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mononijikayu · 1 year

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chapter xiii.

chapter xiii.

Rating: M

Warning: Depictions of death, sexual intercourse and violence;

Summary: In which MELLARA TARGARYEN and DAEMON TARGARYEN find themselves witnessing tragedy. AEGON TARGARYEN swears to a promise;

[there is no reason for the prince daemon to not have great hatred of the queen and her greens had become even stronger at this point in his life. during the many horrific events at high tide in those years. such was the vultures that had come to eat the perished on their wife lady laena’s funeral. such were even more that came when his grandson and his daughters were attacked by prince aemond. the worst had been the attack of the queen upon elder wife, the princess mellara and his niece, soon to be good - daughter, princess rhaenyra. such offenses in his books were unforgivable. too the vultures that came to gawk at his family’s demise and wait for the living to become the meal of their greed.]

- maester aeron targaryen, adust;

A D U S T m a s t e r l i s t

< you and i burn together or we shall die trying >

chapter i / chapter ii / chapter iii / chapter iv / chapter v

chapter vi / chapter vii / chapter viii / chapter ix / chapter x

chapter xi / chapter xii / chapter xiii / chapter xiv / chapter xv

chapter xvi / chapter xvii / chapter xviii

The cold battering winds dancing across the sea, one could imagine that this was the only color that remained on the isle of Driftmark. The sea was bitter on this day, bitter that such a loss could even happen to a girl of the sea in her youth, with her whole life ahead of her still, pulled away from life as though a command from a merling king who ruled the seas. It was unacceptable, too sudden. Laena Velaryon was meant to grow old by their side.

The warmth of her two Tully sons illuminated beside her, she embraced them closer as the words of her Velaryon cousin echoed through with abandon. It was an odd sight to see a trout outside the Trident’s flow. But they were much the blood of the dragon as any present were, they were her sons. But just as much, they were a comfort to her in one of the saddest days of her life. In such a day of loss such as today, the princess of Blackhall was gladdened to see life foster in the warmth of family. This did not however take away her sorrow completely.

Mellara Targaryen’s eyes could barely blink the cold away, it had been too cold. She had endlessly cried with Laena’s daughters throughout the night, weeping bitterly. The dreams of a peaceful home had all but shattered with the loss of a beautiful soul cut through deep. The thought of empty castle walls not resounding with the glorious cries of Laena Velaryon atop Vhagar was unimaginable. All such tears had pouring hot through her eyes had weakened her, forming enough to make a river that will ceaselessly let her swim with in sheer grief. But Mellara could only compound herself that compared to her grief, it must be others that cry more at night with a gaping heart nevert to fill again.

Mellara Targaryen could not bear to stare for too long, seeing her cousin Rhaenys and her husband who felt such loss deeper with reddened eyes and draped with each other’s arms to hold. None of them could sleep for days on end, not even Corlys who had been so used to such a life at sea without rest. But Mellara could hardly blame her cousin and her husband. There was no one that should be able to outlive their children, lest of all parents who had to watch that child grow and live a life they were joyous of. One that had been given so soon and taken just as quickly.

It was just as hard on the prince consort, who was battered with hot tears falling ceaselessly as he stood by his three young sons who were falling silent. He had been close with his young sister, they were blissful in each other’s comforts through these many long years. Mellara had been a fond spectator of the language that they only knew to speak. Laenor and his family visiting them in Driftmark was supposed to be be a joyous one. Yet now, it was marred by loss undesired. Ser Qarl was behind his lover, patting his back. The echoes of the knight whispered unheard as the winds drifted. The words of Vaemond Velaryon danced against the wind, sentiment ruling the parting wishes for his niece.

To Mellara, it was just as obvious that the loss was not good on his wife either. When she looked at her niece, she saw a girl who had lost someone so dear to her. There was longing in her eyes, one that belongs to a younger sister. One that was lost without her elder’s guidance and affection. Rhaenyra’s eyes were bleaked with ghostly forlorn as her hair danced into the wind like a halo in the morning dew. The two had been like sisters in their youth, as though they had been born of the same cradle and been milk sisters.

Mellara Targaryen had watched the two girls laugh endlessly when they had been younger, even now that they had been mothers together. They rode their dragons across the expanse of Dragonstone’s high towers, bringing shine to the bleak grey dullness. Rhaenyra had few friends, and one of the truest ones was now gone. Her good-sister whom she had deeply loved as her sibling, now dwells in the halls of Old Valyria, a ghost to never return.

“This is not what is supposed to be.” Mellara whispers to the heir of Riverrun as she took his hand to squeeze. She turns to look at her husband, eyes shined with glassy tears tempting to fall. “She should not be in there.”

“There is little we can do now.” Elmo whispers back to his wife, squeezing her flesh back. “We must give strength to those she leaves behind.”

Mellara takes her gaze away from him and turns to Daemon, across from them. “Daemon....”

Daemon Targaryen stood alongside her and Elmo, his two hands on his little young girls' shoulders, his eyes stricken with grief. The sight of the dragon prince in such distress was not one people remember about him. But Mellara knew her husband’s heart, his mind. They were all but battered to no end, dulled in the wine of grief. Mellara knew that look too well, the one that she had seen when they held Alyssa for the first and only time. One never forgets that look because it is so distinct. Every echo is grief. Every echo is guilt. Every echo is longing. Every echo is suffering. Those memories flash back to her, brimming already tired eyes with mournful tears.

Daemon Targaryen had done it all before, but he would have to do it over and over until he perished to the grave. His wife could see how much he had grieved. All had been obvious to her when she saw his purple eyes beckoned so scarlet from crying. Her husband still lives and she knows he does not feel joyous of it. Even if he had loved her enough to live, even if he had much to live for, it was unavoidable to feel guilt. Daemon had buried much too many he had come to love, that she was certain. The pattern of sorrow repeated again, one that had so traumatized him at his mother’s death bed.

The flash of memory was there. All of this was something that broke him to maddening tears, having arrived with Gerardys that he was too late. He had failed Laena, as he had failed others he had loved. he had blamed himself, just as much as he had done years and years ago. Just as he had buried his first wife, he would have to bury another. Just as he had buried his first child, he would have to bury another. There was nothing left, nothing but the depths of melancholic survival, awaiting that day when his own body becomes forgotten and dust.

Laena Velaryon saw goodness in Daemon, allowed herself to peak at something that very few had given their attention to. Just as Laena had found joy in Mellara’s affections, Daemon had found comfort in their wife’s personhood. Peace, a welcomed one after a long suffering. He was far from helplessly in love with her, she too felt the same. But there was love. They were contented in the love that they had built, unique to the four of them. They were all so happy, to enjoy the freedom to love. The freedom to be wanted. The freedom to be in the sky, to be the dragon they were. There was no judgment within every kiss and every touch.

Much laughter in a happy home. For the first time in their lives, there was the bright beam of the sun dwelled in their lives. All had been sealed and promised in these many years, that Mellara was certain. They were far to lucky, to have lived this life at all. But it does not make the loss any easier. That does not stop Mellara from cursing the gods for being robbed of joy, of love, of a piece of her heart. For robbing Daemon of people he had loved, for them taking a mother from her children so young. There is now a hole that had formed in within the heart and soul and it will never heal. Not for a very long time, mayhaps for forever. That she was willing to admit brazenly, tears streaking her face.

“He hasn’t slept,” Mellara lamented to her Tully husband, her face contorted in worry. “He has kept himself awake, he was restless, Elmo. He refuses to rest.”

“Quite understandable,” Elmo could only sigh. “Loss can do things to the mind. Minds cannot comprehend nothingness, wife. What he feels is quite normal.”

“But I still worry. He is running himself too thin. It will not do him good.”

He turns to her, looking down on her somber face. “You must let him grieve as he does. You cannot expect him to feel no guilt or sorrow for what has happened.”

Mellara’s chapped lips purses into a line. “What else can I do, but worry?”

“You have promised Laena that you would care for the girls,” Her husband murmurs back to her. “Do so, for her and Daemon’s sake. They need someone.”

She gives him a look. “I cannot replace Laena, husband.”

“You are not replacing anyone.” He whispers back tenderly. “Those girls were raised like your own children. You are their other mother, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I know. But still,”

“We were a house of four. Their children is ours just as our own is theirs.” The red-headed knight reminds his wife. “Be there for them, fulfill your promise. They hav need of you right now. Love the pain away.”

Mellara took a deep breath, touched by his words. The princess of Blackhall nodded gently. Elmo smiled slightly and pressed his lips on her temple. Squeezing his hand once again, Mellara whispered a wordless thanks. Her husband squeezed her hand back, a reassuring boost. The silver haired princess did not know what she would do without Elmo Tully.

He had always been the angel on her shoulder, that she knew. She would be at a loss without him. In these many years of marriage, he had never abandoned her. Rather, he had only known to love her. Ever since they were children, he had never let her down. She cannot repay his devotion if she tried. Marrying her had been a political conundrum that could have ruined him. Even when his own position as heir of Riverrun brought threats from the mouth of an old trout, he did not care. Elmo Tully never faltered, he stood firmly on his devotion. She needed him. That was all that mattered to him.

The two returned their focus on her cousin. Vaemond Velaryon continued to speak, declaring to the sapphire shine the descent of a seaborn daughter. Mellara had been one to witness just as many Velaryons get called to the sea in her short life. One cannot look away, not even if they wanted to. Her mother Elaena Velaryon had reminded her that it was a duty to watch from beginning to the end. To remember the soul of the seaborn would hold them to the highest esteem to the merling king. None could look away, none could ignore it. You must look.

All had been going well. Yet, soon enough Mellara noticed the way his face contorted as he looked away from Laena’s coffin. The second son Vaemond started to deviate from such words of honorable countenance for their departing niece. Mellara slowly glared daggers at her cousin, one she knew he noticed. He was certainly preventing to return her anguish with a grin. He gazes pointedly at the sons of Laenor and Rhaenyra.

‘Velaryon blood is salted by the coursing sea. It is thickened by our fate, always true. Never thin nor deceit.’

Mellara felt her small lips open slightly, letting out angry huffs of air. Her mother gazed at her solemnly, shaking her head. Elmo’s grip on her hand tightened slightly. She looked back at her husband, glaring at him. He merely shook his head at her, his eyes pleading for her to calm.

Mellara growled lowly but she stopped. When Vaemond finished his speech, silence engulfed at the mourning crowd. A moment passes and then all could hear the widower’s solemn reaction. Daemon choked in his laughter in bitterness echo to the wind, unsettling others further. Her son Aemon Blackmace too grimly gazed, his jaw tightened as held his children’s hands. Rhaenyra stood uncomfortably, shunning her gaze to wrap her arms around her young sons.

Hatred pours through Mellara Targaryen’s heart.

Hot tears poured over her own weary face.

All she wished was for this to be over.

Baelon Targaryen pierced his lips as he walked towards a sea of forlorn stares and pretense, making words out of thin air. It had been a long time since he had seen all of his cousins, let alone his uncles and aunts spread across the realm, further out in the scorching seas. There was a lot of uncertainty in his heart about how he should feel. They didn't know much about the people who were here, not even those who supported his father's claim, which he was aware of.

All of them were strangers who he had to pretend to know. Even members of his father's family. But he knew that every one of them had anything they desired. They had something they desired, something they yearned for. The majority of them are not here to mourn his grandfather's wife. Glancing at his aunts sitting isolated in the distance, one such thought made his heart heavy. That made the pit of his stomach painfully ill. It was just like that when he had lost his lady mother. How such eyes closed in, how such voices whispered in the corners of his home.

Nobody had genuinely cared about them, such people had no desire to feel their yearning and their pains, especially none so dear feel that grief. None had shown concern for their anguish. None had shown concern for his grandmother's or grandsire's sorrow. They were all here to put on masks and pretend to bear the same grief that they did. Vultures, the lot of them. Vultures who feast on their flesh. Even at eight summers of his life, he knew this well. He knew too much.

“I am sorry for your loss, dear aunts.” Baelon whispers, his piercing indigo eyes lurking solemnly. His aunt Baela lifted her head. “It is tragic, what happened.”

Baela Targaryen tried to open her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The creases of her purple eyes glistened warmly, full of echoes that Baelon could not explain. Rhaena finally lifted her head softly, pursing her lips into a tight line as she took her sister’s hand. He did not reproach them for another reply, standing still in front of them as the winds blew against his black satin cloak.

The young heir of Blackhall understood the importance of such comfort. He and his much younger sister Daena were the same, refusing to be separated as they were forced to gaze across the decaying body of their mother. They, too, had to go through the same ordeal. The shock of it all turns the mind into a desert and the heart into shattered stone, never to return to an oasis.

The prince was well aware that this was just one of many events that would occur during his lifetime, and that there would be many more in the future. This moment, however, will haunt his fresh faced aunts. His aunts will leave their hearts in the seas with their own beloved mother, just as his heart left with his mother towards the northern snows.

The glistening sun shone across his blackened halo, and his eyes darted across the far-flung rocks as the sound of the sea's waters entering High Tide heaved all over the mouth of the sea's waterways. Heavy rock henges piled on top of one another, where his dragon Grey Ghost called to him. Though unmoved, the young Targaryen prince turned away from his aunts to observe his bonded.

The morning glory eroded across his face as it tumbled off his pale white scales. Horns twisted into a crown adorned the edges of his head. He was a wild dragon, one who vanished from the dragonmont and flew off into the far reaches of the seas. Grey Ghost, untamed and unwilling, lived a life of pleasured isolation. More than the majority of such dragons did.

Grey Ghost tracked him down, stretching his long neck towards him as if he were some vicious foe to be defeated. It was all Baelon's fault. He perched through each scale and volcanic rock with vigour, hungering for quests in the vast keep and continuing to learn about his ancestors - whether he knew it or not. Baelon made no movement and did not leave. He stared, his face as silent as the sky against the sun.

The vicious creature moved towards him on the bridge, its nose perched on his body, oblivious to his odor. Grey Ghost smelled the same blood that was coursing through him. Baelon had not given it enough thought. He was, admittedly, just a boy who had yet to prove himself. However, the beast smelled his blood. One who yielded to his blood's call to return home. Valyria, please. Grey Ghost lowered his head lower at the reach of his bonded, his silent command whispers echoing against the setting sun. A dragon bonded with another dragon once more.

“Aunts, would you like to hear a song?” Baelon questions softly, turning slightly to the two. The two looked puzzled at his question. He smiles softly, turning back to Grey Ghost.

“Grey Ghost!” He screamed from across the water, the eyes of others turned to him. His twin aunts felt their orbs of lilac widened as their nephew screamed for his dragon. “Sōvegon, Grey Ghost! Vāedagon!”

Such a command had been taught him by his grandmother princess Mellara, but it was an difficult one that had taken almost all of his days. Baelon remembered his frustrations with the wild Grey Ghost, who had disobeyed his rider by flying across the Trident in Blackhall to hunt for fish. Nonetheless, with time, Baelon had managed to capture Grey Ghost's attention. There were many more songs, and there will be more time for such things in the future. But for the time being, this was all he knew. And he wants to show it to his aunts, to make the pain disappear for a little while.

The ghostly figure opened its winds, perching itself upwards onto the sky, his growing wings glistening like an eclipse of moonshine against the daylight. As the splendid beast flew above them, the girls found themselves standing. Soon, a hymn could be heard beyond High Tide's towers. All the other dragons on the island screeched in unison as Grey Ghost gleamed through the heavens with zeal, singing the melodies of old Valyria.

When Baelon turned around, he saw Baela and Rhaena in tears, their faces somber with longing as they listened to the song. Baelon had no idea, but he could guess that this song was special to them. He pursed his lips, slowly opening them to apologize, but Rhaena shook her head, a small ghostly smile lingering on her lips.

“You have comforted us a great deal, nephew.” Rhaena Targaryen whispered softly. “Thank you for your kindness to us, truly.”

He cleared his throat and nodded at his aunts. “It is nothing, dear aunts. It is nothing.”

Baela shook her head and said, “No, nephew. It means everything.”

Baelon felt his heart flutter, face turning fushia pink.

Mother did say, he was never good with compliments.

Soon enough, his grandmother arrived and embraced them.

They were naked under each other's solace as they lay in bed. There had been much attempt to talk, but none would come out. Only sorrowful sounds and tears seemed to be what they could bring out from one another these days. Much so, it had been pointless to try to put what they were feeling into words because nothing had come out of their mouths. Daemon had agreed as easily as she that this was what they wanted. To have no care in the world, but the touch of flesh and the stain of sweat, in the realm of pleasure.

In truth, Mellara was now beyond her limit. She had been taken to her pleasure numerous times now, since they had departed from the crowd. But Mellara did not tell him to stop, no. She encouraged Daemon. She wanted to be beyond thought, to be beyond understanding, to be without nothing but her moans and her pleasurable peril. She could not take the exhaustion of existing in their reality any longer. This was much better, each and every sound encouraging her husband to hurt her better, to hurt her deep into pleasure. To forget that the world exists beyond these chambers.

Daemon had conversed with Viserys and it had not ended the way he liked. Mellara had been exhausted with the responsibility of accepting the condolence and false pity. This was not what Laena would have wanted. This was not what Baela or Rhaena wanted. Daemon had insisted on a quiet affair, but the king had sent his attendance the moment he had heard. That Daemon had cursed his brother for earlier, that Mellara had cursed him in the quiet for, hating the court retinue’s whispers. Much more, the queen and her godforsaken father. The mood had much more turned bitter when Daemon had seen him.

It was difficult to express how they felt to these people. None of them understand. Dragons needed each other, they cannot thrive without three heads. None of these people truly understand the anguish they were both in. As she bit Daemon’s lips, she wondered if this was what Aegon and Visenya had felt when they had lost ther own Rhaenys. The three conquerors had become two, both of whom could not cope. Just as she and Daemon could not. Daemon bit her back, blood drawn from the force of the violence. Mellara moaned against the metallic taste, salty tears pouring from her eyes.

In the coldness of the sea’s strong anchoring bliss, Daemon Targaryen had touched her in a way he had not in many years. His every touch was rough, as though thunder and storm ruled in his every grasp. Mellara gasped each time, moaning through each move was to him a moment of blissful punihsment. She could not even get hold of him, his speed had been immense. His forthcoming kisses were fire burning her flesh like wildfire, hot in passionate pursuit as each move of his fingers abused her body like sharp shards of dragonglass piercing her ceaselesly.

His hands gripping her thighs with eager vigour as they leave trails of forming bruises along the edges. His body was heavy of muscle, but he eagerly pushed his body closer as though to take away the very breath of life from her as he entered her again and again with relentless pursuit. In each shrill of her pleasures, she screamed in painful pleasure as he took her body for his own. Sweat poured through, mixing their spoils into one. His moans were just as loud as hers, especially when she pulls at his long silver hair or scratches the edges of his already war torn back with vicious intent. It is where the trail of his tokens of war did he treasure his conquests of bed from her domineering hands.

Daemon Targaryen felt alive when he was inside of her. Each and every moment of their desires brought him to bliss. Just as he had in their youth, Daemon ravishes and he takes. He felt alive when she cuts his back with her nails in violence. He felt alive when she bites him all over his flesh. He felt alive when he held the mounds of her full breasts, taking them into his mouth as though he was viciously in need of its life. He felt alive in the way she begged him to hurt her even more, as he choked her fully with his body forcing her down onto the featherbed with dangerous wanting.

His piercing purple gaze eating away at the way her own lilac shine loved him, cherished him, wanted him. He admired everything of hers, everything she had given to him in loving surrender. The shine of stretch marks that had painted her body like dragon’s clawed marks blissfully gracing her porcelain skin. The sides of her body grown with weight like litle mounts of love, bearing the children they could not have and the son he so dearly loves. The way the many years of their lives was slowly glistening in each year that passes, her beautiful silver hair slowly turning white as the snows of northern winds.

Daemon Targaryen had waited a long time to fall in love with her as his wife. The rogue prince had never found the experience to be as profound in his long life as some believe. Despite this, the only thing that had kept life meaningful to him throughout these many years had been how he had lived in love for her.

Even now, in his grief, depravity, and rogue nature, she had stood by him. She had never left him. Mellara Targaryen had given him life, love, and everything she had in order to keep him. He worships her as he finishes inside of her with a loud frenzied moan from his lips. He adores everything about her. Because she was his entire world. It's his world. His life.

“Avy jorrāelan. Avy raqan.“ He cooes to her, pressing a kiss upon her temple as she came undone under him. He loves her. He cherishes her. She was all he really had. “Mellara, ābrazȳrys.”

The one who would never abandon him. The only one who stays as his constant. He traces her features with his touch. A smile pours through her blissful lips, a soundless reply of her affection washes through her to him like a flowing river.

“Jorrāeliarze ābrazȳrys, my little dragon. My wife. My dear Mellara.”

“Valzȳrys,” His wife whispers generously, pulling at his shoulder and sliding her touch upon his warmth. “My warrior, my rogue. My husband.”

“And mine.” Mellara hummed in agreement, happily.

“Yes, mine.” He smiles at her reply.

All the comfort of each other’s touch did not keep the world forever. A knock on their door summons them awake from their slumber. They rushed awake at the sound, perplexed. The unexpected summons at such late hours of the night were a thought to ponder on. But, as they were instructed, Mellara and Daemon clothed themselves and followed the knights with apprehensions on their mind.

When they were led into the great hall of the High Tide, both husband and wife realized what had happened. Daemon had quickly rushed to his twin daughters, eyes fleshed with worry as he exhamined them. They were impaired with scarlet droplets within their noses. Their flesh were raw from violent touch, certainly bruising would form. Mellara’s grew wide as she moved further them, concern etched within her porcelain features. Her Velaryon kin looked at her, bowing as they passed her by. Mellara turned to the dragon twins and then to her son, prince Aemon, as he stood over Baelon.

The princess of Blackhall knelt at her grandson’s side, looking with dumbfounded horror as she looked the boy’s body and only found blood and cuts. There was a blinding cut on his cheek, dripping blood on his chin. Bruises started to flower on his flesh. Mellara started to ask her grandson what had happened, but as he tried, he looked on the corner. As though he was asking for permission.

She turned to face her cousin, the king, who stood where her grandson gazed. Her cousin returned her gaze, clearly exhausted by the sight of violence within flesh and blood. The young daughters of the rogue prince were looked to Mellara for a moment, but looked away as though they had something to be ashamed of. Daemon glared at his elder brother, eagerly certain that he longs for compensation for what his daughters had suffered tonight.

Dowager princess Elaena examined the three Velaryon boys as she pondered over the broken noises, the cuts on their arms and the blood. There had been blood everywhere. Elmo Tully had looked at his two sons, the heirs of Riverrun, with a tightened lip as their disheveled form was filled with mud and dragon dung. They looked exhausted from the likes of it. Mellara whispered to him soundlessly, but he shook his head at her with familiar exhaustion.

Mellara Targaryen felt her heart tighten at such a sight, her pleasure from just moments ago had now turned to dread. But as she turned, she could not help but ponder much more tragedy. The queen frantic as she came to her son’s side, the maester hovering over the child. Mellara felt her eyes widened at the sight of prince Aemond’s gouged eye, a hefty cut upon the bridge of his cheek to his forehead’s beginning. The prince gazed at his aunt hesistantly, turning away almost as though he feared her opinion of him.

Mellara shook her head, her silver curls following along her trail. Slowly, the princess of Blackhall made her way to her nephew, but the queen had raised her head and gleamed at her with anguish. Such a reaction that only a mother would have, that she knew for certain. But there was unease in her gut as she glanced at her nephew once again. Mellara sighed and moved away, backing herself towards her niece, Rhaenyra. The princess of Dragonstone seemed to have just been informed, features dishevelled with weary dread as she came to her children’s side and closed her eyes as she embraced them. Mellara fixed herself upon her side and pierced her lips.

“What has happened?” Mellara whispers questioningly, eyes gleaming bright with lilac. “This is a clear concern. Why are the princes and the princesses bleeding and bruised?”

“They were supposed to be abed, my princess.” Ser Harold Westerling had replied to her, a solemn sorrow passes through him. “But it would seem that there was trouble and we....”

“Who had the watch?” The king questioned the whitecloaks stood before him, a dragon’s fury in his eyes. “I had warn you, tell me the truth as it is or you shall face wroth and anguish, sers!”

Ser Criston stood his ground, firmly. “The young prince Aemond had been attacked by his nephews and nieces, your grace.”

“The boy is elder than all of them, much bigger than them too.” Aemon retorted at the whitecloak. “If you dare say this, look at my nephew, ser. Prince Jacaerys looks beaten beyond his life!”

The queen shook from her position, glaring at Mellara’s son. “He is but one himself, how should he be blamed for it. prince?”

“Your son is at fault for his own demise, your grace.” Aemon snorted at her brazenly. “My son has told me of the truth, madam. You ought to know he has threatened their lives, to burn them alive! I will not have it.”

“Enough!” Viserys says, glaring at all before him weakly. He then turns to the whitecloaks, his dark indigo eyes gleamed like dragonfire.“All of you here have sworn to defend and protect my blood. The greatest knights of the realm and they cannot stop the folly of children!”

“I give you all of my apologies, your grace.” The lord commander responds, both in sorrowful dishonor. “it has never happened before that those of royal blood had fought in such a way. We had no need to defend a prince from another.”

“That is no answer.” Elaena Velaryon rebutted, her dark eyes gleamed like the darkened night. She pointed to her Tully grandsons. “My own grandsons had done a far better job than you lot to stop this folly. They are boys themselves, ser Harold. And yet they had saved you more trouble tonight.”

“And for that I apologize again, princess.” Elaena huffs at the knight’s apologies, unable to accept the genuine regret of the knight.

“What is the meaning of this?” Corlys Velaryon entered the chambers, his lady wife princess Rhaenys trailed behind him.

The concern on his features mixed with confusion. His eldest granddaughter rushed to him, and then to Rhaenys. His wife knelt to Baela and embraced her. Rhaena soon followed her sister. Rhaenys gazed at her cousin Daemon, his lips firm in a strident line. Anger bubbles there, he observes. Corlys’s turned to look at his grandsons and found them badly beaten and broken in their mother’s protective embrace.

“The children....” He murmurs under his breath. “What has happened?”

“They all attacked me!” The younger son of Viserys screamed, accusingly.

Baela shook her head, pointing to her grandmother. “He is lying! You have to believe me, grandmother. He hurt Jace and Luke!”

“Baela speaks true, grandmother, father.” Her grandson declares, pointing to Aemond. “The prince Aemond had done us wrong.”

“He hurt Baela! He pished Rhaena He tried to kill Luke!” Mellara heard the prince Jace add. “He beat Joffrey into the dragon dung!”

Rhaena was near to tears as she yielded her words, “He stole my mother’s dragon. Vhagar was my mother’s dragon. Vhagar was to be claimed by me!”

“Enough.” Her cousin Viserys says, but the children had continued. Mellara had felt her head hurt at the loud declarations of the children being thrown back and forth. It was plain to her that her royal cousin had felt the same. Once more, his eyes gleamed like dragonfire and shook his head. “Enough! I had said, I have heard enough!”

The room silences as Rhaenyra looks to her father, blinking her tears away. Then the princess herself turns to her sons, kneeling softly. “My dearest boys, I know it will be hard to tell me the truth of it. But I must have the truth, in order to defend you. I need your word, my sons.”

“He...” Jace whispers, eyes gleamed with hurt. “He called us....”

“He called us bastards.” Luke completed for his elder brother, his hands tightly grasping against his mother’s skirts. “Then insulted Rhaena and Baela. He hit both of them too! When prince Baelon tried to defend us, he hit him and pushed him!”

Jace nodded at his brother’s words. “That’s when Kermit and Elmo came to stop the fight,”

“Is that true?” Mellara turned to her red-headed boys, who looked at their mother and nodded.

Aemon Blackmace shook his head, a bitter look on his face. His eyes glistened in fury as he turned to his sons. “This is outrageous. My son being harassed for defending the honor of his kin. Outrageous!”

“This is an offense no Targaryen prince has done to another.” Elaena Velaryon added, her body turned to her nephew. “This is a grievous crime.”

Viserys knew his aunt spoke true. Not once even with anger had a prince done such a thing to another. Not even he and Daemon had done such thing, even if they had wanted to do so.

He turned to his wounded son, his glare full of burning fire. “You have best be honest with me boy. Your actions if proven true are grievious. You have not only sinned against house Velaryon but your father, your great-aunt. Your own family. You best speak true, now!”

Prince Aemond gazed at his father, refusing to speak.

The king glowered at his son for his insolence.

The queen walked towards him, full of frustration.”

“Your grace, your son. Your own flesh and blood had just been maimed.”

“Your son had injured all of our own, your grace.” Ser Elmo Tully said, glaring at the queen. A tight watering of anger festered within him. “You have taught him no restraint, madam. You have taught him to do injustice!”

The queen glowered at the heir of Riverrun. “And your sons did none to stop my son, the prince, from being harmed. How does one call that honor, ser, if only my son was to pay the price?”

“Do you not think it is vicious to call my family a line of bastards, your grace?” Aemon Blackmace exclaims, huddling his son close to him. “My grandmother was born of a dark crown and ashen eyes. Mine own son with a dark crown. By what right do you or your son have to be certain of our bastardry?”

“I did no such thing, prince.” The queen Alicent exclaims, angered by the accusation. “Not only are you questioning the validity of my claim, but you ignore that my son had been maimed by the lot of your own.”

“My cousin speaks true, your grace.” Rhaenyra exclaims, nodding at her younger cousin’s words. “My sons are your heirs to you, as I am. And the queen’s son had not only harmed them grievously, he has also claimed them to bastardry. A heavy accusation, your grace.”

The queen scoffs at their words. “Over an insult?”

“It is not a matter of insult, your grace.” Rhaenys Targaryen exclaimed, walking towards her cousin. “It questions our family entirely of covetting falsehoods. My own mother was of Baratheon blood. Before that, the Velaryon blood was of the Masseys. My own blood courses through theirs.”

“As does mine.” Corlys added to his wife’s defense. “We had just lost our daughter and now her daughters are insulted. Our only son has his own children questioned. It is most vicious, your grace, that our loyalty is not enough for your own family to trust.”

“Ser Laenor will testify to it.” The queen says, turning to her son. “Where is he? Is he entertained by his squires once more?”

“My cousin is grieving his sister, your grace.” Aemon huffs in disbelief. “You accuse my cousin of indecency while he grieves his sister?”

The king shook his head. “Alicent, Aemon, that is enough.”

“He has already testified at court, your grace.” Elaena exclaimed, words filled with venom. “He claimed the boys his own sons. His blood. What right do you to question the resolve of a father’s claim?”

“Better yet, ask him why he has taken a dragon.” Daemon snickers bitterly as he glared at the one eyed boy. “Your father has declared to me that he intended to take you to Dragonstone, boy. To get you a dragon or an egg.”

Viserys shakes his head at his brother, “Daemon,”

Daemon looks to those around him.”You come here into our home, enjoying our hospitality and then you betray it for your greed? My wife has barely been dead a week, boy. And your intention was to disrespect her memory?”

“Daemon, that’s enough.” Mellara shook her head, placing a hand on his shoulder to calm his fury. “The boy had been punished enough.”

“I agree with my good-son. The boy may be a prince, but he has to pay for his doing.” The dowager princess says, turning to her nephew. “This is the law.”

Viserys Targaryen shrugs heavily.

His aunt is asking of him what he could not give.

A dragon’s justice.

“Boy, who is it that told you such lies, hm? What prompted this foolishness? You knew better than to take to dragons without dragon keepers. Just as much, to tell lies about your kin. I demand an answer, boy. Who told you? Tell me, now.”

The way his father stood over him, eyes gleaming dark as he towered over him. Even with his illness, Aemond Targaryen had been frightened. In his bouts of pain, one would forget that he was the king. The last rider of the conqueror’s dragon. And he stood before him, regal in might and authority even in his state. Aemond swallowed the lump at his throat. He looked to his mother and then his father.

“It was Aegon.” Aemond whispered to his father. “He told me the lie.”

Prince Aegon yelled in argument, but the lie had taken effect. The king made his way towards his elder son and berated him about how this is a disturbing act. That he has done damage towards his sister’s honor and their family’s honor. Mellara could not watch any longer, but she stood there embracing Daemon. She stood there, telling him that all will be well. Daemon grumbled his anguish, but she continued to do as she always would and told him off.

She turned to her mother and shook her head at her. Mellara was aware that her mother had always been like this. But she could not do much about it, she cannot even deny her mother was not right. Because she was. This was the vow she had made on her husband’s deathbed. She had to defend her family. To keep her husband’s memory alive, to keep his house afloat as she had promised him on his deathbed. Mellara knew that this was all Elaena Velaryon wished to do.

Mellara Targaryen had began to wonder where it had all gone horribly wrong. This was no longer just a game of courtly politics. If the princess and the queen had fought and hated, then the scion of the dragon beamed with violence and grievances. This is what she knew Viserys had long feared. He had told her so. Yet she knew he barely did anything to solve the problem. Let alone done anything to placate the ire of discontent. But she knew there was no longer turning back, now that blood had been drawn. There was anger of course, her grandson too had been maimed with a scar. Baela and Rhaena were badly beaten to blood. As were the sons of her niece, brutally harmed with broken faces and pride. Mellara knew where she stood, that much is certain. She knew what awaited them now.

But there too left pity in her heart. Mellara was certain that she was not as heartless as she thought she is with her belief. She pursed her lips in a line, thinking of all that was could have been. She was mournful of what had been lost. Mournful at who all of them had become. Mournful of who that boy she had thought would rise above his station as a second son would become. She had hoped much for Aemond Targaryen. But he had sealed his fate, with his desires and his wanting, with his lack of care and his lack of understanding. There was no going back. And now his cause stood firm, with an ancient dragon of the conquest. She gulped.

In that moment, her reality came and returned.

Viserys had found himself, weary from his fervor.

All had shut themselves once more in this fragile peace.

“My son had lost his eye.” Alicent whispered sorrowfully, turning as the king turns back to her. “And you would have him find no justice?”

“I cannot give back our son’s eye, Alicent.” The king whispers to her. “ He too had contributed to the cause, as did the other children. What would you have me do, when it is done? This is not something that can be remedied by fury, wife.”

“I will have none of your weakness strike through.” Alicent hissed at her husband, turning away from him. “If the king shall not seek justice, then the queen shall.”

Viserys leans toward her. “What are you doing, wife?”

“Ser Criston!” The queen boomed in a commanding tone, looking at Rhaenyra. “Bring me one of Lucerys Velaryon’s eyes.”

“Alicent!”

“He is your son, husband.” The queen felt tears prick her reddened eyes. “Your own blood and yet you deny him.”

“He is my son and my blood, aye.” The king replies to his wife. “But this is a matter that cannot be solved by letting your temper rule your mind. It is a dangerous prospect.”

“Then we have nothing to talk of.” The queen shook her head, turning her body to face the whitecloak. “Ser Criston, you shall do as your queen commands. Now.”

“Mother.” Lucerys squirmed in his mother’s skirts. Rhaenyra leans to her son to calm him. “Do not let them take me!”

The lord Corlys moved to take his grandson to shield. He looks at his knights and nods at them. The knights place their hand upon the pummels of their swords, ready to face the whitecloak. Viserys shook his head, glaring back and forth toward his family. Mellara shook her head at her cousin, walking towards her niece, shielding her and her family. Prince Aemond was about to move from his seat, but his mother had stayed him down upon his chair. The princess of Blackhall could see from Daemon’s position move into a defensive position,eyes burst into a warrior’s gaze. Elmo Tully moved in front of his sons, moving slowly towards his wife. Mellara Targaryen shook her head at both of them.

“Aunt, what are you to do?”

“If this can be settled by an eye, then take mine own.” Mellara steps forward to the queen. “My grandson too was there and mayhaps have caused offense to your grace. If you want an eye, then take mine own weary eyes.”

“Daughter, this is foolish.” Her mother walks towards her, but she stops as Daemon steps forward to his wife.

“This is foolish, Mellara.” Daemon hisses at her, “You must stop this folly, now.”

Mellara shook her head. “Tis the only way the queen will be satisfied. if the queen is satisfied with the eye of an old woman, then it shall be.”

Aemon Blackmace growled. “Mother, we must petition justice. This is not going to be-”

“It is by my command that you stay still, ser.” Mellara says to her son, eyes commanding as a dragon. “I will not have our family torn. If an eye ripped will keep the peace, then better that it is none of the children. Go on, your grace. Take one.”

Alicent Hightower glanced at her husband’s cousin, eyes slightly widened in shock. This was a prideful woman, whose blood and status touts even her own children’s blood. The only princess of her own right with the king’s grace. The wife of the rogue prince, a mother to another deviant. Yet she stands before her, eager to heed the queen’s command. Though, not with fear. But proud defiance. A dragon who was ready to take on the world. Quietly, she masks her surprise and commands the whitecloak.

“Very well, princess. You may choose the eye. Ser Criston, take your blade.”

“No, you will stay your hand!” The king exclaimed with anguish, his armless figure pointing toward the knight with a glare. “This is the granddaughter of king Jaehaerys. The daughter of mine own uncle. A blood of the dragon! I will not have anymore of mine own blood maimed or harmed tonight!”

The lord commander of the kingsguard turns to the sworn sword.

Ser Criston Cole looks uncomfortable at such a command.

Even with his own biases, he knew there was little to be done.

“Yes, your grace. As your sworn sword.” Ser Criston responded, swallowing a bile down. “Otherwise, I cannot do anything else. It is the king’s command I must follow, your grace.”

The queen shook her head at such a rejection. Mellara saw as the darkness at the corner of her eyes lit aflame with anguish. She knows how she feels, Mellara thinks. It is a painful prospect to see your son harmed. More so painful when there is endless powerlessness. She has no friends here, save her father who stands before them like a mighty spider. Mellara Targaryen knew that Alicent is frightened. Frightened for the pain, the life, the ridicule that her young son will now have to live. Mellara did not like the queen, she could not agree with her hunger for power. But Mellara Targaryen can understand her, as a mother.

She did not notice then and there that the queen had taken the king’s dagger for her own. Moving through holding the dagger upwards, there was madness in the queen’s eyes. Daemon tried to shift her away, but Mellara gasp as she noticed the direction of the blade. Mellara firmly met the queen before Daemon could stop her. Alicent Hightower had all but raised the dagger and slashed princess Mellara’s neck without hesitation. An orchestra of gasps and screams became the music of a doomed family.

Daemon’s eyes widened in horror and shock as he watched his wife claw at her deep wound and choke in her own blood. Her eyes spun until she could only fall to the ground, limp with scarlet rain from her flesh. The queen pushed through the princess of Dragonstone and targetted her next. Prince Aemon Blackmace rushed beside his mother, as did his grandmother, yelling for a maester to rush to them quickly. He raised her into his arms and rushed out of the room, screaming for the maester to follow with haste.

Prince Daemon shook in devastated anguish as he pushed ser Criston away from the action. Ser Criston could see the anger clear in the prince’s eyes as he stopped him from assisting the queen. It did not help that now the ground was fresh with Mellara Targaryen’s blood. Rhaenyra struggled against the queen, her eyes watered in worry as it shifts to her aunt’s body. She caught glimpses as they took her aunt away, her many scions trailing behind. Her eyes hardened as she focused on Alicent.

She pushed Alicent as much as she could, forcing the blade away from her own body. She was persistent, the queen, as she grunted and screamed. Many had tried to get close and begged for the queen to let the blade go, but the queen of green did not budge. Nor did Rhaenyra. She was far to angry, at the sight of her sons suffering. But now with the life of her aunt being threatened by death, she had gotten far into her hatred of the queen before her.

“All these years, the law and the gods you have defied. Your father you have defied. This good house you have defiled. Where is your duty, daughter?” The queen cried, the dagger still on her hand. “Where is your sacrifice? All these many years and you find yourself besmirched with your greed, with your vanity!”

“It must be exhausting, step-mother.” Rhaenyra whispered calmly, gazing at the queen as she was caught of guard. “Hiding in this cloak of all that false righteousness. But all of us, all here. They see you for what you are now.”

The queen Alicent had realized what she had done and dropped her blade, horror striking her features as she came back into her senses. The queen blinked and had started to weep as the king rushed to her side. Viserys could only allow his eyes to be filled with both horror and worry. As Rhaenyra turned to her sleeve, she found blood pour through her fingers and onto the floor. She could only watch as it mixed with her aunt’s spilled liquid in dark burgundy.

The queen shook her head horrified as she let her husband wrap her in his embrace. She looks to ser Criston, but he seems to be defeated as he stood in front of her good-brother. Prince Daemon moved away from ser Criston Cole and glared at him. He was just as angry, he was too angry to gather himself, hand upon his Dark Sister’s pummel and joined his niece. Rhaenyra could see it in her uncle’s eyes. If his brother had not been here, his sword would be drawn.Queen Alicent Hightower would no longer be among them. He glared at the queen with all the hatred in his heart.

“I will go to your aunt, niece.” Daemon whispers to her in High Valyrian.

Rhaenyra Targaryen nodded. “Of course, uncle.”

He looks lowly at his wife’s blood, then back at his niece. “One day.”

Rhaenyra pierces her lips.

“I know, uncle.”

Daemon Targaryen nodded at her, eyes glistening.

He glared at the queen and her son one last time.

He will have revenge and it will not be swift.

It was a mystery why he had devoured far too much Lysene wine. It was not something the heir of Blackhall had thought about before, but he had not known to lonesomeness together with Laenor Velaryon. Yet it was not something he was complaining about. There had been much on Aemon’s mind. Full of worries and grief, of painful memories of seeing his mother bleed near death’s door. It had been much too many days of such a thing. It had not been something that he had wanted, to drink. But he knew he needed it. Aemon would not find a more profound partner in such a vice than his cousin Laenor.

Laenor had been precisely a decade older than Aemon Blackmace. But, in some ways, they understood each other better than others. However, such a meeting between the two of them had been known to be rare. To even be in the same room with them without being in distress or in dispute, without the heavy demands of duty, crown, or even the skies. It also didn't help that, as grown men, they often are forced to live separate lives.

Aemon was frequently absent from court, and even more so from Dragonstone, participating to his responsibilities as their prince and lord. It didn't help that, as a widower, he was much more eager to see deep involvement in his young children, both of whom are even now having difficulty coping with their mother's absence. He didn't complain about having to devote more of his life to where he was needed. His family required him. His children required his assistance. But he couldn't help but long for his old life. Prior to having children, his primary concern was to lead a life of youthful pleasures and the scent of battle across the seas atop Aelyx. But such a thought of abandoning everything, abandoning his children, his parents, Rhaenyra.....it did not sit well with him.

Aemon tried not to think of himself as being in a pit that hid him from the fresh morning air like a gilded bird. He has it better than most people in his country, and he should be grateful. The prince was cognisant that he stood superior in life to most that surrounded him. His mother and father had made sure that he'd live a life where he would not want for anything. On their knees, with a sword, with words swinging through political demons. They had done everything so he may live. He in his heart was aware. He was conscious of their sacrifices. The prince of Blackhall looked down at his goblet, which had not been emptied since they began. He had been sober, but the thoughts that ran through his head now jolted him awake.

There was no ripping away what the gods must have carved into his very flesh and blood. You are neither a man nor a woman simply because you were born with the blood of great kings, the blood of old Valyria. You weren't even a human being. You were supposed to be a creature of monsters who make others bend to bow as though you were a god. Perhaps this is the reason Aemon felt this moment was far more important to him than he realized. This was also unusual - no one would treat him as if he were a god's son. A child so beloved by the heavens that he was imprisoned in a life of depravity, a deprived life of rich enclosures where others latch onto him like greedy snakes eager for his blood on its teeth.

The prince relocated in his seat, at more aplomb than before. Loosening his coat, the prince felt air influx through his body as if for the first time in his existence. He cast a subtle glance at the goblet's wholeness. One drink would not jeopardize his ability to work the following morning. He was capable of handling his drinks. But it was still unbecoming of him to indulge too well in such a life like this the way Laenor Velaryon had. He would not want his children to see him like this. Too raw with himself, drinking the poison of the seven hells to wake him. The prince leaned in, watching his brothers talk, and swigged his with one swift motion.

"All our companions had left too quickly!" Laenor whined merrily, laying down. His hands were still gripping his half-empty goblet still spilling itself onto the pavement."It would be much too merry with more music, more people. A disappointment!”

"My brothers did come by, you know." Aegon whispers, pouring himself a drink. "Those rowdy boys have trashed this place.”

The elder cousin raised a brow at the younger one. "Did you make them leave?”

"Kermit was about to start a duel, cousin." The prince of Blackhall says, shaking his head, exasperated. “Oscar was nearly about to hang another.”

“They are men. You should have let them handle themselves.”

“They are boys.” Aemon corrected his elder cousin, drinking another bout. “I would not want to find my stepfather and my mother upon my ear with such ridiculousness.”

Laenor snorts, taking sip of his wine. "I am not surprised. They say Tullys have quiet tempers but people forget your younger brothers inherited the blood of the dragon. Eagerly restless as the rest of us.”

"Yes, that may be true," Aemon sighed as he nodded his head. “But it is not good to fulfill rumours about them. Like how they do with the queen’s eldest, cousin.”

"Your brothers are far from being like Aegon the Drunken." His elder cousin snorted, entertained. "The boy is born cruel, cousin Aemon. One must be thankful it is Rhaenyra who sits as heir and not him.”

Aemon looked at him as he who shook his head and sighed. "I would not speak ill of my cousin, but it would be unjust not to speak the truth either.”

“The gods made humanity for contradictions, cousin.” A grin appeared on the sealord’s lips. “One feels for the boy, but one feels for all he terrors.”

Aemon hummed in agreement. “The fourteen fires are good, cousin. They have created such a miracle.”

The heir of Driftmark touts into joyless laughter. “Do you think that the fourteen fires would be able to forgive me, for my lackings?”

Aemon Blackmace came to a halt as he turned around to face him, viewing his cousin slouch on the soft feathered pillow as though he was ready to slumber for the night. The joy emitted by his inebriation was eventually replaced by somberness in grim dark emotions that glistened as dark as the misty night. He couldn't help but feel terrible for his cousin, who had spent his entire life living in the shadows of himself, of the status he was born into. To a marriage that made his name as famous as his war in the Stepstones. A life where he was truly unable to flee, lest his family lose another son. For children to lose their father as well as a wife to lose her own husband.

Laenor had noticed his features, which caused him to shake with laughter. "What is with your features? Laugh at misfortune’s face, cousin. Let us not dwell too much into its caverns.”

"I am sorry.” He whispers to his cousin, taking another drink. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

"Oh do not weep for me like this, cousin." The prince consort says, finishing his goblet's contents with haste. He signals his cousin to pour another. "I have accepted my fate. As you have. We must enjoy this as much as we can now.”

"What do you mean?” Aemon's face contorted into questioning. "The last time?”

Laenor Velaryon sits upright, his dark purple eyes gazing at Aemon’s indigo. His lips flat, his jaw hardened with seriousness. “I have broke it off with Qarl.”

Aemon’s eyes widened. “Cousin-”

"Do not scold me for it, Aemon." Laenor points at the younger cousin. "Nor should you spur me out of this decision. This is mine own. I will not have anyone convince me otherwise.”

"He’s your lover. The one that makes you happiest.”

Laenor shook his head. “The one that makes me happiest is seeing my children safe, seeing Rhaenyra safe. Our family being together, that is everything.”

"Laenor, do not kill yourself for this.” A mournful look passes Aemon Blackmace’s features, shaking his head. “Do not end Laenor to become someone else.”

"There is no other choice.” He whispers back to him. “I cannot betray this family anymore. Not when we had just lost Laena. Not when my sons were hurt like that...All of my truths being used aganst them by the queen. It cannot happen again, cousin. Not again.”

All of it was obvious, the tears that poured from Laenor’s eyes as the memories of his beloved sister poured through him as though it had not been yestermorn that she had been given to the sea just like the rest of their Velaryon ancestors. Laenor bowed his head, his arms warmly comforting his body as he poured out his grief once more. He had grown much older, Aemon realized. Not only because of grief, but because of all the weight of the world around him.

The wanting of others around him, with their own agendas that forget that his own cousin was just another young man. Just another boy still locked within the man’s body; eagerly asking to be free. Aemon stood from his position and wrapped his arms around his cousin, letting his hand rub against his back to comfort the boy that had been harmed by the world of adults. He wished it was all easier, that he could take his cousin’s grief away from him. Carry that burden with him. But he knew he couldn’t. That had hurt him the most, that he could do very little for the elder who had done much for him.

He could remember the shining eyes and playful smiles of his cousin, the one who had come to him with exquisite smiles as he stood as his elder brother at each lesson at the arrow yard. Laenor’s firm gentle hands holding the wooden swords and shields and resting it towards his cousin’s palms. There were very few distances with the both of them, such as age. But it was never affection. There had never been any gap in his love for his dear cousin, who had become his elder brother in all these many years. The world had been brighter in those days. Those days were brighter with the truthful smiles of his elder cousin.

“Promise me.” Those words left drunkly from Laenor Velaryon’s lips. “That you would stand with me on this. Promise me that you will stand with my family, cousin. Promise me.”

Aemon Blackmace gazed into his cousin’s eyes, seeing the pain in his determination. He swallowed the bile stuck on his throat, slowly nodding at him. Their eyes filled with the strength of their promises.

“I promise you.” He whispers back to his cousin, taking his hand and kissing his Velaryon ring onto his lips. “As your younger, your servant, your kin. I swear to you, the fourteen fires as our witness, I will uphold my vow.”

When he said those words, he watched Laenor’s eyes swirl with relief.

“Thank you, cousin.”

Aemon shook his head at him, smiling. “You owe me nothing for my love and loyalty. You will always have it.”

Laenor returned his smile. “And you have mine, cousin. I mean it.”

When Aemon Targaryen returned to his chambers that night, filled with wine in his belly - he had a dream. He had a dream that a dragon was pierced with a scorpion bolt, thrusting harshly upon the eye of the dragon. An endless scream piercing through him, pained to the brink of death. Falling from the sky like a meteor, silver wings and pale blue mist falling through its carrass.

There had been much more horrors that woke him, much more questions that made him ponder deeper. But when he woke, with his body full of sweat and heaving air leaving his body. In the middle of the night, he walked towards the lord’s hall as a scream was heard. He gazed upon eyes red with fury as the spilling sweat raged with spilled burgundy liquid upon the stony floor. Laenor Velaryon’s body swam in his own blood, lifeless. He did not know how many had woken when he had screamed, but he did not care.

Aemon Blackmace’s eyes widened with rage as he watched ser Qarl gaze at him with the same fury he had met Laenor with. People rushed through, servants gasping at the sight of the heir dead upon his own home. Aemon ordered them to stay where they are as he rushed down hurriedly, quickly grabbing Laenor’s fallen sword. He did not care if it was marred wth his cousin’s blood.

Aemon’s dragon blood boiled with anguish, with anger and with grief. Soon enough they were faced in a melee of endless vicious ugliness, thrusting his cousin’s sword like mad man. Tears poured down his face, clouding his vision. He did not care, he charged and charged until he hit something. All of this was too kind to Qarl. This violence was not enough, not enough to avenge Laenor. nothing will ever be enough. He was too angry, too wanting. But he did not care. Laenor did not deserve this, he did not deserve to die.

Aemon Blackmace continued to do it over and over again. He had no intention to stop, not even when others screamed for them to stop this violence. He will not stop. Not until he ended this murderer’s life. Not until he would avenge his cousin. Qarl cut his face deep, his arms and even his stomach but Aemon did not care. He pulled his arm and thrust the sword upon the man’s stomach. He thrusts deep and clean, even when Qarl breathed his last, he thrust the sword deeper as his tears poured and poured hotly against his cheek.

He could hear lord Corlys shout as he pull his wife away.

Aemon gazes at them, tears in his eyes.

He faces Qarl.

“He loved you.” Aemon whispers bitterly, grief evident on his voice.

“I know.” Qarl whispers back to him, laughing. “That is why he has to go first.”

“You will never see him again.” Aemon shook his head, his hand forcing the sword to impale the knight. Ser Qarl coughed blood upon his shoulder. “Because I will send you to the begging in front of gods, of dragons, for mercy. Suffer there, coward. Suffer there.”

“I shall see you there, prince.” The knight whispered, laughing as Aemon ripped off the sword from his body. Even more blood and flesh falling off the floor.

Aemon let the sword fall with him.

“One day.” He whispers to the dead corpse, kicking it in anguish. “I’ll meet you there.”

Bleeding and broken, eyes glistening in tears, he moved towards the body of his dear cousin and knelt in front of him. His body shakes as he falls onto Laenor’s corpse, tears mixing against his cousin’s spilt blood. He screams, pained at the sight. His hands cradled his cousin’s corpse as though it had been his child, his child that had passed. But he could not help it. He turns and freezes in his spot. There he finds his cousin Rhaenyra rushing to him. She screams as she got on her knees with him, beside Laenor’s body. She starts cradling the lifeless corpse as the tears pouring out of her eyes bitterly.

Rhaenyra continued to cried out Laenor’s name with yearning, with grief, with sorrow. Aemon Targaryen is not sure what to do as he watched her rest her head against Laenor’s silver locks. To grieve the husband who had vowed to her his life. The husband she had loved dearly, the father of her children. He swallowed the grief down his throat as he gazed at the blood piercing her silk gown. There was no life anymore, nothing. There was only death. And there was nothing he could do.

But he knew one thing for certain as he sobbed.

He had to make good on his promise to Laenor

He must protect Rhaenyra, He must protect them.

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