#a vow of blood | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zeciex · 4 months

Text

A Vow of Blood - 63

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 63: In the Eye of the Father

AO3 - Masterlist

As Aemond entered Daenera’s chambers, he found her seated at her dresser, gracefully brushing her hair. Their eyes connected in the mirror, and he observed the subtle narrowing of her gaze at this approach. He leaned casually against the column closest to her, arms crossed over his chest, bracing himself for her inevitable reproach. There was a certain amusement in watching her lips press together, as if she were struggling to contain the words teetering on the edge of her tongue.

“I thought we had an understanding,” Daenera finally said, her voice carrying a hint of exasperation as she continued to brush through her curls, which seemed to float around her head like soft clouds. “Why do you insist on causing a scene?”

“Your brother is too easy to provoke,” Aemond replied with an air of nonchalance, unfazed by the potential consequences of his actions.

Daenera’s voice sharpened, her brush strokes growing more intense, revealing her agitation. “And you’re not? You called me your wife, again. You insult and insinuate, purely to stir up trouble–”

“I didn’t insult you,” Aemond interjected calmly. “I simply spoke the truth.”

Daenera echoed his words with a mocking tone, “‘The truth’…”

Aemond detached himself from the column with a sense of purpose, his steps deliberate as he approached her. Daenera’s gaze was penetrating, observing his every step warily. Reaching her, he gently swept her hair to one side, revealing the delicate skin along her neck, untouched and begging to be claimed. His touch elicited gooseflesh to rise over her skin, and he felt an immense sort of gratification of being able to invoke that sort of reaction by mere touch.

Daenera, however, was not swayed by this intimacy. She turned her head away, letting her hair fall back, shielding herself from his touch. Her eyes bore into him, a mixture of defiance and frustration. “This is precisely why I must go. Your insistence on publicly declaring me your wife, suggesting that we’ve been intimate… It is ruinous.”

Aemond’s voice carried a sharp edge. “It is the truth, isn’t it? I am not the one lying to my family.”

Daenera’s response was swift, yet beneath her dismissive tone, a subtle undercurrent of sadness and guilt was discernible. “I haven’t lied to them.”

Aemond, unswayed, responded with a languid drawl, his voice slicing through the air. “A lie by omission is still a lie.”

“You wield the truth like a sword, only to provoke and cause strife,” Daenera shot back, emphasizing each word with a palpable intensity. “It’s not about honesty for you; it’s a tool to manipulate and harm my family.”

Aemond clenched his jaw, a mix of annoyance and a deeper, burning sense of disappointment and bitterness stirring within him. He couldn’t deny the truth in her words. His actions had been intentional, a calculated move designed to irk Jacaerys, especially when he declared Daenera as his wife and hinted at their intimacy. He had sought to incite a confrontation, to prod Jacaerys into revealing his true colors – blue, red and green on white.

Yet, deep down, in the hidden chambers of his heart, Aemond was aware that his motives weren’t solely rooted in provocation. It was also an attempt to stake his claim over Daenera, a desperate, almost naive hope that by exposing their secret, he could somehow prevent her from leaving him. It was a foolish thought, he knew, that such revelation could compel her to stay.

Daenera’s voice broke through his thoughts, calm yet probing.

“Have you ever considered that I might be trying to protect you?” She inquired, resuming the brushing of her hair, her eyes meeting his through the mirror’s reflection.

Aemond exhaled a sound that hovered ambiguously between amusement and its absence. His tone was laced with skepticism as he spoke, “Protect me?”

“If Jace were to discover our affair, he’d come after you,” Daenera explained, her fingers gliding through her hair after setting the brush aside.

Now Aemond’s amusement was unmistakable. “I hardly fear your brother’s wrath. Should he confront me, it’s not I who you should worry about. His punches are as soft as a girl’s and should he decide to try his hand with a sword, I’ll be sure to take more than his eye.”

Daenera’s response was a roll of her eyes, a silent testament to her exasperation at his casual arrogance. “You may not fear my brother’s ire, but you will fear Daemon’s wrath.”

Aemond pursed his lips in irritation.

“Moreover, it seems I’m not the only one who’s been withholding the truth,” Daenera remarked, her gaze meeting Aemond’s through the reflective surface of the mirror. “I doubt your mother was thrilled about the spectacle you created. I’m quite certain you haven’t disclosed the full extent of our… affairs to her.”

Aemond’s lips tightened momentarily before he replied, his eye intently observing her, seeking her reaction. “She’s decided on a Baratheon girl.”

A frown formed on Daenera’s face, her eyebrows knitting together in a subtle display of emotion. Aemond watched closely as a fleeting cascade of feelings traversed her expression before she managed to regain her usual poise, adopting a measured tone.

“Then, I suppose congratulations are in order,” she said, her voice carrying the distinct drag of forced neutrality. “Forgive me for not being able to attend the wedding, I’m sure it will be lovely.”

Aemond’s gaze sharpened. “I have no desire for a Baratheon…”

The words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. He desired her, Daenera, his wife, not a Baratheon girl. His hand moved again to her hair, gently sweeping it over one shoulder to reveal the tender skin of her neck. His fingers traced a delicate path around the curve of her neck, eventually resting his palm against her throat, a gesture intimate and possessive.

Daenera’s voice was laced with frustration as she rebuffed Aemond’s touch, briskly brushing his hand away before swiveling in her chair to face him head-on. Her eyes were ablaze with irritation as she looked up at him through her lashes.

“I am angry with you,” she declared. “Don’t imagine for a moment that your caresses will diminish that.”

There was a petulance in her tone that Aemond found immensely amusing. A slight, almost imperceptible smile curled the corners of his lips as he gazed down at her.

“Be angry if you must,” he conceded softly, “but be angry at a near distance…”

He reached out again, this time lifting her chin gently, drawing her gaze up to meet his. His thumb delicately traced her lips, which were slightly pursed, coaxing them to part. As her lips opened, a warm, gentle breath washed over his fingers, the sensation amplified when he gently tugged at her lower lip.

The intensity in Daenera’s gaze had an unnerving effect on Aemond, stirring a sense of vulnerability he despised. He felt a paradoxical blend of weakness and desire as he traced his thumb across her lips once more, pressing it slightly into her mouth. The sensation of her tongue, warm and damp, brushed against his thumb, sent a jolt through him. His trousers tightened uncomfortably.

As Aemond withdrew his thumb, he deliberately smeared the moisture across her lips, leaving them shining in a provocative display. He then trailed his thumb up her cheek in a lingering touch.

In his quest to dominate and unsettle her, he found himself increasingly disarmed and ensnared by her presence.

Daenera’s reaction was swift and forceful. She slapped his hand away and stood up abruptly, her annoyance palpable.

“You’re insufferable,” she declared, her eyes flashing with exasperation. “Sometimes, I could just strangle you.”

Aemond couldn’t help but let out a laugh as Daenera attempted to storm past him. In a swift motion, he caught her arm, drawing her back against him. His arm encircled her waist, pulling her close so that her back pressed firmly against his chest. He leaned in, letting his breath lightly caress the skin of her shoulder, his lips barely touching her as he moved them tantalizingly close to her ear.

His voice was a low murmur, laced with a provocative edge. “Despite all this anger, I bet you’re still wet for me…”

His hand then trailed lower, gliding down her stomach, and reached the curve below. Through the sheer fabric of her nightgown, he sought out her warmth, his fingers exploring with a boldness that was both presumptuous and intimate. The sharp intake of breath was audible, a response that soon melted into a subtle leaning into his touch. Daenera’s head tilted back, finding rest against the strength of his collarbone.

Daenera’s voice was a mixture of resistance and surrender as she breathed, “This doesn’t absolve you.”

And she let out a breath, as Aemond’s other hand ventured to her breast, finding her nipples already hardened beneath the thin fabric. He played with them, his fingers deftly coaxing them into further sensitivity. Her body responded instinctively, her hips subtly gyrating against his hand, eliciting a satisfied grin from Aemond.

“I don’t seek your forgiveness,” Aemond whispered, letting his breath tickle over her neck. He teased her skin with his tongue, savoring the taste of salt before his teeth gently grazed over the delicate flesh.

Daenera inhaled sharply as he pinched her nipple.

Aemond’s fingers continued their exploration, tracing circles at the juncture of her thighs, seeking and finding the sensitive pearl with ease. He felt the moisture seeping through the fabric, adhering to her skin. His cock hardened at the feel of her.

A low, almost purring hum vibrated in her throat as she gradually disengaged from his embrace. She turned within the circle of his arms, her fingers tenderly brushing across his cheeks as she cradled his face. Her gaze roamed over his features, her pupils dilated, engulfing the iris.

With a deliberate softness, Daenera reached up to remove his eyepatch, revealing the sapphire eye beneath.

The act of Daenera removing his eyepatch always sent a shudder down Aemond’s spine, igniting a flicker of apprehension deep within him. The removal made him feel exposed and vulnerable as the stark reality of his scar was laid bare for her to see. Despite knowing that she had never recoiled from him, that she had tenderly kissed his scar and admired the sapphire eye, comparing it to stars, a persistent fear of rejection lurked within him. It was a fear rooted in the possibility of being viewed with disgust, a fear tied to the visible reminders of the injustice that had been done to him.

And yet, she did not look upon him with neither pity nor disgust.

As Daenera’s hand moved to release the tie binding his hair, it cascaded down, framing his face in a more natural, unguarded state. Instinctively, his forehead leaned forward to meet hers, their breaths mingling in close proximity. Their lips hovered mere inches apart, close yet untouched, in a moment brimming with anticipation.

Her lips then rose to meet his, pausing just a whisper away. They parted slightly, inviting and waiting. Aemond’s lips sought hers in response, both of them retreating before finally allowing their lips to connect in a deep, consuming kiss.

Aemond’s hand firmly pressed against the small of Daenera’s back, drawing her closer as their kiss deepened. His tongue ventured into her mouth, savoring the sweetness that reminded him of berries. Their tongues danced together in a rhythm of growing intensity, while he subtly guided her backward towards the bed.

Daenera’s fingers were busy at work on his shirt, skillfully undoing the tie at the neck before sliding the garment up over his head. For a brief moment, their lips parted to allow the removal of his shirt and her nightgown, which he lifted over her head and let it cascade down on the foot of the mattress.

Their lips eagerly reunited, her urgency palpable as she grasped the edge of his trousers. With swift, determined movements, she loosened the laces, her hand slipping inside to wrap around his cock.

Aemond couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped into her mouth as her fingers wrapped around him, moving in a rhythmic motion. A wave of fiery desire surged through his veins, each of her strokes fanning the flames of passion that was consuming him.

His desire for her was not just for his own satisfaction; he yearned to see Daenera equally consumed by their passion. He sought to see her lose herself as he had, to feel the vulnerability he experiences under her influence – to yearn for him in spite of duty.

Taking control, he gently but firmly removed her hand from him and guided her onto the bed. His lips journeyed from her neck down to the valley between her breasts, eventually finding a nipple to envelop with his mouth. The sensation of his lips and tongue on her sensitive skin elicited a moan from Daenera, her body arching to meet his touch.

Simultaneously, his other hand ventured downward, exploring the warmth between her thighs. His fingers combed through the soft curls to reach her clit, where he began to draw slow, deliberate circles. Her body responded naturally to his touch, her hips moving in tandem with his movements. Her fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in the strands as he intensified his attention on her breast, occasionally letting his teeth gently graze the perked flesh.

The sensation of her nails scraping against his scalp drew a moan from Aemond, a shiver cascading down his spine. He reveled in the touch.

In the midst of their fervent embrace, a sharp, unwelcome realization pierced through Aemond’s consciousness – their time together was rapidly diminishing. While Daenera appeared resigned to this inevitable parting, embracing the moment with a sense of surrender, Aemond was besieged by a tumult of emotions, primarily a mix of defiance and bitterness.

In response to this unbidden realization, Aemond’s actions became more intense. He slid two fingers deep into her, eliciting a loud, almost gasping moan from Daenera. Her cunt welcomed him, wet and warm, clenching around his fingers. He expertly angled his fingers to find that sensitive spot inside her, causing her hips to jerk upwards off the bed.

Daenera’s moan, laden with raw desire, filled the room as she tugged at his hair. “Ah, fuck.”

Aemond’s lips briefly left the nipple they had been attending to, which not glistened wetly, a thin trail of moisture connecting to his mouth. He looked up at her, taking in the flushed appearance of her cheeks and the inviting parting of her lips. He then shifted his attention to the other breast, enveloping it with the same fervor, all the while maintaining a rhythm of quick, rough thrusts with his fingers.

Aemond became acutely aware of the growing urgency within him, his need palpable in the way his cock strained, even beneath the now-loosened confines of his trousers, pulsating with an intense desire to be buried deep within her wet cunt.

With a teasing grin, he withdrew his fingers, observing the way her body reacted, clenching around nothing, almost mourning the loss of his touch. Quickly, he shed his trousers and boots, freeing himself. His erection stood prominent, a testament to his desire for her, the tip glistening with anticipation.

He used his wet fingers to give himself a few firm strokes, spreading the slickness along his length, heightening his own sensations. When he looked up, Daenera was read for him, her legs parted in a silent invitation.

Aemond moved over her, their lips meeting in a fervent kiss as he aligned himself with her. With a decisive snap of his hips, he entered her in one fluid motion, burying himself deep inside of her. Her response was a soft mewl, her body immediately conforming to his – molded by the gods to fit him, and only him.

In a gesture that was both intimate, and possessive, Aemond took her hand and placed it on her lower abdomen. His voice was raspy and low as he spoke, “Do you feel that?”

He pressed her hand more firmly against her, accentuating the connection between them. With a deliberate withdrawal and a subsequent thrust, he emphasized him being within her, the sound of their bodies joining resonating in the room with a loud, wet squelch.

“Do you feel me inside of you?” The question was rhetorical, a verbal affirmation of his claim over her, but nevertheless she nodded, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

Aemond’s voice was a low hum, laden with intent as he began to move within her with increasing fervor.

“I am going to full you completely,” he murmured, each word punctuated by a deep thrust. “And you’re going to take all of it… Every… last… drop…”

Daenera responded with a soft, affirming hum, her hips instinctively rising to meet his movements, creating a rhythm that was both passionate and intense.

The sensation of her tightening around him elicited a moan from Aemond, a sound that was raw and dreadfully needy.

He yearned to leave an indelible mark on her, to ensure that she would never yearn for another as she did for him. He wanted the memory of him to linger in her mind, haunting her with an enduring presence–as she haunted him.

Within him, a dark, menacing thirst for vengeance began to stir, fueled by the bitter knowledge of her impending departure. His throat burned with the weight of unspoken emotions, and he found himself succumbing to a darker aspect of his desire.

This was not just a lustful desire; it was a burning need to claim her, to make an imprint so profound that it would become an integral part of her being.

Aemond’s thrusts were imbued with a fierce determination, each one forceful and unyielding. A wicked smirk played on his lips as he witnessed Daenera’s reactions beneath him–her body writhing, her hips instinctively rising to meet each of his powerful thrusts. The movement caused her breasts to jiggle rhythmically, and the flesh of her thighs reverberated under the strength of his thrusts, his fingers digging into the flesh.

The room was filled with the sounds of their union–the echoing slap of skin against skin, a chorus of mewls and moans, all underscored by the wet, squelching noise of her cunt eagerly receiving him.

Aemond’s gaze was intensely focused as he watched his cock disappear into her quivering cunt. He carefully maintained her knees apart, exposing the delicate curls at her center and the shimmering wetness that adorned her. He was captivated by the sight of his cock inside of her and the way it dragged out of her again, coated with a glistening sheen. The sight of it, the way her body responded to his, drawing him in as if wishing for him to stay nestled within her forever, fascinated him.

Elevating her knees further, Aemond synchronized his movements with more intensity, indulging in the rough pleasure he was giving her.

His attention then shifted to her face. He noticed the subtle blush on her cheeks, the beads of sweat forming at her temples, her swollen lips caught between her teeth, and her eyes, heavy and glazed, reflecting desire only. As he continued, he was meticulous, ensuring that each movement of his hips reached the depths that left her breathless and aiming to evoke that reaction with every thrust.

Aemond leaned down to capture a nipple between his lips. His fervent attention, alternating between gentle sucks and light nibbles, was imbued with a desire for permanence. He yearned for her to carry the memory of this moment and all the moments before–wanted her to yearn for him, to remember the feel of him, the taste of his lips, and cementing in her mind his claim over her.

A guttural moan, almost a growl, escaped Aemond’s throat as he gripped her thighs, pushing them up to her chest to deepen his penetration. His voice was laced with a possessive sneer, “You will want for no cock other than mine.”

Daenera’s cheeks were flushed with a rosy hue, beads of sweat forming at her temples as she trembled under his relentless assault. Between gasps, she managed a response, laced with a mix of pleasure and defiance, “That’s–fuck… That’s ambitious of you.”

In response, Aemond’s hand delivered a sharp smack to her outer thigh, leaving both her skin and his palm tingling from the impact. Her body jerked in response, her inner muscles clenching tightly around him. He repeated the action twice more, each strike drawing out a yelp followed by a moan.

“You are mine, byka narys,” Aemond declared, his voice a brutal assertion of ownership.

Aemond adjusted Daenera’s position, letting her legs drape over his shoulder, using this leverage to draw her closer with each forceful thrust. Her head tossed back and forth on the mattress, her hands clenching the sheets tightly as he felt her inner walls contract, inviting him to delve deeper. The expression on her face was a clear indicator of her nearing climax; her lips were parted in an endless moan, her eyes fluttering closed, completely lost in the sensations he evoked.

In his mind, Aemond entertained a fantasy where he could keep her like this perpetually–whimpering, writhing around him, utterly at his mercy. If it were possible, he would have her continuously filled with his seed, let it take root within her.

His gaze drifted from her face, tracing the path of her heaving breasts down to the slight curve of her lower abdomen. His hand followed, tracing lightly over her skin, and he pressed down gently on that spot, Daenera unraveled completely around him. Her loud moans filled the room as her body surrendered to the waves of pleasure.

Aemond resolved to fill her with his seed then, regardless of the outcome.

In the depths of his mind, a question lingered – were she to get pregnant, would the child be considered a bastard?

His hand moved away from her stomach, grasping her legs and pushing them upwards around her ears, effectively folding her in half. This new position allowed him unrestricted access, enabling him to thrust into her with unimpeded force. He felt her legs shake beneath his touch.

A sharp hiss escaped through his clenched teeth as he felt his own release approaching. His movements, though increasingly hurried, lost none of their intensity; each thrust was as forceful as the last. The sound of his hips striking against the flesh of her arse punctuated the urgency of his movements.

As he reached his climax, his seed spilled forth, and her body responded eagerly, accepting him fully.

Aemond remained inside her for a brief moment, fully immersed in the afterglow of their encounter. His breaths came in rapid, shallow pants, tickling over her glistening skin.

As he lingered, he tasted the faint saltiness of her sweat as he pressed his lips to her neck, letting her legs lower. His lips moved from her neck, tracing a path upwards, finally meeting her swollen lips in a tender, lingering kiss. This final connection was a soft contrast to the fervor that had preceded it.

Reluctantly, and with gentle care, Aemond withdrew from her.

Daenera lay before Aemond, an image of disarray. Her body seemed to have melted into the bed, her bones appearing as if they had turned soft under the weight of her satisfaction. Her chest rose and fell in a rapid, labored rhythm as she gasped for air, her legs quivering with the residual tremors of her climax.

Her skin, usually pale, was suffused with a delicate flush that brought to mind the soft hue of a rose in bloom. Strands of her dark hair clung to her skin, damp with exertion. One rouge strand had found its way into her mouth, adding to the disheveled beauty of the scene.

As Aemond gazed at her, he saw the seed slowly escaping from her, a sight he found profoundly beautiful, as he always did. He reached out to her, his fingers gently removing the hair from her mouth. The strand left a glistening trail of saliva, which he tenderly wiped from her cheek.

With a dreadful sense of finality, Aemond withdrew from the bed.

A heavy, gnawing sensation settled in the pit of Aemond’s stomach, a tangible manifestation of the emotions swirling within him. He moved to retrieve a damp cloth, which he then tossed to Daenera for her to clean herself off with.

The atmosphere in the room had shifted; the air now thick with tension, akin to a delicate threat strained to its limits, threatening to snap at any moment.

Perhaps that’s why neither of them said anything.

Daenera, with quiet efficiency, used the cloth to wipe herself, her movements methodical yet seemingly distant. Once done, she casually tossed the cloth back to Aemond. He caught it with a subdued gesture and dropped it into the water basin. She fixed the nightgown back onto her body.

The unaddressed reality of Daenera’s impending departure hung heavily between them, an unspoken truth that loomed like an approaching storm, distant yet unmistakably present.

“Come back to bed,” Daenera’s voice, soft and tinged with a pleading note, drifted towards him.

Aemond paused, closing his eye for a brief moment as he gathered himself. A surge of bitterness rose within him, bringing with it a harsh realization. Daenera had somehow managed to achieve what he could not – she had tamed the tumultuous inferno that raged within her. In contrast, Aemond found himself still consumed by his own initial blaze, a relentless fire that tormented him from within, challenging his control and composure.

It had been easier, simpler, to reset her, to let hate be the dominant emotion. Hating her for the feelings she stirred in him, for the way she unsettled his world. Hating her had been straight forward – a path to destruction, to obliteration of the pain she represented.

But now, Aemond faced the daunting task of being without her.

“Come back to bed,” Daenera repeated, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I need you asleep to throttle you.”

Aemond let out a chuckle, flashing her a smile. He slid back into the bed beside her, creating a space for her to nestle against him. She found comfort against his chest, her head resting in the crook of his arm. His hand moved to her back, tracing gentle, soothing circles, an absentminded attempt to offer comfort amidst the weight of all that remained unsaid.

Daenera’s eyes eventually lifted to meet his, large and filled with a whirlwind of emotions that Ameond found himself unable to comprehend. It was as though she teetered on the edge of voicing a flood of thoughts and feelings, yet those words were trapped behind her lips, unvoiced and elusive.

The intensity of her gaze stirred a deep, unsettling feeling within him, a myriad of needles pricking at his skin. The sensation seemed to delve deep, reaching his heart, invoking a longing to coax those unspoken words from her, to understand, to know more, to have more than just this fleeting connection.

Aemond realized he yearned for everything she was holding back, for the totality of her thoughts and feelings, even as they remained locked away in the silence between them.

Daenera let out a weary sigh, her eyes shifting away, seeming to resign the unvoiced thoughts to fade unspoken, left to wither in silence. In this moment of quiet retreat, Aemond found himself wondering if she could sense the tumultuous beat of his heart, erratic and pained, pounding within his chest. The question lingered in the air, a silent query about her feelings for him.

As they lay there, Aemond felt that darkness within him grow, weaned on her poison it had grown with teeth and claws, and a need to possess.

As Daenera’s breathing deepened, signaling her descent into sleep, Aemond lay beside her, wide awake. His eye were trained on the canopy ceiling above them, but his sigh remained unfocused. His brows drew together into a deep furrow.

A persistent thought was gnawing at him, a silent yet powerful presence in the quiet room, looming like a ghost and burning within his chest.

The falsehood that Aemond had voiced only the day before – his claim of having sought Viserys permission to marry Daenera – had been nothing more than a spur-of-the-moment fabrication, a ploy designed to stir discord. However, this untruth had unexpectedly latched onto him, embedding itself deep within his thoughts. It lingered there, persistently haunting him since the utterance, a ghostly echo that refused to be silenced.

Perhaps propelled by a mix of desperation and an insatiable desire for clarity, Aemond began to gently disentangle himself from the bed. He moved with meticulous care, ensuring that each motion was quiet and calculated, so as not to disturb Daenera’s peaceful slumber.

As he dressed, he sensed Daenera’s hand reaching out towards him in her sleep, her fingers gently clutching the fabric of his shirt as he sat on the edge of the bed, slipping into his boots. He paused, turning to look at her, and was met with the sight of her in a state of peaceful slumber. This serene image of her, so vulnerable and unaware, only intensified the turmoil within him. It was as if the sight caused his heart to constrict painfully, exacerbating the sensation of claws sinking deep into the tender flesh of it. He felt the beast within him clutch at it.

Aemond, forgoing his usual route through the secret passageways, opted for a more direct approach this time. He quietly slipped out of Daenera’s chambers, choosing to walk through the main doors and step into the silent embrace of Maegor’s Holdfast.

As he moved through the quiet corridors, Aemond’s footsteps echoed in the stillness. Though mostly silent, the castle was never completely asleep; a few discreet servants moved through the main halls, while others traversed the servant corridors. The castle seemed to be holding its breath, the heavy silence pervading the air, as if awaiting the dawn to bring it back to life.

Aemond’s path took him up a winding staircase and along a familiar hallway, leading to the King’s Chambers. There, as always, stood a member of the Kingsguard, either Ser Arryk Cargyll or his twin brother Ser Erryk Cargyll, ever vigilant outside the King’s door.

“Prince Aemond,” the Kingsguard greeted him with a respectful nod.

“I have come to see the King,” Aemond stated, his tone curt and devoid of any pleasantries.

“It is quite late, My Prince,” the Kingsguard responded, shifting uncomfortably, his armor creaking softly. “The King is asleep. It would be best not to disturb him. Whatever matter you wish to discuss can surely wait until morning.”

“It cannot,” Aemond insisted with unwavering firmness. “I will see the King, or I will have you relieved from your duties in the Kingsguard.”

The Kingsguard, whether it was Ser Arryk or Ser Erryk, clenched his jaw momentarily before giving a short, resigned nod. Hen then stepped forward, opening the door to Allow Aemond entry into the King’s Chambers.

Aemond made his way into the King’s Chambers, entering a space that felt like an abyss of darkness. The room was shrouded in shadows, with only a few slivers of moonlight managing to slip through the gaps in the heavy drapes. The door closed softly behind him, sealing him off from the outside world and plunging him into the room’s solemn atmosphere.

In the hearth, the remnants of a once-robust fire smolders, its flames reduced to a few glowing embers that cast a faint, comforting warmth.

Despite this, the air was tainted by the sickly-sweet scent of incense, a vain attempt to disguise the underlying odor of rot and decay. The smell was so overpowering that it clawed at the back of Aemond’s throat, threatening to overwhelm him.

It felt as if the very presence of death lurked in the room’s corners, a silent specter waiting to claim the King and drag him into the depths of the seven hells.

Aemond moved cautiously through the chamber, his footsteps barely making a sound. As he passed the stone map of Old Valyria, it appeared neglected, covered in a thick layer of dust and spiderwebs. The map, once a symbol of a mighty empire, now seemed abandoned, its intricate pathways and streets serving as a playground for spiders that had woven their webs across the crumbling representation of a long-fallen civilization.

In the hushed stillness of the chamber, Aemond made his way into the bedchamber where King Viserys lay.

The sight that greeted him was one of a monarch diminished by illness.

Half of the King’s face was obscured beneath a bandage, a meager barrier against the horrifying decay that had claimed his eye and the flesh of his cheek. Viserys’ complexion was uneven, marked by pallor and splotches, his skin so fragile it seemed it might disintegrate upon contact, like aged parchment. Sparse tufts of hair framed his face, mere remnants of his former regality–if he ever had some.

One emaciated hand lay atop his withered stomach, the nails stained sickly yellow and black, indicative of his failing health. As Viserys breathed, each inhalation was a labored, raspy effort, the sound reminiscent of fluid-filled lungs struggling for air. The very act of breathing seemed a great effort on his part.

Aemond couldn’t help but begrudge him for still being alive.

Standing by the King’s bedside, a macabre thought flickered at the periphery of his mind. The idea of ending the King’s frail life with a mere pillow was both disturbing and compelling, a dark temptation that sent an insistent tingle through his palms.

He recognized it as a twisted form of mercy, one that he, in a position to grant, found himself restrained from bestowing. It was the very nature of this mercy that held him back from acting on the thought.

He did not deserve mercy.

Looking down at the feeble figure of his father, a complex and twisted sense of satisfaction began to unfurl within his chest.

There was a perverse gratification in witnessing the once powerful King reduced to such a state of vulnerability and decay. This was the man who had been his father, now a mere shadow of his former self, wracked with pain and weakness.

It reminded Aemond of the satisfaction he had felt upon learning of his father’s own loss of an eye, a justice that came all too late.

As Aemond stood there, Viserys made a faint, strangled noise. His lone eye remained firmly shut, but his body stirred slightly, hinting at a subconscious awareness of another’s presence.

Yet, with his eye closed, Aemond remained unseen, his presence unacknowledged.

A storm of unexpected feelings and long-suppressed emotions churned within him. There was a fierce urge to confront his father, to unleash years of pent-up resentment and bitterness for the neglect and disregard he had endured.

Despite this urge, Aemond refrained from giving voice to his anger. Instead, he swallowed it like bitter poison and moved quietly towards the bed, lowering himself beside the man who had given him life.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried an unexpected softness, an almost foreign gentleness that felt feigned to even himself.

“Father,” he uttered.

In response, Viserys made a faint hum, his head shifting slightly from side to side. His eye remained shut for a moment longer before fluttering open, a sign of his gradual return to consciousness. His breathing became more noticeable as he slowly awoke, unaware of the tumult of emotions brewing within the heart of his son beside him.

Aemond twisted the ring that Daenera had slipped onto his finger on the day he had taken her husband’s life–a ring that concealed a golden needle within and had once borne a poisoned touch, now serving solely to draw blood at his command.

“I want Daenera,” Aemond found himself confessing. His fingers moved to trace the scar on his palm, a physical reminder of how intertwined they had become.

The desire for her consumed him, a relentless yearning that tormented him. He had her, and yet he did not truly possess her. It felt like watching the sun slip below the horizon, knowing she might vanish from his grasp. He desired her in an undeniable, inescapable manner–and to that he wanted her in a way that could not be denied or refuted by anyone.

“I wish to marry her,” he declared, his voice painfully earnest. “To wed her in the Faith of the Seven.”

His eye lifted to his father. “I want her, Father, as my wife. I want her as the mother of my children. I–”

As Aemond grappled with his own hesitation, the shadows around him appeared to twist and turn, as if mocking him. He could feel the tumultuous beast within him stirring restlessly, clawing at the confines of his chest, demanding to be unleashed.

In a moment of unexpected vulnerability, the words slipped from his lips, so softly spoken they were no more than a whisper. “I love her.”

It was a confession so faint that he barely believed he had uttered it aloud. Yet, giving voice to these forbidden words, Aemond confronted the truth he had long endeavored to ignore. By acknowledging his love for Daenera, he allowed this admission to reshape the atmosphere around him, to alter the very fabric of it.

Daenera had ingrained herself into his very existence, her essence interwoven with his own in a way that was both unsettling and irresistible.

Admitting to himself that he had no real desire to rid himself of her influence was a revelation that felt both vulnerable and raw.

“I love her, Father,” Aemond spoke again, finding his voice was almost pitiful in its plea.

The decision to seek his father’s approval for his marriage to Daenera was driven more by desperation than anything else. He was acutely aware of his mother’s strong opposition to this union; she had her heart set on aligning their house with the Baratheons through a strategic marriage.

Despite this, Aemond’s desire for Daenera was unwavering, and so he was compelled to go to the person he least wanted to go to. His eye locked onto his fathers with an intensity that was both accusing and pleading.

“When I lost my eye, you did nothing,” he began, his voice tinged with a mixture of bitterness and resolve. “You stood by as they tore what remained of it from its socket, as they stitched me back together. You watched while Mother demanded the justice you should have sought for me. You denied her that– you denied me that.”

The memory of the excruciating pain he had endured came flooding back with vivid intensity. He could feel the sharp sting of the dagger as it had pierced through his eye, the agonizing sensation of the remnants of his eye being brutally extracted from his skull. He recalled the needle’s piercing into his flesh, the way it had roughly sewn up his wound. Throughout that ordeal, he had stifled his cries and held back his tears, enduring the pain in stoic silence.

“You said nothing, offered nothing, when the Maesters had to reopen the wound to ensure that it would heal correctly,” Aemond recounted, his voice raw with remembrance.

He remembered everything–the excruciating cut of the Maesters surgical knife, the undoing of his stitches for the wound to be cleaned and treated properly, the way they had scrapped the insides of his socket to get any lingering remnants out so that it did not fester.

“While mother held my hand and sat at my bedside as I battled fever that could easily have taken my life, you didn’t deign to visit your son or offer comfort.” The words were not just recounting the events; they were an indictment of his father’s neglect.

Aemond had often wondered if his fathers absence had been due to embarrassment or a refusal to conform to his own shortcomings as a parent. Maybe it was too difficult for him to look at Aemond and see the living embodiment of his failings as both father and King.

His mother had been there, though, her presence a constant source of comfort. She had held his hand, and applied cool compress to his fervent brow, and whispered words of comfort.

In an attempt to lessen his disfigurement, they had removed his eyelid and, once the wound had partially healed, Aemond had replaced his lost eye with a sapphire, hoping it would make his appearance less unsettling. But even then, the courtiers averted their gaze, and his father still struggled to meet his eye.

In the end, he had returned to wearing an eyepatch.

When his father had lost an eye it had brought him a fleeting sense of ironic satisfaction, a bitter taste of poetic justice. However, that fleeting satisfaction soon turned sour with the realization that his father, King Viserys, would never acknowledge the parallel between their fate.

“You own me this,” Aemond continued, his voice firm and unyielding. “I have not asked you for anything since you denied me justice, but now, I implore you. Wed her to me.”

The words were more than a request; they were a demand, a son’s claim to what he believed was owed to him by a father who had failed him in every other sense.

“Wed her to me, Father… please…” Aemond’s voice carried a plea that was uncharacteristically vulnerable, one he wished he could rid himself of entirely. The idea of begging, of lowering himself to such a position before his father, was something he had always disdained.

Yet, for Daenera, he found himself doing just that.

She had seen him in a way no one else had. She hadn’t averted her gaze from his marred face; instead, she had looked upon him with acceptance, kissing away the pain and offering him fleeting moments of peace.

He loved her. The realization of how deeply she had affected him, how she had become his poison and his cure, was both gut-wrenching and undeniable. In her presence, he found both solace and a piercing sense of vulnerability that left him torn between resistance and surrender.

In response to Aemond’s plea, King Viserys managed a low, strained hum, his labored breathing a testament to the effort it took to form words. “–mon… She is just… a girl… your niece…”

“Daenera is a woman grown,” Aemond countereed, his expression hardening, a bitter taste lingering in his mouth. His heart felt like it was being punctured, the pain sharp as if a knife had been driven through it. “I seek your blessing to marry her, to make her my wife. You are the King, your word is truth and law, and should you decree it…”

Determined and unyielding, Aemond prepared to stand his ground, ready, if necessary, to reveal the full extent of their secret marriage. “I have already wed her in the tradition of our house–”

“You have ruined her,” Viserys rasped, his response a wheezed accusation, filled with pain and resignation. He lifted a feeble hand to his forehead, his breathing ragged and wet. The King’s words, laden with disappointment and anger, echoed in the room.

The sting of his father’s words hit Aemond with the force of a physical blow, causing him to clench his jaw and tear his eye away, staring pointedly into the shadows as they mocked him. The accusation and rejection pressed in on him, his spine straightening as he inhaled deeply, trying to absorb the impact. Within him, resentment and bitterness raged, a storm threatening to unleash itself upon the world.

Yet, the most cutting sensation was the unexpected prickle of tears behind his eye.

“I will have her!” Aemond’s response was a sharp retort, his anger flaring in reaction to his father’s refusal. “She is my wife.”

“Your heart is even blacker than I thought,” Viserys murmured, his voice a weak, fluttering sound. His head swayed slightly, his features contorted in pain as his lips parted in a moan of agony. He seemed to be caught in the haze of suffering. “You are… a plague… sent to destroy… me.”

Aemond experienced a searing, unbearable plain lancing through his skull, his pulse throbbing at his temples. His hands clenched into fists, blunt nails digging into his palms. The stabbing pain within his skull was agonizing, the scorching memory of the blade slicing through flesh and bone and muscle, the blood streaming down his face like molten steel. He remembered the instruments used to extract the remnants of his eye, and the needle that had stitched the wound shut. Every nerve seemed exposed and ablaze, the pain nauseating and only serving to exacerbate his fury.

He would never acknowledge him for who he truly was.

Viserys remained blind to the boy who had desperately tried to meet his expectations, who had dared to lay claim to the biggest, oldest dragon of them all. He remained blinded to the boy who had trained ceaselessly, even when his hands bled and body begged for respite. He never saw the boy who delved into history books, philosophy books, battle strategies, and policies. He never saw the man Aemond had grown into–the one skilled with the blade, the one who cherished his Valyrian heritage, and who now stood before him as his son, imploring his father for the one thing that seemed so close, the one thing he believed he could attain if only Viserys would agree–if only he would truly see him.

“Rhaenyra…Rhaenyra…” Viserys muttered, his words drifting from his lips like fleeting whispers. He hummed, as though saying another name, unable to fully form it.

Aemond leaned closer to his father’s frail form, ensuring that every gruesome detail of his own disfigurement was clearly visible, the deep shadows of the night making his appearance brutal and monstrous. He spoke with a fierce determination, making sure his father comprehended the weight of his accusations. “If my heart is tainted with darkness, it’s because you’ve stained it with your injustice and disregard. If I bring ruin, it is only because you haven’t taught me how not to. If I am a plague, it is solely because you have made me so.”

Viserys moaned, his pain evident, but Aemond couldn’t discern if his father truly understood the gravity of the moment or even recognized him. This only stoked Aemond’s fury further, intensifying the resentment and bitterness that had simmered within him for years. He vividly remembered each insult he endured, each time his father forgot his name, or dismissed him. He remembered it all.

“If I am a monster, I am a monster you created,” Aemond sneered, feeling the beast, the monster inside of him clawing its way out.

It felt profoundly unjust that they had been relegated to oblivion. Their mother had dutifully fulfilled her role by providing him with more children–an heir and a spare, along with a daughter intended to become his son’s wife. She had endured years of suffering, caring for him tirelessly, tending to his needs, and striving to meet the expectations of a good wife. It was a bitter affront to their memory that their children were being disregarded in favor of his firstborn, treated as mere extras in the grand scheme of things, while he withered away.

“I am your flesh and blood,” Aemond asserted, rapping his knuckles against his chest as if the sound could somehow break through and make his father truly grasp his presence. “I am the son you once desired, the son who shares your interests, the son who is everything he should be, the son you sacrificed your first wife for. I am the son you discarded, the son you refuse to acknowledge, the son who bears the scars of your injustice.”

Aemond couldn’t help but sneer as Viserys muttered and mumbled, trapped in a twilight state between consciousness and slumber, his grasp on reality tenuous at best.

“I am your son,” Aemond declared, his voice carrying a steely resolve, though a trace of pleading lingered beneath the surface, frail and weak and wholly something Aemond resented himself for. He hated that he was reduced to begging. “I ask of you, allow me to wed Daenera.”

Viserys gasped in pain, his chapped lips parting as he inhaled as if drowning in water. The fragments of teeth remaining in his mouth were a grotesque display, tarnished with decay, a testament to his deteriorating condition. “No… no… no…”

Aemond could feel his hope shatter as his father’s refusal struck a deep chord within him, and in the place of hope, disappointment and resentment took root. It surged through his veins, entwining itself with his very being and left a bitter taste in his mouth. The throbbing pain intensified. “You won’t even grant me this? You are a pitiful excuse for a King, and an even worse father. May you rot in the seven hells.”

Aemond clutched his eyepatch tightly, his blunt nails digging into the leather as his blood roared in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. Perhaps that was why Maester Orwyle’s entrance caught him off guard as the Maester slipped through the doors while Aemond was passing the stone map of Old Valyria.

“Prince Aemond,” Maester Orwyle greeted, his expression perplexed, his eye lingering a bit too long on the sapphire embedded in Aemond’s eye socket before darting towards the muttering King writhing in bed.

Aemond hummed dismissively, not in the mood for conversation.

Maester Orwyle held up a brass cup with a lid, which Aemond assumed contained the milk of the poppy to ease the King’s pain. “It is time for his Grace’s medicine.” Aemond hummed in response, brushing off the Maester and pushing through the door into the empty hall. They ought to leave him to suffer and writhe in agony, Aemond thought bitterly, his mind contemplating the notion as the potential retribution for his life. Resentment burned hot and uncontrolled within his chest, a bitter rage that he was tempted to quench with blood.

His yearning for Daenera consumed him, the desire to bind her to him so intense that he envisioned keeping her captive in the confines of her bed until she agreed to remain in King’s Landing and become his bride. He longed to imprint his presence upon her, to fill her with his seed until she was irrevocably his. However, instead of seeking her out, he chose to turn down the hallway, making his way to his own chambers. After being denied her, it felt easier to retreat into the shadows, seeking solace in the seclusion of his quarters rather than facing her and confronting the painful reality of what he stood to lose.

Wed her to me.

Viserys teetered on the edge of consciousness, lost in the swirling memories of days long gone. He remembered the time he had banished his own brother to the Vale, not for the first time, for the audacious act of seeking Rhaenyra’s hand in marriage and had done so by sullying her reputation. It had been an insolent demand, and he couldn’t help but recall his brother’s words echoing in his mind. I want Rhaenyra. History was repeating itself, perhaps more than Viserys was aware, as he heard, ‘I want Daenera.’

The plea was similar, hanging in a delicate thread on the verge of snapping. The voice was assertive, demanding, and yet there was a fragility to the plea, a certain prayer in its yearning.

Pain wracked Viserys' weak form, and he groaned, feeling agony course through every fiber of his being. His body seemed as brittle as glass, his joints filled with coarse sand, and his muscles weary and aching. It felt as though the mere beating of his heart were enough to cause him pain. But the most tormenting of all was the persistent thudding within his skull, as if a rat were gnawing its way through his brain and scratching at the inside of his skull to get out. He longed for respite, for the bliss of sleep or the comforting embrace of happier memories.

Amidst his haze, a tremor in a distant voice reached his ears, pulling him back from the brink of oblivion. The words were a plea, filled with pain and bitterness, and Viserys fought to regain some control over his failing body, to acknowledge the son that was asking to be recognized.

The boy’s voice grew more insistent, a mixture of desperation and resentment laing his words. I am your flesh and blood… I am your son… I am the son you discarded, the son you refuse to acknowledge, the son who bears the scars of your injustice…I ask of you, allow me to wed Daenera.

Viserys struggled to respond, his voice feeble and raspy, barely recognizable as his own.

“No,” he managed to utter, a feeble denial, barely more than a whisper, and not meant as an answer to the boy's question but was instead an attempt to stir himself into reality. He longed for a moment’s respite, a chance to collect his thoughts, but his body betrayed him, weighing him down, making every breath a struggle.

With blurred vision, he glimpsed the figure of his son, just behind the edge of obscurity. Desperation coursed through him as Aemond turned away and walked out the room.

Viserys reached out with stiff, trembling fingers, his voice choked and faint.

“Aemond… Aemond…” he called, but his pleas fell upon deaf ears. My son. There was so much he wished to say to him. But the words died before they ever formed, lost in a sea of shame and regret.

Viserys’ hold on the world began to diminish, slipping through his boney fingers like smoke. A peculiar sensation, simultaneously sweet and acutely bitter, caressed his tongue, trickling slowly down his throat. With a great effort he swallowed. The agonizing pain he had been enduring began to ebb away, replaced by a hazy, indistinct perception of his surroundings.

Yet, amidst this familiar experiences, there lingered an unfamiliar taste, an unidentifiable flavor that seemed out of place.

It dawned on him with chilling clarity that this sensation was akin to the shadowy encroachment of death, slipping down his throat alongside the numbing milk of the poppy.

Enveloped by a peculiar, chilling calmness, Viserys came to a profound realization. Death, he thought, was not to be feared; rather, it was a merciful release, a gentle escape from the torments of life.

At the edges of his fading awareness, Viserys sensed a comforting presence. His dear Aemma, arms held out in an embrace as if summoning him to a place of peace.

With a voice laden with relief, he whispered, “My love…”

#a vow of blood #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond one eye #aemond x oc #hotd #hotd fanfic #aemond smut

69 notes · View notes

zeciex · 2 months

Text

A Vow of Blood - 70

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 70: The Beast Beneath the Boards

AO3 - Masterlist

As the litter drew to a stop, a final moment of connection passed between Daenera and Helaena. With a gentle pressure on Daenera’s hand, Helaena leaned closer, her voice a soft whisper, “Beware the beast beneath the boards… And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

The silence of the litter was interrupted by the sounds from the outside–a shuffle of feet, a divisive click, and then the door swung wide open, casting a flood of morning light into the previously dim interior. Aemond’s silhouette framed the doorway, his gesture a silent beckoning for them to exit. Daenera returned the pressure of Helaena’s hand in a silent show of solidarity before letting go. Helaena gracefully accepted Aemond’s assistance, gathering her skirts in one hand as she descended from the carriage.

Upon her descent, Aemond shifted his focus to Daenera, his expression tightening ever so slightly, mirroring the anticipation of a challenge as she deliberately lingered within the confines of the litter, her demeanor defiant.

With a purposeful extension of his hand, Aemond gesture towed the line between an offer and a command, a test of his patience thinly veiled.

Daenera held Aemond’s gaze with a defiant scowl, her displeasure manifesting in the slight furrow of her brow and the tight press of her lips. After a moment marked by the silent battle of wills, she released a pointed sigh, an audible surrender to his demand and with a deliberate motion, she gathered the folds of her dress and made her way through the litter, despite her reluctance.

This time, she takes his hand, allowing him to momentarily assist her down the steps of the litter. Once her feet were on the ground, she withdrew her hand, as if the brief contact was more than she could bear. Her hand prickled with the warmth of his, and she felt her heart twist within her chest.

Daenera lifted her gaze to the imposing structure of the Dragonpit, perched majestically on the steep slopes of Rhaenys Hill. The terrain surrounding them was rugged, mirroring the craggy cliffs that formed the foundation of the Red Keep. Carved into this stony landscape, a stairway ascended directly toward the Dragonpit. Unlike the grand staircase that stretched from the Dragonpit’s main gates and all the way down to the foot of the hill to streets below–broad, imposing, and designed to accommodate the comings and goings of large crowds–this path was more modest in scale. It was only a fifth the length of its grander counterpart, yet it still presented a lengthy and steep ascent, beginning from a point more than halfway up the hillside.

This stairway wound its way up from a road that hugged the contours of the hill, a road reserved for their use alone, away from the eyes of the city’s populace. The road itself was a flat, rocky ribbon that snaked through the landscape, culminating in a leveled area at the base of the stairs. This served as a threshold between the road and the climb, a starting point for the final approach to the Dragonpit above.

At the cliffside, an entrance had been hewn directly from the stone, framed by ornate columns. The entrance led into the cavernous depths of bowls of the Dragonpit, where the dragons were. The long, wide, entrance was dimly lit by the flickering light from sparse braziers, their glow too weak to chase away the shadows that lurked within. The mere sight of it sent a familiar shiver down her spine.

From this depths of the Dragonpit a distinct scent wafted through the air–a combination of smoke and the unmistakable presence of dragons.

The area around them buzzed with activity as banners snapped in the wind, and horses neighed, their restlessness a mirror to the anticipation of the assembled crowd. The procession had now fully gathered, with notable figures making their appearances from the ornately decorated litters.

Queen Alicent emerged with the grace befitting her status, accompanied by Aegon, who bore a blank expression as he was flanked by the Kingsguard, their white cloaks fluttering in the wind. And from another wagon, Otto Hightower emerged, followed by the members of the council.

Weariness tinted Daenera’s sigh as she cast a disparaging glance at the daunting staircase before her, her steps reluctantly quickened by Aemond’s guiding hand at the small of her back.

“Why couldn’t they have extended the road to reach the top?” She lamented, her voice carrying the annoyance of a long-standing grievance.

The hint of a smile that played on Aemond’s lips did not escape her notice–a silent acknowledgement of the numerous times she had voiced this complaint in their younger years. Back then, their visits to the Dragonpit were marked by this same ritual: A litter ride followed by the inevitable climb.

Daenera had never been shy about expressing her displeasure, questioning the necessity of the arduous ascent each time. Her frustration was not merely about the physical exertion but stemmed from a deeper sense of exclusion. Without a dragon of her own to bond with, she was relegated to the role of an observer, watching from the sidelines as her brother’s and uncle formed connections with their dragons.

While she had come to terms with the reality of never having a dragon to call her own, Aemond had harbored a bitterness towards this face. His resentment had driven him to search the depths of the Dragonpit on more than one occasion, hopeful of discovering an unclaimed dragon lingering in its shadows. Unlike him, Daenera had never ventured into the deeper recesses of the pit.

The procession embarked on the strenuous journey upwards, each step taking them closer to the Dragonpit. As they finally reached the summit, their path led them through one of the lesser-known side entrances, a discreet gateway into the ancient edifice. The dimly lit corridors that greeted them were nestled within the outer walls of the structure, snaking around its perimeter in a labyrinthine embrace. Shadows clung to the corners, and the air was thick with anticipation.

As they stepped into the vast arena, the cacophony of gathered voices enveloped them, merging into a singular, resonant drone. The upper levels was already teeming with spectators; the upper tiers were densely populated, and a steady stream of people continued to fill arena grounds. The expansive dome above transitioned seamlessly from the open blue sky to an ornate ceiling, where gold murals unfurled the stories of Aegon’s Conquest. These grand depictions, ambitious in their scope and detail, seemed to fade into the shadows under the weak illumination that fought valiantly but in vain against the pervasive darkness of the Dragonpit.

The structure’s inherent gloom was punctuated only by the light that managed to seep through the grand doorway, left open to accommodate the influx of spectators.

In this dimly lit space, Daenera was led to a dias, an elevated platform that rose distinctly from the rena floor, safeguarded by a line of gold cloaks. Positioned at the heart of the Dragonpit, this dias was bathed in light, pouring in from the window above the second door that remained closed.

Daenera’s expression darkened into a scowl as she took in the sight of the banner that served as the backdrop of the dias, its fabric boasting the emblem of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The gleaming gold of the dragon contrasted starkly against the banner’s black fabric, a symbol of power and legacy that loomed over the gathering.

Her scowl deepened as her gaze settled on the throne positioned prominently in front of the banner, elevated slightly upon another dias. This wasn’t just any seat; it was an exquisitely carved wooden throne, its craftsmanship detailed and grand, accentuated by the tall back and the curves that seemed to frame the seat itself. The throne was a piece of history, the very throne Jaehaerys had occupied during the Great Council held at Harrenhal, when the heir to the throne had been named; making Viserys I Targaryen his successor.

Daenera’s voice was barely a whisper, tinged with outrage as she sneered at Aemond, “This is a fucking mummer’s farce.”

“It may well be,” Aemond hummed, “but it won’t make a difference what you think.”

As the procession made its way onto the dias, they were elevated above the throngs of the commoners who jolsted for a view. The event seemed to have stirred the entire city into a frenzy of anticipation, drawing spectators from all corners of the city to witness what was happening.

Daenera found herself standing between Helaena, who sought comfort in the small gesture of entwining their fingers, and Aemond, who stood with his hands folded behind his back.

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena murmured lowly, clutching Daenera’s hand tightly. “And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

The air was punctuated by shouts of reverence from the crowd, “Gods bless you, Princess Daenera!” one voice ran out above the rest, igniting a chorus of similar accolades. Helaena, too, received her share of adulation, her name called out with affection by the smallfolk.

Yet, the smiles they offered in return, the warmth did not quite reach their eyes. Their expressions were masks, worn to fulfill the expectations of their roles, even as their minds were perhaps miles away from the grandiosity and the clamor that enveloped them. The moment was a poignant reflection of the duality of their existence–revered and isolated, adored yet distant.

Within Daenera, a tumult of emotions raged. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs, betraying the calm exterior she maintained. A hollow sensation gnawed at her stomach, dread seeming like a voracious beast that ate at her as her gaze swept over the crowd.

The crowd surged forward, a living entity in itself, its members merging into a sea of indistinguishable faces that resembled a shapeless flow, much like a mudslide in its relentless advance.

“People of King’s Landing,” Otto Hightower’s voice cleaved through the ambient noise of the gathering, sharp and commanding, arresting the attention of all present. “Today is the saddest of days…”

At his words, Helaena’s hold on Daenera’s hand intensified, her gaze dropping to the ground as a somber expression carved itself deeply into her features. Daenera, feeling the tremor of emotion from Helaena, subtly shifted closer. Their clasped hands became a mutual source of solace, a silent exchange of support amidst the unfolding scene.

“Our beloved King Viserys the Peaceful is dead,” Otto declared, allowing the gravity of his announcement to permeate the crowd. A pause followed, during which the weight of his words seemed to slowly descend upon the assembly, eliciting a ripple of stunned murmurs.

“But it is also the most joyous of days, for as his spirit left us,” he continued, his voice rising high above all else. “He whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon… should succeed him!”

Her heart pointed fiercely, a symphony of indignation that surged and swelled within Daenera. She pressed her jaw together, the tension manifesting in the tight set of her mouth as she ground her teeth in silent frustration. Drawing in a deep, deliberate breath, she steeled herself against what was to come, and the theft that was being done in broad daylight, before the realm to witness.

Her gaze darted towards Alicent, laden with a desperate, silent plea for intervention–hoping, in spite of herself, that Alicent might reverse her decision of having her son crowned, that she might alter the course they were on. Yet, as she searched Alicent’s expression for any sign of hesitation, any hint of change, Daenera was met with the stark realization that there would be no such reprieve. The hope that had flickered so briefly in her heart disintegrated, leaving her to confront the truth that this outcome, this path, had been decided upon years ago, and Alicent wouldn’t change it. After all, why should she? She had set it in motion years ago, when she had married Viserys.

The crowd’s initial stirrings were tinged with shock and confusion, gradually swelling into a louder chorus. Voices merged into an indistinct resonance of uncertainty and bewilderment, echoing the collective sentiments of those gathered as they absorbed the news.

Yet, as the gravity of Otto Hightower’s announcement settled, these murmurs evolved into a tentative, apprehensive applause. The assembly, caught between the somber acknowledgement of a king’s death, and the announcement of the rise of another, found themselves unsure what to do. Applauding was the only recourse left to them, perhaps more of a reflex of decorum than joy.

A formation of City Watchmen cleaved through the throng, their march a rhythmic display that drew all eyes. Their cloaks, a cascade of golden hues, flowed behind them, parting the sea of common folk with decisive authority. Woven into this golden procession, the Red Keep’s guards added strokes of crimson, their cloaks melding with the gold.

Orders and shouts pierced through the air, until the Lord Commander of the City Watch halted the procession with a command, “Halt! Turn!”

As the procession came to a standstill, the sharp call of horns sliced through the air, heralding the approach of the new heir apparent. In a synchronized spectacle, the guards and City Watchmen unsheathed their swords, lifting them to craft an archway of shining steel. Through this gleaming path, Aegon advanced, his passage marked by the sequential lowering of swords.

Otto Hightower’s voice cut through the hush that had befallen the assembly, imbuing the moment with grandeur and solemnity.

“It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this,” he proclaimed, his voice traveling through the filled space, seeming as final as the fall of each sword. “...A new day for our city, a new day for our realm. A new King… to lead us!”

Daenera observed his approach, her attention fixed on the unmistakable look of surrender that clouded his features, as he glanced up at the dias before falling on the first step. He seemed to think himself a lamb being led to slaughter rather than a man being crowned king. He didn’t even want it–and still they would crown him.

Ascending the steps to the dias, Aegon’s demeanor bore the weight of resignation. Shadows haunted his visage, betraying a night's fitful rest, while the hint of unshed tears shimmered in his gaze as he looked towards his mother, his eyes seeming to burn.

Alicent tenderly cradled her son’s face in her hands, drawing him closer to press a soft kiss upon his forehead.

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena whispered, her gaze steadfastly averted from the scene of her husband’s consecration by the High Septon. Her hold briefly tightened. “And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

“He’s crying,” Daenera remarked, clenching her jaw tightly, her eyes burning with a mix of anger and unshed tears. As Otto Hightower cast a significant glance towards Aegon, the prince appeared to wilt under the intensity of his gaze, his posture yielding as he knelt before them. Traces of tears, now beginning to dry, streaked his face–the appearance of which seemed to mark his own apprehension of being crowned.

“He doesn’t even want it,” Daenera muttered sharply to Aemond, who was a fixture by her side, seemingly unaffected by her observation. Yet, she could sense her words infiltrating his stoic exterior, unsettling him beneath his armor of indifference.

The High Septon’s voice resonated through the hushed assembly as he anointed Aegon’s forehead with holy oil, each stroke invoking the gods.

“May the Warrior give him courage,” he intoned, his movements deliberate as he marked Aegon’s brow. With every invocation to the god, another line adorned the prince’s skin. “May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need…”

Daenera’s eyes clenched shut in an effort to contain the tumult within her. A bitter counter-prayer formed in her mind, her thoughts twisting the High Setpon’s blessings into curses. Let the Warrior expose your cowardice. May the Smith take your strength and forge you shackles. And May the Father judge you and deliver his justice.

“May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light the way to his wisdom,” the High Septon concluded, notability omitting the blessings of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Stranger from his liturgy.

Yet, in the silence of her heart, Daenera bestowed these omissions with her own silent pleas. May the Crone’s light unveil his misdeeds. May the Maiden shield the innocent girls from his cruelty. May the Mother withhold her compassion and so him no mercy. And may the Stranger usher him swiftly from this world.

As the ceremony proceeded, Ser Criston Cole received the crown from the High Septon, elevating it before the onlookers as though declaring its might in its own right. His voice boomed, “Behold, the Crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations,” a proclamation that carried an inherent reverence as it evoked the image of the Conqueror.

Daenera opened her eyes, and with a voice laced with a cruel edge, she murmured to Aemond, “It could have been you.”

A fleeting glance from Aemond, brief yet loaded with unspoken tension, confirmed to her that her words had struck a chord, twisting into the fabric of his pride and ambition.

Ser Criston placed the crown upon Aegon’s head, sealing his fate, followed closely by a proclamation that resounded through the assembly, “Let the Seven bear witness, Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne,” echoing off the ancient walls, its reverberating haunting the cavernous space.

Aegon’s gaze wandered, touching upon Ser Criston Cole, his mother, Helaena, and then Daenera, who stood unyielding, her refusal to bow a silent challenge until Aemond’s insistent tug compelled her compliance. Aemond’s hand lingered on the nape of Daenera’s neck for a moment more, the warmth of his touch searing into her skin, stirring a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Then, he released his hold, allowing her to rise again. Yet, even in acquiescence, her eyes seared with defiance, unwillingly to fully concede to Aegon’s new authority.

The High Septon’s voice boomed, punctuating the ceremony with a finality that filled the hushed space, “All hail His Grace, Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the Protector of the Realm!”

As Aegon turned to face his subjects, Daenera’s gaze swept over the sea of faces that bore witness to his ascension, each pair of eyes reflecting a multitude of emotions. Beside Daenera, Helaena’s grip tightened.

A ripple of murmurs traversed the crowd, as the smallfolk exchanged wary glances, their eyes lifting to the dias with a palpable sense of anxious expectation. They seemed to assess the newly crowned king, who returned their gazes, a mirror of their own apprehension, as if he too was gauging the reception of his subjects. Both the king and his subjects seemed to hold their breath, caught in a moment of mutual uncertainty, each waiting for the other to signal their acceptance or dissent.

“Aegon the King!” Ser Criston Cole’s voice rang out once more, the underlying threat in his tone unmistakable as the peal of bells began to resonate, signaling the dawn of a new rule.

Tentative applause arose. What started as a hesitant clap from a solitary pair of hands soon burgeoned into a unified cascade of applause, swelling into a resonant ovation as cheers emerged and well wishes were shouted at the king.

In this moment adoration and acclaim, Aegon stepped forward seemingly with a new sense of purpose. With a deliberate and theatrical gesture, he unsheathed Blackfyre, raising it high above his head as he stood as a figure of triumph, absorbing the adulation of the crowd.

Tears, born of indignation and helplessness, threatened to breach her eyes, and she fought them back with a hard swallow, struggling to maintain her composure as the crowd accepted the new king.

With a bitter swallow, Daenera had to reconcile with this acceptance. The coronation of Aegon as king was executed with meticulous precision. They had deliberately adorned him with the iconic crown and sword of Aegon the Conqueror, and draped him in symbols of Targaryen might, prominently featuring the three-headed golden dragon across his attire and the surrounding banners. This display was not mere pageantry but a strategic act designed to lend credit to Aegon’s image as the legitimate successor of the Conqueror’s legacy. The orchestration aimed to solidify his claim to the Iron Throne in the public’s heart also served to cast doubt on anyone who meant to oppose him.

And yet, amid the orchestrated celebration, a dissenting voice cut through the atmosphere, boldly proclaiming, “Long live Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Rightful Queen!” This unexpected declaration momentarily disrupted the ceremony’s carefully curated narrative.

Otto Hightower and Ser Criston Cole reacted immediately, signaling for guards to locate and silence the bold supporter of Rhaenyra. Gold cloaks cleaved through the masses in search for the owner of the voice, but it was little more than finding a needle in a haystack.

Despite the overwhelming applause that filled the air for Aegon, scattered shouts of support for Thaenyra intermittently broke through, each one a beacon of resistance against the narrative the Hightowers imposed. For Daenera these isolated yet resilient shouts in support of her mother were not just acts of defiance but rays of hope, suggesting that the fight for the true succession to the throne was far from over.

Alicent approached her son, whispering words of counsel or encouragement into his ear before gracefully retreating. With a final, sweeping glance at the crowd, whose cheers and applause filled the air, Aegon sheathed Blackfyre. He then took a step back, turning to ascend the step to Jaehaerys’s throne, where he seated himself.

The crowd’s uproar gradually subsided, attention shifting as Otto Hightower positioned himself with commanding presence. A gleam of triumph sparked in his eyes as he surveyed the assembly, preparing to speak.

When his voice rang out, it was clear and authoritative, resonating through the hush. “Let it be known across the realm, that the King, Aegon, is the one true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Otto Hightower paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “With his crowning, any who oppose his rule are to be deemed traitors to the realm.”

Daenera gritted her teeth, swallowing the poison that was this farce. If anyone were traitors to the realm it was them.

“Though others may assert a claim to the throne, it must be recognized that Aegon Targaryen, as the late King Viserys firstborn son and chosen heir, holds the undeniable right to rule.” Otto Hightower’s words boomed out over the crowd, seeming to gain traction as a low murmur erupted. “No one holds more of a claim to the throne than the trueborn son of Viserys Targaryen.”

Otto’s proclamation was delivered with unwavering conviction, designed to extinguish any lingering doubts about the rightful heir to the throne. His words not only sought to undermine Rhaenyra’s claim to rule but also diminish Jace’s standing, by emphasizing Aegon’s legitimacy.

He may well have just called them bastards, Daenera thought, clenching her jaw tightly as her gaze bore into Otto Hightower with a silent plea for godly intervention – a lightning bolt sent from the sky to strike him from this world or, at the very least, ignite his thinning hair into flames.

“In our presence today, on this historic day, we have the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daenera Velaryon,” Otto Hightower announced, turning the attention towards Daenera. The sudden shift caused her heart to beat faster as countless eyes scrutinized her. Feeling the weight of their gaze, she instinctively straightened her spine and lifted her chin, a gesture of defiance and pride.

“It brings me great honor to declare the betrothal of King Aegon’s brother, Aemond Targaryen, to Daenera Velaryon!”

In that moment, Daenera wished for the ground beneath them to open and engulf the assembly, to escape the overwhelming pressure and the piercing gaze of the crowd. However, no such escape came. Instead, the announcement was met with a wave of applause and cheers, the crowd extending their joyous congratulations for the future union, while tears threatened to blur her vision.

As Daenera was subtly nudged forward by Aemond’s hand on the small of her back, they progressed to the forefront of the dias, leaving Helaena’s comforting grasp. A chilling emptiness took over where warmth once resided, and she clenched her hands in the folds of her skirts. She knew the expectation that lay before her: to bend in fealty, to acknowledge Aegon as her King by kissing his ring. Yet, she stood unyielding, her gaze piercing through him with an intensity that matched his smug satisfaction.

Daenera’s thoughts drifted back to the words exchanged with Helaena, her voice resonating with a foreboding echo in her mind. ‘I fear what happens when he’s got a taste for it… the power…’

Now, witnessing the fervor in his gaze, it was clear he had indeed acquired a taste for it – a beast fed by the adulation and undeserved love of his subjects. There was a dangerous glint to his eyes, one that filled her with dread as it trailed over her face, drinking in her defiance.

Aemond, stepping ahead, paid his respects first, his lips briefly meeting the ring on Aegon’s finger, followed by a respectful bow. His hand then returned to Daenera, creeping up her back to rest authoritatively over her shoulder, compelling her into submission.

Reluctantly, Daenera lowered herself, her knees bending as she inclined her head, her eyes defiantly locked onto Aegon through her lashes, silently challenging his authority. Aegon seemed to revel in her submission and had her remain in a deep bow for longer than necessary until, finally, he signified she could stand once more. Upon straightening, Aegon’s gesture was clear and commanding, extending his hand for her to kiss his ring.

The heat of humiliation flushed her cheeks, acutely aware of the multitude of spectators. Among them, a few gazes were so intense, they seemed to burrow under her skin, igniting a fire of indignation within her very soul.

Daenera clenched her jaw tight, lowering herself in a reluctant gesture to kiss Aegon’s ring. Yet, her lips paused just shy of the cold metal, floating merely a breath away – a subtle act of defiance.

Aegon leaned in, his voice laced with smug satisfaction. “It suits you being on your knees.”

“This is the only way you’ll ever see me on my knees,” Daenera bit back.

Straightening up, Daenera felt Aemond’s guiding hand on her back, ushering her back to their designated places. They stepped aside as a line of nobles advanced towards the dias, each one bending a knee in homage to the king and whispering their oaths of fealty.

“Ser Tyland of House Lannister, the Master of Ships and the newly appointed Master of Coin,” Ser Criston Cole’s voice rang out, introducing Ser Tyland Lannister as he stepped forward. Dropping to one knee in a gesture of submission, Tyland not only pledged his personal allegiance but also signified the backing of his powerful house.

“I, Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships and Master of Coin, hereby pledge House Lannister’s loyalty to the King, Aegon Targaryen,” Tyland proclaimed with solemn fervor. “I pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

Tyland Lannister rose from his kneeling position, the chain signifying his office shimmering upon his shoulders under the gleaming light. With a measured step forward, he leaned into press his lips to the king’s ring in a final act of fealty before gracefully receding.

Given the haste with which Aegon’s coronation had been arranged, many nobles had not received an invitation in time – or at all, given the secrecy of the ordeal – resulting in a noticeably smaller procession of lords and ladies presenting their homage.

Daenera silently labeled them traitors, yet she restrained her tongue, internalizing her scorn as the ceremony unfolded. The brevity of the event, not stretched by the presence of lords and ladies who might have flocked to the city for the grand affair that was a coronation under different circumstances, only served to emphasize the Hightowers’ hasty grab for power.

“Lord Jasper of House Wylde and House Rain, the Master of Laws,” Ser Criston Cole continued.

Taking Ser Tyland’s place before the king, Lord Jasper knelt, as he too declared his allegiance to Aegon’s reign. “I, Jasper Wylde, Lord of House Wylde and Lord of House Rain, Master of Law, promise to be faithful to the King, Aegon Targaryen. I pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

With a solemn grace, Lord Wylde grasped the King’s hand, his lips briefly pressing against the ring in a gesture of his fealty. Upon standing, he offered a respectful and courteous bow towards both the Queen Mother, the Queen and the Hand of the King, a silent acknowledgement of their roles. Then, with a steady stride, he resumed his place alongside Tyland Lannister.

“Lord Larys Strong of House Strong, the Lord Confessor and Master of Whispers, and the Lord of Harrenhal,” was announced next. The hall watched as Lord Larys Strong approached, his movement marked by the distinct drag of his clubbed foot against the wood flooring of the dias, his cane nowhere in sight.

Daenera leaned slightly towards Aemond, her curiosity getting the better of her as she whispered, “I wonder what has become of his cane.”

Without turning his gaze from the spectacle, Aemond’s response was terse, though soft, “I broke it.”

Her eyebrows knitted together in surprise, and she turned sharply to look at him, her gaze searching his face for the meaning of it. She found him looking back at her, a slight, self-satisfied tilt to his lips.

“You broke it…” She echoed, disbelief mingling with a dawning understanding.

“Yes,” Aemond confirmed with a dismissive shrug, his casual demeanor belying the significance of his actions. Though he offered no explicit explanation, the implication was clear in the brief flicker of his gaze over her face–a silent, protective retribution, a gesture meant for her. The retaliation of this unsaid stirred something within her.

Daenera’s heart raced, a tumultuous flutter within her chest as she forced her gaze away from Aemond, redirecting her attention to the ongoing ceremony. Her cheeks flushed with warmth that betrayed her inner turmoil, her heartbeat a relentless drum echoing within her. A bitter sensation twisted around her heart and she blinked back her tears.

Lord Larys Strong made a valiant attempt to kneel without any assistance, stubbornly waving off any offers of help. His knee met the wooden floor of the dias with a thud that promised a bruise.

And with a clear voice, despite the physical effort it took to maintain his dignity, Larys declared, “I Lord Larys Strong of House Strong, Lord Confessor and Master of Whispers, and Lord of Harrenhal, promise to be faithful to the King. I hereby pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

The act of descending to kneel had been far easier than the prospect of rising again.

Larys moved his leg into position, taking a deep breath before struggling to his feet. Ser Criston Cole stepped in to assist him, helping the Lord Confessor to his feet before he shuffled forward, bending down to kiss the ring of the King before moving over the dias to the rest of the council.

Following him, a procession of lords and ladies took their turn before the King, each swearing their loyalty to Aegon. Whether they were the head of their house or represented by a proxy–a brother or a son–the pledge of fealty was made, binding them to their new king.

As the formalities of the pledge of allegiance concluded, the coronation neared its end. Aegon moved once more to the forefront of the dias, his arms thrown wide open, reveling in the adoration showered upon him by the crowd.

Shortly thereafter, Otto Hightower and Ser Criston Cole led the way, guiding Aegon from the dias. The Queen Mother and the Queen gracefully took their leave. Aemond and Daenera followed, descending the steps of the dias to find solace in the quietude of the empty hall.

Together, they traversed the winding passageway of the Dragonpit, retracing the path they had taken upon their arrival. The group moved with a sense of purpose, the dimly lit corridor echoing with the soft sounds of their footsteps. And finally, they emerged, stepping out into the brightness of day, the sunlight momentarily blinding.

Daenera briefly closed her eyes, lifting her face towards the heavens to let the sunlight bathe her skin, seeking a brief respite to soften the stiffness that had settled along her spine. The warmth was a small comfort, a fleeting escape from the weight of the day. As she felt a reassuring hand at the small of her back, her eyelids fluttered open in response to Aemond’s silent cue to join the others in their descent.

From this position, high upon Rhaenys Hill, the Red Keep seemed to loom in the distance, its formidable towers stretching skyward. Daenera’s heart constricted at the sight, knowing what reaching that destination meant – an imminent return to the confines of the walls and the isolation it brought.

With careful hands gathering her skirts, Daenera began her cautious descent down the carved steps.

“You did well,” Aemond’s voice was soft beside her, his presence a steady assurance as they moved down the uneven staircase, his hand likely there to offer support or prevent a misstep.

Daenera bristled at the comment. “I am not a child; don’t patronize me.”

“I wasn’t suggesting–”

“Yet you insinuate that I’m seeking approval for merely keeping my composure,” Daenera countered, her pent-up frustration from the day’s events spilling over. “Believe me, if I wasn’t forced to be there under the threat of my men's lives, I would have disputed this farce and declared you all to be the traitors you’ve made yourself to be.”

Aemond’s sigh, heavy with exasperation, only fueled Daenera’s anger. She sent him a piercing glare, her eyes alight with silent fury, before shifting her gaze. It moved back to the trail before them, settling on the white cloaks of the Kingsguard, swaying with each step they took. Beyond this imposing barrier of gleaming armor and sheathed swords were the newly crowned King. In a fleeting moment, the impulse surged within Daenera to dash forward, to weave through the two sentinels of the Kingsguard and seize Aegon by the neck. She imagined hurling him down the steep steps or over the edge of the hill, to an untimely but deserved demise. The vivid fantasy of retribution momentarily clouded her judgment, a desperate grasp for justice through her own hands.

Daenera’s breath hitched, a sudden slip on one of the uneven steps causing her heart to leap into her throat. In an instant, Aemond’s presence became her anchor; one hand firmly grasped her arm, while his other swiftly extended across her chest, steadying ehr fall. He halted their progress, his expression marked by a subtle frown, eye intently scanning her face as if searching for something.

With a silent nod of gratitude, Daenera regained her composure, signaling she was unharmed. They resumed their descent, his hand returning to the small of her back. The light pressure offered a strange sort of comfort.

“It’s hard to decide which is more appalling,” Daenera muttered lowly, “the act of usurping my mother or the fact you did so to place the crown upon the head of the one who least desired it. If only he had refused it or fled…”

“He did,” Aemond answered, drawing Daenera’s gaze back to him, her expression perplexed as she searched his face. “He didn’t make it very far.”

“He attempted to flee?”

“I brought him back.”

“You… brought him back…” Daenera repeated, each word dripping with a mixture of incredulity and realization.

Aemond had the opportunity to let his brother vanish into obscurity, a chance to don the crown himself rather than bestow it upon his brother. Yet, forsaking this path and the allure of the power it promised, he had chosen duty over ambition, ensuring his brother’s return.

“You should have let him go,” Daenera remarked.

The muscles along Aemond’s jaw tightened, a visible testament to the weight of her assertion as it landed on his shoulders. After a tense pause, he opened his mouth, his voice filled with a firm resolve. “You know why I couldn’t.”

Indeed, Daenera understood the gravity of Aemond’s choice, understood the intricate web of loyalty and duty that bound him–she understood him, and she knew why he had brought him back. The legitimacy of the Hightower’s claim to the throne was intrinsically linked to Aegon’s ascension. It was a claim rooted in the precedence of him as Viserys’ firstborn son, the clear and unchallenged heir by virtue of the cock between his legs. In the eyes of tradition and the law, Aegon’s gender positioned him as the natural successor, his cock’s very existence assuring his right to rule. He was a son and Rhaenyra was a daughter.

Aegon’s potential disappearance presented a dilemma of succession, a void that threatened to unravel the fabric of their claim. In such an instance, Aemond stood but a shadow behind the prospect of Aegon’s own son, a contingency plan activated only by the absolute absence of the elder brother–assured only if he were definitely dead. And even then, in the face of Aegon’s hypothetical death, questions lingered: Would the crown then pass to Aemond, or would the realm fall into the hands of Aegon’s son, however young.

In the absence of Aegon, the succession’s focus would inevitably shift towards Rhaenyra, whose claim to the Iron Throne had been solidified years earlier through her father’s explicit and public endorsement. The realm’s nobility would find themselves at a crossroads, forced to choose between Rhaenyra, whose path to the throne was paved by her father’s will, and a young boy who would not wield real power for years to come. This boy, bereft of the ability to govern due to age, would merely serve as a figurehead, leaving the realm under the stewardship of someone like Otto Hightower during a regency.

Daenera’s understanding of Aemond’s actions did not alleviate the turmoil of her emotions. She grasped the strategic necessity behind his choice–the preservation of his family’s claim to power. Yet, this insight did not mitigate her resentment or the sense of betrayal that gnawed at her.

As Daenera reached the foot of the stairs, her gaze met Aegons, a fleeting smirk twisted the corner of his mouth–a smirk laced with malice and self satisfaction. A foreboding sense of dread settled in her stomach. She harbored no illusions about the man Aegon was destined to become–a tyrant in the making.

“You made a choice, and now we have to suffer the consequences of that.”

Aemond guided her towards the waiting litter, where guards stood at the ready, holding the reins of the restless horses. The banners fluttered fiercely in the wind, signaling a blend of grandeur and urgency as the horses pawed at the ground, eager to move. As they approached the litter, Helaena ascended the first step, pausing to cast a glance back.

“Beware the beast…” she uttered, her voice laden with an ominous tone. “It is here.”

With those foreboding words hanging in the air, Helaena disappeared into the sheltered interior of the litter.

A thunderous roar, bone-chilling in its ferocity, tore through the gathering, seeming to pierce the hearts of all assembled with its sheer power. This sound was followed by a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through the air, a sound so profound it felt as though it reverberated within the very chest of every onlooker. Every gaze abruptly shifted towards the dark maw of the cavernous entrance to the tunnels beneath Rhaenys Hill, where a stirring shadow and a billowing cloud of dust heralded the emerging terror.

Daenera felt an unsettling chill run down her spine, the fine hairs at the nape of her neck rising in alarm. She felt an urgent pull on her arm, as Aemond swiftly drew her behind him, positioning himself protectively in front of her. The tense silence that followed was broken by the sound of swords being unsheathed, a clear response to the menacing growl resonating from within the depths of the shadows.

From the darkness of the cave’s entrance, two deep red eyes pierced the gloom, their glow ominous and foreboding. The beast’s heavy footsteps vibrated through the ground, its massive form barely discernible as it advanced towards the light, shrouded in a cloak of dust and shadow.

“Protect the King!” Otto Hightower’s command cut through the tension, prompting the Kingsguard to swiftly encircle Aegon and Alicent, who had protectively pushed her son behind her, readying themselves against the looming threat that had stirred from its captivity beneath the Dragonpit.

Daenera’s heart pounded fiercely within her chest, a tempest of fear and anticipation thundering within her. Her gaze narrowed, seeking to penetrate the darkness to find the source of the fearsome roar that had cloaked the area in dread. From the depths of swirling dust and deep shadow, a figure emerged as if conjured by the chaos itself–Meleys, the Red Queen, with Rhaenys, her formidable rider, on her back.

The striking blood-red figure of Meleys broke through the veil of darkness, her roars echoing, a primal call that resonated with all who heard it. Sunlight danced upon her crimson scales, highlighting the regal horns that crowned her head as she stepped forth from the cave’s maw. With every movement, her claws dug into the earth, kicking up plumes of dust. Meleys stretched her massive form, a snarl revealing her formidable teeth, while her flame-like eyes locked onto the crowd with a fierce, unyielding gaze.

Rhaenys’ gaze found Daenera amidst the tumult, her expression just as fierce and unyielding as her dragon’s. “Release my granddaughter!”

A spark of hope ignited within Daenera, and she surged forward, only for Aemond’s arm to ensnare her waist, pulling her back against him with a vice-like hold. She struggled against his hold, beating back at him as she demanded her release.

“Let me go!” Daenera spat, clawing at his arm, attempting and failing to twist free. “Release me!”

She writhed in his embrace, making another desperate attempt to escape, trying to force her way out. Yet Aemond’s grip only tightened, his voice close to her ear, laced with a sneer yet tinged with desperation, “Stop! Please. Stop fighting!”

There was a raw, broken plea in his use of ‘please,’ a plea that resonated deep within her, tugging at her heartstrings in a way that was almost painful to acknowledge. But the turmoil within her was too overwhelming, her thoughts a whirlwind of recent grievances–the humiliations endured, the imprisonment, the loss of those she loved, and the cruel usurpation of her mother’s rightful claim. All these thoughts clashed violently within her, fueling her struggle against Aemond’s constraining embrace.

With a menacing growl, Meleys advanced, her formidable teeth exposed in a terrifying snarl. Daenera’s eyes locked onto Alicent then, the creator of her family’s suffering, shielding her son Aegon, the usurper king who robbed her mother of her rightful throne. Her eyes traveled to Otto Hightower, the one who orchestrated it all to satiate his own ambition, and Ser Criston Cole, the man who killed Joyce, alongside Lord Larys Strong, the one who humiliated her and lured her into captivity–and the rest of the council that allowed it all.

And then there was Aemond, his breath whispering across her skin, his arms ensnaring her in a protective yet confining embrace, the man who seemed prepared to do anything to possess her–who would see her as both his wife and his hostage.

In this moment, surrounded by the creators of her misery, Daenera found herself whispering a command born of desperation, “Drakarys.”

The word, barely more than a murmur, was nonetheless caught by those nearest, drawing their shocked and fearful stares towards her. She made another frantic attempt to escape Aemond’s hold, her fingers clawing at him with wild desperation.

Having to endure and watch the usurpation of her mother’s throne and the theft of her rightful crown had filled Daenera with unbridled fury – akin to a storm raging beneath the calm surface of the sea. The egregious act of being compelled into submission, to degrade herself by bending the knee, bowing her head, and kissing the ring of the usurper as a sign of loyalty, only served to fuel this tempest within her. She was reduced to a mere pawn in their game, a puppet manipulated by strings, dancing to the tune of their desires. Every fiber of her being had screamed in protest, yearning to dispute this charade, to shout out that this was an abomination. She had wanted to expose them for what they truly were: thieves and traitors.

Caught in a whirlwind of emotion, torn between madness and the culmination of years of torment and degradation, Daenera found herself compelled by forces she couldn’t fully understand. With a renewed sense of defiance, she raised her voice once more, this time with a vigor that surprised even herself. “Drakarys, Meleys!”

Aemond’s grip remained unyielding, his arm like a vice around her waist, his other hand securely holding her wrist to thwart any attacks. Daenera struggles grew more intense, tears brimming her eyes.

“Drakarys, Rhaenys!” She cried out, her voice breaking with the intensity of her plea. She imported an end to this farce, for fire to consume them all, to cleanse everything in its wrath. Yet, Meleys and Rhaenys did not heed her call. As Daenera fought against the constraints of Aemond’s embrace, she could feel the rapid pounding of his heart against her back, his breath hot on her neck, his lips barely brushing her ear, drawing her even closer to his hold. He murmured another plea for her to stop, desperate and demanding all the same.

An arrow whizzed through the air, narrowly missing Rhaenys before burying itself in the earth. Rhaenys’ gaze shifted swiftly towards the line of archers perched high on the hillside, arrows poised for a second volley. Meleys expressed her disdain with a snort, her massive feet stamping the ground in frustration. Her tail lashed out, striking the rocky terrain with a force that served as a clear warning. Yet another arrow cut through the air, this time grazing Meleys’ scales, failing to penetrate the dragon’s armored hide.

A heavy sense of despair settled over Daenera as Rhaenys locked eyes with her once more. It was a silent exchange, one that confirmed Daenera’s fears; there would be no escape today, and Rhaenys couldn’t linger no longer in this peril. With a resigned nod, Daenera acknowledged the inevitable.

Meleys advanced with deliberate steps towards the semicircle of Kingsguard surrounding the King and Queen Mother. With a deafening shriek that seemed to vibrate through their very bones, Meleys unleashed a roar so powerful it sent several horses into a panicked frenzy. The echo of the roar caused a few guards to lose their footing, tumbling to the ground with a startled crash as their mounts scattered in terror.

As Meleys propelled herself skyward with a mighty flap of her wings, a tempest of dust and debris swirled around them. The force of each wingbeat sent gusts that buffeted those below, stinging Daenera’s skin with sand and grit. In a protective gesture, Aemond hunched over her, using his body to shield against the maelstrom. Meleys, now airborne, stretched her wings to the fullest, casting a large shadow over the grounds. With one final, thunderous roar, she ascended higher, her form shrinking against the backdrop of the city as she made her way towards the distant horizon–towards Dragonstone.

A profound silence enveloped the plateau in the wake of Meleys’ departure, a quiet so intense it rivaled the dragon’s roar in its impact. The air hung heavy with dust, settling slowly as reality began to seep back into the stunned assembly.

Aemond eased his grip on Daenera but stayed close, his hand lightly resting on the small of her back. Daenera, still grappling with the whirlwind of emotions and the surreal turn of events, felt her mind clouded, her thoughts a tangled mess. It was in this moment of vulnerability that she felt a stinging slap across her face, a sharp, unexpected pain that broke through her stupor. The force of the blow left a burning trail on her cheek. The tears that had brimmed her eyes seemed to be struck loose, running down her cheeks, as her eyes found Alicent.

Otto Hightower’s voice, steeped in authority, cut through the tense air. “Alicent, restrain yourself.”

Daenera, her gaze defiant yet wounded, met Alicent’s eyes. The Queen Mother, her face wrought in seething anger, raised her hand for a second strike. Yet, before her hand could descend, Aemond interposed himself, his grasp firm around his mother’s wrist, effectively halting her motion.

Shielded behind a barrier of soft, supple leather, Daenera’s vision was limited to the broad expanse of his back. The defined curvature of his shoulders and the visible tension in his muscles captured her attention as he intervened, placing himself between his mother’s wrath and her.

In that fleeting moment, time seemed to suspend, stretching the moment between heartbeats as the realization dawned upon her: he had defied his own mother to shield her. Her heart constricted, skipping a beat in a moment of acute stillness, as her eyes lifted, her fingers unconsciously tightening on the fabric of his doublet as though to center herself. Amidst this pause, a fragile seed of hope emerged within her – a sentiment profound and dangerous, a truth she could not admit to herself.

“That is sufficient, Mother,” Aemond declared, “You’ve made your point.”

The moment between heartbeats passed, and the world came into view again. Daenera inched out from behind him to see Alicent glaring at her son in outrage, yet beneath it, there was a subtle hint of betrayal woven through her expression, perhaps even a strand of loss. With a sharp twist, she freed her wrist, her movement accompanied with an angry sneer as her eyes landed on Daenera again. “Would you have us all burn?!”

Daenera met Alicent’s gaze, her eyes now cold as the depths of winter, wipping her tears away. “I would.”

“Even yourself?” Alicent pressed, her voice laced with the weight of the morning’s events, the near brush with death still palpable. “Even Helaena?”

Daenera’s response was a silent one, her resolve firm as she met Alicent’s narrowed gaze without flinching. The determination etched in her eyes was a clear declaration of her stance–she was prepared to face the consequences, to embrace the fire if necessary, for the retribution. She was even prepared to face the fires of the seven hells and eternal damnation, knowing that they would join her there while Helaena would find peace in the heavens. It was a sacrifice.

Alicent turned her eyes upon her father. “Rhaenys will surely bring word to Rhaenyra.”

And Otto, in turn, took command of the situation, turning his discerning eyes upon Ser Criston Cole. “Ensure the King and the Queen are safely seen to the Keep and gather our forces. We do not know how Rhaenyra will respond.”

“I won’t be made to cower in the Keep,” Aegon interjected, fixing the crown on his head, his hand falling to the hilt of Blackfyre. “I shall take Sunfyre to the skies.”

Alicent protested, her concern manifesting in a gentle, yet futile attempt to dissuade her son from such ideas. “You cannot seriously consider pursuing them–your responsibilities as King–”

“That is right,” Aegon firmly interrupted her. “I am King now, am I not? And as a King I mean to show the city and the realm that we, too, have dragons.”

Otto Hightower scrutinized Aegon with a keen, measuring gaze, taking a moment to assess the young king’s determination. Eventually, he nodded in agreement, signaling his endorsement. “Proceed, then. Fly over the city, let our dragons be seen as protectors, and show the people their one true ruler.”

Ser Criston Cole interjected with a note of urgency, “It’s imperative we escort everyone else back to the Keep immediately. With the realm now aware of the late king’s passing and the ensuing shift in the line of succession, we must ensure the city’s safety. The City Watch should be mobilized to maintain order.”

“Moreover, we must identify whomever responsible for the negligence that permitted Rhaenys’s escape,” Otto Hightower said, his voice taking on a sharper edge. His gaze shifted accusatorily towards Alicent, suggesting that he found her culpable.

Alicent, seeming to feel the weight of her father’s critical eye, exhaled sharply in indignation. She collected the folds of her gown with a swift, dignified motion and ascended into the litter, deliberately distancing herself from the unfolding discourse. And as she moved past Daenera, her gaze locked onto her with a chilling intensity. Her eyes, dark and unforgiving, bore into Daenera, conveying a silent but unmistakable threat of punishment. The fleeting exchange, though wordless, was laden with a promise of consequences for the upheaval that had ensued.

Daenera, somewhat detached from the core of the discussion, was brushing off her attire, deciding not to engage, though she felt their eyes prickle against her skin.

“Ensure the princess is securely confined within her chambers. Afterwards, take to the skies with Vhagar. We must be vigilant and ready for any threat,” Otto directed.

Acknowledging with a curt nod, Aemond accepted the Lord Hand’s command.

The scene shifted as Otto made his way to the litter, joining the Queen and Queen Mother. They settled into the confined space, preparing for departure.

The scene was a tumultuous blend of urgency and confusion. Guards were everywhere, hastily trying to regain control over the spooked horses, while one of the litters sat crippled, its wheel shattered against a rock in the chaos that erupted when the horses bolted, sending it crashing and leaving the wooden wheel splintered. Amidst the chaos left in the wake of Meleys appearance, some horses had fled in terror. Now a contingent of Gold Cloaks was being dispatched to retrieve them, their cloaks billowing behind them as they set off on foot. The remaining horses, calmer now, were commandeered by the Kingsguard, as the council members took refuge in the second litter, all of them eager to escape the scene and find solace within the study walls of the Red Keep.

Daenera’s resistance was palpable as she found herself being nudged towards the litter. She spun around to confront him, their eyes locking as she grabbed his arm insistently, biting out, “Do not force me to ride in a litter with your mother!”

Aemond’s jaw clenched visibly, a sign of agitation, before he finally relented. With a heavy sigh, he shut the litter door, sealing his mother inside, and away from Daenera. His actions spoke volumes, acknowledging, albeit grudgingly. He instead guided her towards his horse, the steed stamping the ground impatiently.

As she attempted to mount, firm hands clasped her waist, offering unsolicited support. Daenera couldn’t help but retort with a sharp, “I don’t need your help.”

Aemond exhaled a short breath, seemingly frustrated, as he secured his own position on the horse, sliding behind her with practiced ease. His arms encircled her, taking control of the reins, as his presence enveloped her in a tangible warmth. Daenera felt the slight brush of his hair against her shoulder, eliciting a prickle of gooseflesh throughout her body.

“Maintain close ranks!” Ser Criston Cole’s voice cut through the air, his figure advancing before the procession, setting the pace for their return.

With a nudge, Aemond urged the horse onward, aligning with the measured pace of the procession. A distant, ominous rumble echoed from the depths of the Dragonpit, a lingering whisper of the dragons within. They embarked down the meandering path that circled the hill, gradually making their descent towards the city below.

As they delved deeper into the heart of King’s Landing, the city unfolded around them, a vibrant tapestry of activity and curiosity. The presence of the City Watch ensured a semblance of order, yet the throngs of people couldn’t help but cluster along the streets, craning their necks for a glimpse of the royal procession. Voices rose in a cacophony of sentiment–some cheering for King Aegon, others mourning for the demise of the late King.

In the midst of this clamor, Aemond’s voice found its way to Daenera, a whisper of quiet intensity close to her ear, his presence unyielding as stone. “Have you utterly abandoned reason?”

Daenera clenched her jaw, suppressing a retort, her attention momentarily diverted by a disturbance at the periphery of her vision. A bystander’s voice pierced the air with a bold proclamation, “Hail Queen Rhaenyra!” The words barely had time to echo through the crowd before a Gold Cloak swiftly intervened, silencing the supporter with a decisive threat, grabbing him by the scuff and hurling him to the ground.

“Are you really so desperate to see us all dead that you’re willing to burn alongside with us?” Aemond asked, his voice bordering on a sneer, laden with disbelief and exasperation.

Daenera’s retort was just as fierce. “I would gladly face the fire if it meant preventing you and yours from usurping what rightfully belongs to my mother.”

“How admirably noble,” Aemond sneered, the venom in his voice palpable in the bitter edge of his taunt. “Is this the length you would go to to avoid marrying me?”

“This isn’t about the marriage,” Daenera shot back, her voice sharp with anger. Her nails dug into the leather of the saddle, picking at it restlessly. “This is about betrayal, it is about the usurpation–about the years of torment and degradation at the hand of your family. It’s about the insults and the treachery.”

A scoff escaped Aemond, and Daenera could feel him shaking his head in exasperation–undoubtedly unable to see her point and unwilling to try. In that moment, Daenera had embraced the concept of sacrifice, accepting the notion of burning alongside her adversaries as a means to rectify the injustices they had perpetrated. It was her way of preemptively ending the war that loomed on the horizon. There was a certain poetic justice, she thought, in the imagery of them all being consumed by the same flames, united in destruction as they had never been in life.

“So, is it death you seek?” Aemond asked, his tone mocking yet tinged with an undercurrent of seriousness, as they continued their ride through the bustling streets, surrounded on the life of a city on the brink of change.

“No.” Daenera shook her head gently, her fingers brushing the corner of her eye as she contended with the onset of a headache that seemed to encircle her skull. A sigh of exhaustion escaped her lips as she instinctively leaned back into Aemond, craving the warmth that his presence offered against the sudden cold that had started to infiltrate her body. Her head reclined, settling comfortably against his shoulder as she gazed upwards, losing herself in the vastness of the azure sky above them.

“Then perhaps, refrain from pursuing it with such fervor,” Aemond’s voice, less harsh now, whispered close to her ear. In the quiet that followed, Daenera sensed a shift in him; his resentment seemed to dissipate, his posture relaxed as their bodies belted together in a moment of unexpected tranquility.

And for just a moment, Daenera allowed herself to pretend that everything was as it were before – that she was within the embrace of her lover and not her captor, that death weren’t traversing the halls of the Red Keep, that her mother’s throne were unchallenged, and that she was not drowning in a sea of despair, struggling not to lose herself and her sanity. If she merely shut her eyes, she could sustain this facade a little longer.

“Where were you?” Daenera’s voice was a soft murmur, her eyelids heavy as she spoke. Exhaustion clung to her as sleep had been elusive in recent days. “That morning – you weren’t there when I woke.”

Their conversation hung suspended in the air, the procession’s slow pace allowing the city’s ambient noises to envelop them–a blend of distant conversations and sporadic outbursts. The sun, now fully ascendant, bathed the day in warmth, exacerbating the city’s inherent odors. Yet, to Daenera, the openness under the sky offered a breath of freedom far removed from the oppressive atmosphere of her recent confines.

Aemond’s reply came after a moment, his tone matching hers in quietude, laced with underlying weariness. “I couldn’t sleep… I went in search of… something…”

Her curiosity piqued, Daenera opened her eyes to the expanse of the sky above, observing a group of birds as they danced freely across the blue canvas. “I suppose it was good you weren’t there. Had you been present, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“I would have stopped you.”

A subtle grin touched her lips, a playful spark finding its way into her eyes. “Fenrick would have been forced to hold you back, binding you to the bed, perhaps even rendering you unconscious–he would have enjoyed that.”

“I would have overpowered him,” Aemond retorted with confidence, a current of amusement in his tone.

Her grin widened. “Attempt as you might, but with you bare and unarmed, I doubt your cock would serve as an effective weapon.”

A soft hum escaped Aemond, not quite conceding but not arguing either. Daenera sensed a light amusement in him, a gentle lift at the corners of his mouth betraying his usually impassive demeanor. He shifted the reins to one hand, skillfully guiding the horse with gentle nudges, while his other hand found a place on her abdomen–the touch warm and comforting.

“Did you find it? The thing you went looking for?” Daenera’s voice softened, curiosity weaving through her tone.

A shadow draped over them then, accompanied with a thunderous roar. Sunfyre soared above, his scales a spectacle of shimmering gold under the light, wings unfurling like sails of silk, the soft color of rose petals. Despite his beauty, the dragon remained just that, a dragon–with sharp teeth and claws, and a breath of fire.

“In the end, yes,” Aemond murmured back, his voice a deep, stirring hum that sent a shiver through her. Her eyes closed again.

In this momentary escape, Daenera allowed herself to pretend that everything was as it once was – a world familiar and untainted. She could delude herself into believing that the rapid beat of her heart wasn’t for a man she was supposed to despise, for someone she wished she could loathe as effortlessly as she once had. She could imagine that he wasn’t one of the makers of her suffering, that his hands weren’t stained with the blood of those she held dear, that he wasn’t holding a dagger to her, ready to inflict wounds as easily as Ser Criston’s blade had upon Joyce.

She could indulge in this illusion. She could wrap herself in this fabricated comfort. She could just…

And then the return to the Red Keep brought her back to the grim reality, where Lord Caswell still remained, a lifeless figure suspended in the air.

Did I change a whole lot? Yeah and let me tell you why! While Rhaenys bursting through the floor was visually satisfying and a like 'go girl' moment, it didn't make sense narratively or for her character. She basically committed an act of terrorism killing dozens of people and it would be seen as an act of instigating the war. I don't know why she thought she'd get away with it, fly off to DS to warn Rhaenyra and then back to Driftmark as though the Greens wouldn't have taken it as her declaring for Rhaenyra. Even if she didn't declare for Rhaenyra, she killed a bunch of people and Greens would have no choice but to apprehend her, because… murder, terrorism. So, I changed it. This way she didn't kill anyone and she can fly to DS warn Rhaenyra and then go off if that's what she want--we know what happens. But here you can say; But Zeciex, Daenera could have gone with her! Do you really think Aemond would have let her go? Rhaenys was on borrowed time and as she says 'she won't be the one to start this war'-- she wouldn't kill the Greens and an anointed king, that too would be a death sentence. One that Daenera was willing to pay. Yes, for a moment, with all she's been through the last few days, she may have lost it a bit. She was willing to sacrifice herself to see an end to it all--to the usurpation and threats, to set things right. Does she want to die? No. But let her be dramatic, she's got a lot going on. Also, Aemond is doing what he can too, within the confines of his duty. Don't blame him too much for forcing her to kneel to Aegon, it's as much an act of duty as it is him ensuring that by behind the knee she doesn't risk herself even more. And Ya'll are lucky I decided to end this on a high note and not include the next scene; which will be next chapter; Daenera visits the tower of the hand and has a conversation with Otto that is…. suffocating. Oh, and she also have a talk with Larys. It will be a very dialogue heavy chapter with little action happening, and it will be the final chapter for a while as we travel to Dragonstone to see what's happening there.

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #a vow of blood #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen x reader

60 notes · View notes