfolding outside their door. Anxiety gnawed at her insides as she contemplated the cause of the commotion that had shattered the tranquility of their night. The uncertainty weighed heavily on her mind, fueling a sense of unease that refused to be quelled by the flickering flames before her.

Maera’s gaze drifted to the iron pot nestled next to the flames, cradling the large black and green dragon egg above the hot coals. The sight of the egg, bathed in the warm glow of the fire, stirred a mix of hope and trepidation within her heart. She pondered the uncertain fate of the egg as half of them never hatch, she reminded herself, a sobering reality that tempered her optimism.

Alys’s vision of Aemond’s future son as a dragon rider lingered in her mind, casting a shadow of doubt over the true meaning behind the prophecy. Why would Alys’s child, this supposed son, be the great rider of a dragon? The ambiguity of the vision only added to the uncertainty surrounding their situation. A sense of dread crept over Maera as she contemplated the tangled web of fate and prophecy that seemed to entwine their lives. With Alys’s impending childbirth looming on the horizon, she knew the complexities of their situation would only intensify in the days to come.

“Ooof!”

A sudden sharp kick from the child in her stomach jolted her out of her reverie. She gasped, hand instinctively flying to her belly, before a smile spread across her face as she remembered the source of the sensation. The child’s movements were becoming more pronounced, and Maera couldn’t help but marvel at the tiny feet that seemed to press against her skin from within.

Beneath the fabric of her nightgown, the outline of the child’s movements was visible, a gentle swell indicating each kick. Maera tenderly stroked the spot where the child made its presence known.

“It’s ok. We’re ok,” she whispered, unsure if she was trying to calm the unborn babe, herself, or both. Her gaze shifted to the door, her heart heavy with worry and anticipation. With each passing moment, the uncertainty of the situation outside weighed heavily on her mind.

After some time, the Prince returned, his face etched with rage, causing Maera’s heart to clench with concern. Reacting instinctively, she rose from her chair and moved to his side, reaching out to grasp his arms as he held hers. Their connection was palpable, a silent reassurance amidst the tumultuous emotions swirling around them.

“What has happened?” she inquired softly, her voice laced with apprehension.

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with restrained anger. “When you patrolled today, did you see anything out of the ordinary along the border?” he questioned, his tone clipped with urgency.

Maera furrowed her brow in concentration, mentally retracing her steps from earlier. She remembered the tranquility of the Riverlands beneath them as they flew, Ēbrion seemingly at ease without any signs of imminent danger or threats. She remembered the lush green trees, towering mountains and the cloudy sky. On the ground, she remembered tiny dots, which she assumed were people, going about their day. Families travelling, or merchants transporting goods, just as usual.

"No, nothing out of the ordinary," she replied, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Aemond nodded curtly before pulling away from Maera's touch, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth. "More of my cunt sister's rats," he muttered under his breath, his words heavy with disdain.

Sensing her husband's agitation, Maera's nerves heightened, her hand instinctively drifting to her pregnant belly. "Aemond, what is going on?" she pressed, her voice trembling with worry.

The Prince turned to face her, his features hardened with resolve. "Men have broken into Harrenhall, planning to assassinate us," he revealed, his tone low and ominous.

Her heart stopped. Fear gripped Maera’s heart like icy tendrils as the gravity of the situation sank in. Men had dared to threaten her husband's life, her own life and by extension, their child's. In that moment, fear and protective instinct surged within Maera. Her own safety took a backseat as her maternal instincts roared to life.

She felt an overwhelming sense of dread for her child's well-being, a fierce determination to shield their unborn babe from harm at any cost. The gravity of the situation sank in, and she swallowed hard, struggling to find her voice amidst the chaos of her thoughts.

"It seems my uncle prefers dishonorable schemes rather than an honest death on the battlefield," Aemond growled bitterly, his fists clenched at his sides as he looked into the flames of the hearth.

With a fierce gleam in her emerald eyes, Maera confronted her husband, her voice laced with tenacity. "Where are they now?" she demanded, her tone sharp and commanding.

Aemond's expression darkened, bitterness coloring his words as he responded, "The guards are escorting them down to the dungeons," he explained, his gaze fixated on the dancing flames before him. "They will be dealt with on the morrow.”

Her resolve unwavering, Maera shook her head adamantly, her determination shining through. "No," she declared firmly, her voice cutting through the tense atmosphere. Aemond snapped his head up to look at her, confusion etched across his sharp face.

Summoning her strength, Maera closed the distance between them, her gaze never wavering. "Order everyone to wake. We will deal with them now. Together," she commanded, her voice unwavering.

Aemond's gaze softened as he looked at his wife, a silent understanding passing between them. He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of her dark brown hair behind her ear before his hand came to rest on her pregnant belly. With a nod of agreement, he turned and strode purposefully out of the room. As her husband departed, Maera rang for her maid, her mind already racing with plans and preparations for what lay ahead.

At the hour of the bat, the once-quiet halls of Harrenhall were abruptly filled with the clamor of hurried footsteps and anxious voices. Every inhabitant, roused from their slumber, was summoned to the main hall by urgent decree, the echo of worried chatter reverberating off the cold, stone walls.

In the flickering light cast by the hearth, a large table was hastily brought forth and positioned at the center of the hall. Seated around it were the members of the war council, their faces drawn with tension and anticipation. At the head of the table sat Maera and Aemond, both clad in resplendent attire of black leather, their expressions stern and unwavering.

The attention of the room was fixed upon the three figures bound in chains, positioned in the middle of the hall under the watchful gaze of armed guards. These men, their faces masked by shadows, were the would-be assassins who had dared to threaten the lives of the Prince and Princess. Despite their predicament, they maintained an air of defiance, their eyes meeting those of Maera and Aemond with a mixture of fear and resentment.

Rising from his seat at the end of the table, the man who had supported Maera in a number of council meetings, Lord Unwin Peake, addressed the assembled crowd with authority. "My Lords and Ladies, people of Harrenhall," he began, his voice carrying across the hall. "There has been a threat to the lives of our Prince and Princess."

With measured steps, Lord Unwin moved to stand beside the first man, kneeling and isolated from the others. He pointed accusatorily. "This man broke into the castle a few hours ago, with the intent of assassination," he declared, his words echoing in the hushed hall.

Then, gesturing towards the two men shackled together, Lord Unwin continued, his voice unwavering. "And these two were waiting for his return on the other side of the Gods Eye, prepared to assist the would-be killer in his escape."

The room erupted into a cacophony of gasps and murmurs as Maera's gaze swept over the trio of assailants, her expression a mix of anger and disbelief. As the clamor subsided, the Lord of House Butterwell rose from his seat, his voice laced with skepticism. "How do we know this was their intention?" he challenged, his words met with murmurs of agreement from some of the onlookers.

It was then that Ser Arryk, the stalwart knight, stepped forward, holding up a small scroll for all to see. The crowd fell silent as they awaited his revelation, tension hanging thick in the air. Ser Arryk presented the parchment to Aemond, who accepted it with a tight grip, his expression darkening with each passing moment. "A written order, in Prince Daemon’s own handwriting. I know it well," Ser Arryk declared loudly, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere of the room.

Aemond's gaze remained fixed on the scroll as he silently read its contents, his breath quickening with each passing word. Maera, sensing his distress, leaned in closer, her voice laced with concern. "What does it say?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for answers. When he didn't respond, she pressed further, her tone growing more urgent. "Aemond?"

Ignoring her, Aemond pushed the scroll away, his jaw clenched with barely contained rage. Without a word to her, he moved to address the assassins, but before he could speak, Maera rose from her seat with a determined expression. The scrape of her chair against the floor echoed through the hall as she reached for the scroll, her hands shaking slightly with emotion.

Unfurling the scroll, Maera read its contents aloud, her voice steady despite the horror of the words she spoke. "An eye for an eye, a son for a son," she began, the weight of each syllable hanging heavy in the air. “Carve…” She stopped, the words catching in her throat at the sheer brutality of what she was revealing. She paused briefly, looking around the room. If there were any traitors amongst them that could support the people who wrote the order, Maera hoped the Gods would deliver justice.

Gathering her composure, she cleared her throat before forging ahead, her voice ringing out with authority. "Carve the babe from his whore wife’s belly so that he may feel a fraction of the anguish our rightful Queen felt when Prince Lucerys was taken from her- Daemon Targaryen, King consort."

The hall erupted in a cacophony of outrage and disbelief, the shock and horror evident on the faces of those gathered. Guards rushed to contain the chaos, grappling with onlookers who attempted to reach the assassins, their shouts and cries filling the air with tension and unrest. Seated amidst the chaos, Maera watched with a mixture of satisfaction and apprehension, knowing that the revelation of the scroll had unleashed a storm that would have far-reaching consequences.

Aemond then stood from his chair, tall and imposing, and the room fell silent. “I shall feed them to Vhagar and Ēbrion myself,” he proclaimed, his voice resonating with determination. As the crowd erupted in cheering, Aemond strode confidently around the table, his words ringing out. "Let these traitors experience firsthand the power of dragons."

Maera sat motionless, her gaze fixed ahead as a numbing sensation washed over her, a stark contrast to the heightened emotions that had gripped her moments before. Amidst the gruesome details outlined in the scroll and the chilling realization of the peril she had narrowly escaped, she found herself overwhelmed.

She watched as the guards attempted to pull the three men away, their faces twisted in fear. In the midst of her turmoil, Maera’s attention was drawn to one of the two men who would aid in the escape of the assassin, his desperate gaze locking with hers. He appeared no older than herself, with short auburn hair and pleading blue eyes. It struck her deeply that this man, a stranger to her, had conspired to end her life.

As the guards began to drag him away by his chains, the young man called to her. "I plead mercy, Princess," he cried out, desperation evident in his voice.

Aemond's expression darkened as he approached the man, seizing him by the hair and forcing him to meet his gaze. "Mercy? And what makes you think you deserve that, hmm?" he growled, his voice dripping with contempt.

Despite Aemond's intimidating presence, the young man managed to divert his gaze to Maera once more. "I am wed to your sister Wynnifrid," he confessed, his voice trembling with fear.

The Prince glanced at Maera, who was now alert and staring right back at the red-haired man. Wynni. Gods, Wynni. A thousand memories of her little sister stirred in her head, memories of a sister she had not seen nor heard from in what felt like an eternity. Reacting on impulse, Maera raised her arm to halt the guards from dragging the men away.

The room fell into an eerie silence as Maera left her seat, a determined yet composed figure amidst the tension. With measured steps, she navigated around the lengthy table, her demeanor exuding an air of regal poise. Despite the turmoil roiling within her, Maera maintained an emotionless facade, her hand resting protectively on her swollen belly as she advanced.

As Maera approached the assailants, her presence commanded attention. The onlookers watched in muted anticipation, their eyes fixed on the unfolding scene. Without a word, Maera halted before the man who had called out to her, her gaze piercing yet inscrutable.

The one-eyed Prince forcefully threw the man on the floor before Maera, the sound of the chains binding him clinking as they hit the stone floor. Aemond’s expression was resolute, his features etched with disdain for those who had threatened his family. Standing by his wife's side, Aemond stood as a formidable presence, a silent sentinel guarding Maera against any further harm.

"You are Lord Tarly," Maera stated evenly, her voice betraying no emotion.

The young man, now identified as Alan Tarly, nodded, his eyes pleading for clemency. "Please, I beg you. Release me, I will tell you everything I know," he implored, his voice tinged with desperation.

Maera stood over the man, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions. Doubt gnawed at her, questioning the authenticity of his claims. Was this a desperate attempt to elicit sympathy? A ruse to manipulate her emotions? Yet, beneath the layers of suspicion, a flicker of longing emerged—the longing for her sister.

Ser Adrian Tarbeck's voice cut through the tension in the hall, his accusation directed at Lord Alan Tarly. "Your House has just turned cloak, have you not? Why should we believe a word you say?" he challenged, his tone laced with skepticism.

Lord Alan Tarly's voice quivered as ignored the comment and looked up at Maera, his revelation catching her off guard. "Wynni is with child," he muttered, his words sending a shock through her.

The revelation struck Maera like a blow to the chest. Wynni, pregnant? The realization pierced her heart, stirring a tumult of anguish and regret. She hadn’t heard from her sister in ages, hadn’t known if Wynni’s marriage was one of happiness or sorrow. And now, to learn that Wynni was to become a mother, it was a revelation too overwhelming to comprehend.

The Princess took a deep breath to steady herself as she saw the man kneeling before her shaking his head. "I should never have agreed to be part of this plot. Never. I thought I was doing right by my House," he confessed, tears welling in his blue eyes.

Aemond scoffed with disdain, his voice laced with mockery as he addressed the assembled crowd. "Doing right by your House," he muttered, shaking his head in disgust. "Behold, my Lords, what Rhaenyra will do to take power."

Maera fixed her gaze on Lord Alan, her expression steely as she urged him to speak. "Start talking," she demanded, her patience wearing thin. Leaning closer to him, she delivered a warning in a low voice. "I am a lot less desperate than you are in this moment."

Lord Alan hesitated, casting nervous glances around the room before finally speaking up for all to hear. "The Queen has enlisted the help of Targaryen bastards, promising knighthood and wealth when the war is over," he revealed, prompting exchanged glances between Maera and Aemond. "She will use them to fly the riderless dragons and win the throne.”

As news of Rhaenyra’s plan sank in, Aemond's expression darkened, his frown etched deep upon his face. With a heavy heart, he stepped away from Maera, his mind undoubtedly consumed by the implications of this newfound knowledge.

Maera's gaze followed her husband, sensing the weight of his thoughts. The numbers didn't lie—while the Greens boasted five dragons, including the formidable Vhagar and Ēbrion, the Blacks had six, albeit mostly juveniles. Yet, even in their youth, these dragons possessed formidable power.

The realization hit Maera like a thunderbolt. She knew all too well the strength of the dragons. There were many known wild dragons on Dragonstone, but also many unknown in the dragonmount, just like Ēbrion. If Rhaenyra had acquired additional riders and dragons, it would tip the scales of the war irreversibly in her favour.

“You cannot win this war,” Lord Alan stated with desperation. But it fell on deaf ears as Maera clenched her jaw, her eyes flashing with resolve. She turned to Aemond, seeking strength and solidarity in their shared determination.

With a steely gaze, Maera spoke softly but firmly to her husband, her words resonating with unwavering conviction. “Morghon ondoso zaldrīzes tolī adere.” Death by dragon is too quick.

Aemond’s expression hardened at his wife’s words, a silent agreement passing between them. He moved to once again stand beside her, his presence a reassuring anchor amidst the chaos unfolding around them.

Turning his attention to the other two assailants, Aemond issued a harsh decree, his voice cutting through the air with authority. “Those two are to be hung, drawn, and quartered. Let their bodies serve as a warning to all who dare defy House Targaryen and its rightful King.”

The condemned men protested vehemently as they were dragged away, their cries echoing through the hall in vain. Aemond glanced at Maera, searching her face in order to get a glimpse at what she was thinking they should do with her supposed brother-in-law.

The Princess bent down again, her gaze softening momentarily as she addressed Lord Alan, her concern for her sister evident in her voice. "Is my sister well?"

Lord Alan nodded eagerly, relief flooding his features. "Very much so, Princess. She is looking forward to becoming a mother," he assured her.

A small smile tugged at Maera's lips as she acknowledged the reassurance. "Thank you, good-brother," she said, her gratitude evident in her tone. With a solemn nod towards her husband, Maera stepped back, her hand instinctively resting on her swollen stomach, a silent reminder of the life growing within her.

Her green eyes remained fixed on Aemond as he unsheathed his dagger, a glint of steel in the dim light of the hall. In one swift motion, he cut the man's throat, crimson blood spurting forth in a gruesome display. The sound of the body hitting the stone floor echoed through the hall, a grim punctuation to the grim act.

Notes: this was a big chapter so I’ve split it. Alys’s death is coming, don’t fucking worry 🤣 gotta get that lore in though. So chapter seventy-eight we will see the last of the witch. You guys can wait till then it’ll be worth it 😉 also I will not be taking questions about the assassination attempt and if this had anything to do with Alys, I would like to watch you all debate each other in the comments 😏

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

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