#aemond targaryen x strong!reader
Text
Dragon's Bane ~ masterlist
pairing: Aemond x niece!Reader
chapters: 3/3 COMPLETED
summary: Aemond Targaryen loathes his niece.
note: old series, new masterlist
tropes: enemies to lovers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#aemond x reader#aemond x strong!reader#aemond x velaryon!reader#aemond x you#aemond x y/n#aemond fic#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen x you#aemond targaryen x y/n#aemond targaryen fic#aemond targaryen x strong!reader#aemond targaryen x fem!reader
123 notes
·
View notes
Text
balance the scales ; aemond targaryen. (m)
alternatively titled soda.
track six of BROKEN MACHINE.
pairing ; aemond targaryen x strong!f!reader
synopsis ; he flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. you whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.
words ; 40.3k (my longest oneshot!)
themes ; heavy angst, action, smut (minors dni!), mild fluff, enemies to lovers back to enemies trope, slowburn, betrothed au
warnings / includes ; violence/war, several character deaths, descriptions of injury/blood, birth scenes, oral (f recieving), unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, hotd s1 spoilers, reader is fiercely team black, implications of rape (aegon), really really heavy angst, harwin is reader's older brother, helaena is the sweetest ever :( jace and luke are reader's best friends, rhaenyra is practically reader's mother, lots of Emotions in this one, asoiaf politics and references for all of you book nerds
main masterlist. read on ao3!
It was said that you came into the world silent.
A problem with your lungs, the midwives had solemnly told your father, the Hand of the King, proclaiming you dead not three minutes after. Lyonel Strong was grief-stricken at not only having lost his dear wife to the perilous task of childbirth, but you as well.
But you were a fighter from the very beginning. At least, that’s what Harwin had told you. Once they’d laid you in your eldest brother’s arms, your airway had miraculously cleared up and you’d let out a hoarse, shrill cry—and the rest was history.
“I was twenty when you were born, you know,” said Harwin, voice rife with affection, reaching out to brush a lock of hair away from your face. “I was so scared that I’d lose you. Now look at you—eight years of age and healthier than ever. Are you excited to meet the new baby?”
“Yes! The babe gets a dragon egg and everything!”
You beamed up at your eldest brother, batting away his fretful hands and turning to your friends. Though—they’d always felt more like your brothers than merely friends.
Jacaerys and Lucerys, who bore a striking resemblance to Harwin (and you’d keenly noticed that they shared your smile), were playing with a wooden carving of a dragon, blowing raspberries and running around the spacious chamber. The taller of the two, Jace, was only a few moons older than you, whilst Luke was much younger and looked up to you—quite literally and figuratively. The two young boys roped you into their little game as well, screaming with laughter when you began chasing after them with a snarl, arms outstretched.
With a slight smile, Harwin watched over the three of you, hands comfortably rested against the hilt of his gilded longsword. Even though he was only but your older brother, he always treated you as if you were his own child—after all, you barely saw your father anyway, seeing as he was always busy serving the King as the Hand. The fact that he was a whole two decades older than you only made him all the more protective of his youngest sibling.
His attention was pulled away from the three kids clambering on top of each other when the doors creaked open. An exhausted Rhaenyra slowly limped in, Laenor Velaryon right behind her, holding a bundle of red and gold fabric.
“Mother!” exclaimed Jace, getting onto his feet to greet Rhaenyra. “Look!”
He scuttled away to pull the cover off of the stone incubator, revealing a scaly dragon egg of dark emerald hue. You and Luke were hot on his trail, peering over his shoulder to marvel at the smoking egg. A large part of you was jealous that Jace and Luke and the new babe each got a dragon egg, and you never did, despite having similar physical attributes to the boys. But they were royal Princes, and you were only the youngest child of the Hand, which really meant little to nothing other than fancy titles and polite honorifics.
“We chose an egg for the baby,” Luke excitedly told his mother, who leaned against a chaise tiredly.
Harwin offered his arm to Rhaenyra, helping her slowly ease down onto the seat.
“Ah,” she said, the beginnings of a smile to her lips. “That looks like the perfect one.”
“I let Luke choose!” chirped Jace, squaring his shoulders proudly. “But Luke couldn’t decide, so I asked Y/N.”
The purple of Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed with affection when she looked at you, nearly shrouded behind Jace’s taller stature. “Sweet girl,” she hummed, briefly glancing up at Harwin, before returning her gaze to you. “You chose wonderfully. Thank you.”
Luke reached out to graze his fingers over the egg’s ridges, but flinched back from the heat, sticking them into his mouth. You pulled a grimace but laughed anyway, lightly shoving Luke away from the incubator.
“Not every day an egg leaves the Dragonpit, Princess,” said your brother. “I thought it best to escort the lads. They insisted on Y/N coming along, as well.”
“Laenor and I thank you, Commander,” replied Rhaenyra, dipping her head with gratitude.
Harwin’s eyes locked on the babe in Laenor’s arms. “Another boy, I heard,” he said.
The Princess nodded once, the corner of her lips lifting ever so slightly.
“Might I?” asked the Commander.
“Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey,” Rhaenyra told her husband, who finally ripped his loving gaze from the babe, and handed him over to Harwin.
With flailing hands, Luke reached out to Harwin, eyes trained on Laenor. “Please, father, may I hold Joffrey?”
“Ah, ah, ah, back to the Dragonpit for you two—before they send out a search party!” ushered Laenor as he led the boys out of the chamber. “Come, Y/N, would you like to join the boys?” he asked kindly, clearly wanting to give Harwin and Rhaenyra some well-earned time alone.
Excited at the prospect of seeing the boys’ dragons again, you scrambled out the doors after them, squeaking out, “Wait! Wait for me!”
Once the doors were shut and the kids were gone, Rhaenyra looked upon Harwin bouncing the babe fondly.
“You’re asleep in front of the Commander of the City Watch,” he gently scolded the tiny thing. “Terrible lack of respect.”
“A certain insolence runs in the family, I’m afraid,” commented Rhaenyra, subtly hinting to the baby being of Harwin’s blood, rather than Laenor’s.
Harwin tried his best to suppress his smile, failing miserably. He looked down at the baby once more, noting with pleased fascination that Joffrey had his nose.
The dungeons of the Dragonpit were dimly lit by sparse, flaming torches hanging by the stone walls. It stank of smoke and ash and stale blood, but you didn’t quite mind the smell. You bounced on the balls of your feet behind Jacaerys, eyes wide with anticipation as the dragonkeepers brought out Vermax.
He was a rather tempestuous beast, snarling at the lot of you as he stalked forward. The pale orange of his wings and the green of his scales warbled beneath the fire’s light. The keepers spoke in their lilting Valyrian tongues to command the dragon—foreign to your ears, but no less interesting.
Aegon seemed not to share your disposition, however, yawning loudly and rolling his eyes to the side, clearly bored with watching Jacaerys bond with Vermax. Ever since Aegon had won mastery over his own dragon, Sunfyre, his head seemed to swell twice its size and he held no interest in anybody else’s dragon but his own. Both you and Luke glanced up at him with a scowl. The younger of the silver-headed boys kept his gaze trained to the ground, used to his brother’s antics.
You’d always been much more fond of Aemond than Aegon anyway—he was far kinder to you than his brother. Though, compared to Aegon, it was barely a competition.
Watching on in rapt fascination, you turned your head to see one of the keepers bring out a bleating lamb for Vermax to feast upon.
“Can I say it?” asked Jacaerys, equal parts nervous and excited. He glanced at his uncles, before looking back at you, eyes gleaming. You gave him an encouraging smile. At the keepers’ hum of approval, he turned back to his dragon. “Dracarys, Vermax!”
With a grateful hiss, Vermax turned and blew a long breath of fire straight at his prey, pupils sharpening. Even from afar, you could feel the heat of the flames kiss your skin.
Vermax happily stalked forward and began biting into the charred flesh of the lamb. The keepers clapped Jacaerys on the shoulder proudly, before heading off to round Vermax further into the darkness of the Dragonpit.
Just as you were about to tell Jace how amazing that was, Aegon interrupted by cuffing his younger brother on the shoulder.
“Aemond, we have a surprise for you,” he glibly said.
The other two boys glanced at each mischievously. You tilted your head, feeling a bit left out. You weren’t aware of any surprises they had planned for the young Prince.
“What is it?” asked Aemond.
“Something very special!” chimed Lucerys, just before he ran off into the darkness.
Clearing his throat, Aegon continued, “You’re the only one of us without a dragon.”
Aemond frowned. “Indeed.”
“And we felt badly about it, so we found one for you!” exclaimed Aegon.
This came as a surprise to you. To your knowledge, none of the dragons had nested as of late, and there were no new eggs for Aemond to take.
The same skepticism colored Aemond’s tone. “A dragon? How?”
Aegon didn’t even try hiding his snarky smile. “The gods provide, dear brother.”
And out came Luke from the shadows, tugging along a large, oinking pig. Tufts of dried wheat were tied around the pigs back, made to mimic a dragon’s wings. You felt your lips twist into a frown. What a terrible thing to gift Aemond.
The other boys giggled as they announced, “Behold, the Pink Dread!”
They snickered in amusement at Aemond’s reaction—or lack thereof.
“Be sure to mount her carefully,” cackled Aegon, prodding his brother’s side. “First flight’s always rough.” He snorted loudly into Aemond’s ear, who stood still and unflinching.
Jace and Luke followed suit, making obscene pig noises and giggling. They turned to leave the Dragonpit.
“Come on, Y/N, let’s go see if they have any lemon cakes for supper!” said Luke, grabbing your hand.
You kept your gaze trained on Aemond, shaking the younger boy off. “I’ll be right there… just give me a minute.”
Shrugging, Luke scampered off with Jace and Aegon, still laughing between his pig-reminiscent oinks.
Uncertain, you stood a couple feet away from Aemond, toying with the fabric of your sleeve. You sympathized with him, really. All your life, you had no dragon of your own, despite always having wanted one. You knew it wasn’t the same because it was his birthright as a Prince to have a dragon—but you could still understand the feeling.
“I’m sorry about them,” you said, moving closer. “That’s a terrible thing to gift you.”
The Prince was silent for a few moments, before rotating on his feet to fix his glare on you. You shuffled back a step.
An amalgamation of anger and embarrassment etching crystal clear across his face, he spat out, “Go away! You’re not even of royal Targaryen blood—you don’t belong here!”
It was clear that he was merely projecting his frustrations onto you—after all, he himself was of Targaryen blood and yet he always felt like an outcast in his own family.
But you were only eight, and such complicated matters were lost to you.
Lips twisting in a frown, you blinked at the Prince, hands curling into fists by your side. “I just wanted to help,” you quietly mumbled beneath your breath, before promptly turning on your heel and marching out of the Dragonpit.
Aemond had heard your final words before your departure, feeling a twinge of guilt coil within his stomach. But after casting another look at the pig, his thoughts about you disappeared, replaced only with hot fury.
With a determined set of his jaw, Aemond trudged on further into the darkness of the Dragonpit.
“Your feet,” said Harwin, tapping the edge of his sword onto your scuffed boots. “Don’t stand like a pin needle. Keep them apart—steady your stance.”
You did as he told, and he nodded in approval. With your dull, wooden practice lance, you dove forward and struck the hay sewn dummy with quick strikes.
“Good,” your older brother commended, patting your shoulder. “Just remember to move with your feet, alright? Come now, drop the sword.”
“What?” you asked, allowing the wood to go limp in your hand. “Why?”
Kneeling down before you, Harwin brushed your sweaty, damp hair away from your burning skin. “Because this world doesn’t give little girls swords when they need it. They must only rely on their wit and their hands if the situation arises. Drop the sword, darling.”
Frowning, you relinquished your hold, waiting for further instructions.
You’d been doing this with Harwin for a long while now. Every other night for the past three years, he’d been teaching you how to fight, and how to defend yourself.
“Now, I’m going to pretend to hit you, and you have to do everything in your power to stop me. Do anything you must—hit back, bite, kick, run… just don’t give up. You promise?”
“Okay,” you told him, steeling your nerves.
He began slowly, motioning to strike your stomach and your sides. You managed to evade those easily, moving back or rolling out of his way. The faster he got, however, the more sloppy you were. One particular jab to your shoulder made you bite back a cry of pain, and you glared up at him.
“Must you be so rough?” you growled, to which Harwin only nodded, face stoic.
“In a fight—a real and true one—do you think they’d go easy on you? No. You must be prepared for it, Y/N. I will not always be there to protect you.”
His words made you pause. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you be there?”
“I’ll always be there for you, little sister,” he said, large hand patting your head. “But if there comes such a time where I won’t be, for some reason unbeknownst to me, you must be ready.”
With a reluctant bob of your head, he commanded you to get into a fighting stance again.
“Thumb outside the fist,” he gently reminded you. “Feet wider apart, knees bent—yes, that’s it.”
And without warning, he darted forward, using his foot to sweep across your legs, making you stumble back onto your arse, all the breath in your lungs rushing out.
“Harwin!” you yelled out, now fed up with him. “That’s not fair! You’re using your feet!”
“I never said I wasn’t going to use my feet. You will soon come to realize that life is not always fair,” he said, unable to help the small chuckle falling from his lips. “Up you get.”
Rubbing at your sore bottom, you mumbled out, “Why don’t I get to spar with Jace and Luke and Aemond and Aegon? I want to spar with them.” Though, as soon as the words left you, you realized that you’d really rather not spar with Aemond and Aegon. Especially not after that whole pig situation.
Surprised at your question, Harwin halted to lower himself down to your height once again. “Sweet sister… it is safer for me to train you in secret. In a fair and just world, you’d be able to train with whomever you wanted. But you are a young girl, and they are the royal Princes. The court would not find it proper if you were to spar with them.”
Tears welled up in your widened eyes. “But… that’s not fair…”
Harwin thumbed away the wetness on your cheek. “Come now, don’t cry. How about, next time the boys train, you get to watch—and I can teach you the same things they learn later in the evening? How does that sound?”
“O-Okay,” you hiccupped. “Can I have my sword back?”
With a faint smile, Harwin nodded, handing you the wooden stick.
From the shadows where neither of you could see, Criston Cole watched, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted.
Harwin was a man of his word.
The very next day, you had shot out of your bed like someone had lit a fire beneath you, hurriedly dressing and washing yourself, much to your handmaid's shock, and scampered out to the training yard.
“There you are,” greeted your brother, ruffling your already sleep-mussed hair. “I was afraid you weren’t going to show.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” you replied, bouncing on your toes.
Harwin could only grin down at you, before returning his gaze to the four boys dully smacking their wooden practice swords against the dummies.
Aegon twisted and turned and hit with speed rather than precision, grunts of exertion falling from his lips. Lucerys was clumsy and slow, but for the most part, he hit the targeted regions accurately. Jacaerys was nearly the same as his youngest brother, only a tad faster and more agile on his feet.
Ser Criston Cole was scrutinizing Aemond, despite him seeming to be doing the best out of the four. Fast, accurate, and strong strokes of his wooden blade thudded repeatedly against the hay.
“Soften your knees,” gruffed Criston, face betraying no expression. “Feet light. Light, Aemond.”
Training with the Dornish man seemed much different than training with your older brother. With your brother, as hard as he was on you sometimes, he was still kind and knew your limits. Cole was cold and rigidly strict, and seemed to care naught for the boys’ boundaries.
You glanced up at your brother, who watched on with a mildly distasteful expression.
Observing from the walkways above, you spotted your father with the King. Lyonel eyed you with a questionable gaze, wondering what on earth his youngest daughter was doing on the training grounds, rather than playing with Princess Helaena, whom you’d grown to be rather fond of, or entertaining Rhaenyra and the new babe, Joffrey.
You tilted your head when Aegon grew bored of smacking his own dummy, wandering over to Jace and knocking the younger Prince’s sword out of his hands. To none of your surprise, Criston chose to turn a blind eye to the eldest boy.
You will soon come to realize that life is not always fair, you could hear your brother’s words echo in your head. Perhaps he was right. Nonetheless, you could feel anger simmer within your stomach.
“Don’t stand too upright, my Prince, you’ll get knocked down,” commanded Cole.
Aegon halted in his terrorizing as two handmaids passed by, openly gawking at the poor girls as they hurried off with baskets of soiled laundry. Only after they were long gone, did Aegon catch sight of you, tilting his head curiously, as if trying to remember your face.
“Aegon,” Criston called out, pulling Aegon’s attention away from you.
“I’ve won my first bout, Ser Criston,” boasted the white-haired Prince. “My opponent sues for mercy.”
A ghost of a smirk graced Criston’s lips. “Then you shall have a new opponent, then. Let’s see if you can touch me. You and your brother.”
With dejected expressions, Luke and Jace slunk off to the side, watching Aemond and Aegon battle against Criston. It was only then that the two boys took notice of you. Luke waved excitedly, and Jace nodded his head with a smile. You grinned back at them, clasping your hands behind your back, itching to have a practice sword gripped between them.
Criston seemed to make a fool of the Princes, easily parrying away their strikes and sending them sprawling onto the ground several times.
“Weapons up, boys,” Harwin quietly advised Luke and Jace. “Give your enemies no quarter.”
It seemed as though his words were not quiet enough—Criston certainly overheard what he was saying, and didn’t look too pleased with it.
Your brother narrowed his eyes. “It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention, Ser Criston.”
Jaw squared, Cole bit out, “You question my method of instruction, Ser?”
“I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils,” said Harwin.
“My pupils? And not… your pupil?”
This made your brother blanche uneasily.
“Lady Y/N. Come. I want to see what Ser Harwin has taught you.”
Shocked, you looked up at your brother, lips falling open and shut, unsure of what to say or do.
Not wanting to disobey the tall, scary man, you timidly stepped forward. From above, your father seemed to want to end this nonsense, shifting his weight from foot to foot—but as the King trusted Ser Criston Cole, he had little he could say to put a stop to this.
“Aemond. You shall spar with the Lady Strong.”
The Prince seemed to want to do anything other than that, but reluctantly ambled forward anyway. Criston roughly shoved a wooden sword against your chest, which lacked any armor whatsoever in comparison to Aemond’s full chestplate and protective metal gloves.
“Engage.”
Desperately trying to recall what your brother had taught you, you spread your feet further apart and bent your knees, leveling your weight in preparation to move around.
Aemond was the first to attack, diving forward to strike your sides. He got one hit in at first, pain blossoming by your ribs. You winced, staggering back slightly.
By the second strike, you were prepared. Though he was half a foot taller than you, you used that to your advantage. It was little effort to duck away from his arc when he was about to repeat the very same maneuver, smacking the flat of your stick to the back of his left knee, sending him buckling forward. In the short time you had to watch him, you’d noticed that he favored his right side, and often left the other side unguarded.
The Prince was quick to recover, scrambling back up on his feet and glaring at you with the strength of a thousand suns. This time, he was smarter, waiting for you to attack next. You feigned a jab to his neck, forcing him to parry high up, before you used your feet to kick out against his exposed stomach. It was a dirty move—not a proper one in the least, but it was as your brother said the other night—life was not fair.
Aemond fell back with a muffled oomf, expression suspended into one of disbelief. He couldn’t believe he’d just been bested by a girl. Teeth clenched, you placed the tip of your sword against his chest, locking eyes with him. He stared at you with nothing but pure hatred within the deep purple of his irises. After a second, you moved it away, holding out your hand to help him up. You were willing to overlook what happened down at the Dragonpit the other day—after all, you still sympathized with him and didn't hate him in the very least. Especially not compared to his wretched older brother.
The Prince didn’t take your hand. He shoved it away with a grumble, standing up on his own and slinking off to the side. It was embarrassing. More than that—he was angry at himself, at you, at Cole. Tears pricked the corner of Aemond’s eyes, but he willfully staved them away.
Frowning, you made your way back to Harwin, who fondly cupped your face with one large palm, patting your cheek thrice. “Well done, Y/N. I’m so proud of you.”
You smiled wearily, though it didn’t reach your eyes.
Criston’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, clearly unhappy with Harwin’s pupil beating his own. His gaze flitted downward to lock with yours for a brief moment, before looking at the crown Prince. “Alright. Jacaerys. You spar with Aegon. Eldest son against eldest son.”
Giving the boy no warning, Cole seized the front of Jace’s armor and all but dragged him to the center of the training yard. Helplessly, Jace looked to you and Harwin.
This was by no means a fair fight, but you had to remind yourself—life is not always fair.
As if reading your thoughts, Harwin called out, “It’s hardly a fair match.”
“I know you’ve never seen true battle, Ser, but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect.” Criston’s seething words made you shift uncomfortably. How dare he speak to your brother like that?
You glanced back up at your father and the King, still watching over. You wondered if he could hear what Criston was saying. If he cared.
“Engage,” said Cole.
And with that, Aegon roared, raining down attack after attack upon Jace. He shoved him down onto the ground, dried leaves fluttering upwards with his fall. Satisfied with himself, Aegon turned his back to Jace, bowing to you with a smirk and chuckling at his early win.
Jacaerys, however, was quick to get on his feet and charged forward with a snarl, wildly arcing the practice sword at his uncle.
In an attempt to get him to stop, Aegon shoved a dummy onto Jace, which prompted Harwin to step forward and say, “Foul play!”
“I’ll deal with him,” barked Criston, before stepping towards Aegon. “Plant your feet. You have a height advantage. Use it!”
It was becoming more and more clear that this spar was no longer an eldest son against an eldest son. It was between your brother, Commander of the City Watch, and the Queen’s kingsguard.
Whilst Criston roughly barked instructions to Aegon, Harwin moved to Jace, gripping the young boy’s chin in his palm and gently gave him advice and words of encouragement—not unsimilar to what he did with you during your training.
Once they were done, Aegon furiously stormed back to Jacaerys. “You!” he screamed, red-faced and furious at his nephew for having embarrassed him in such a way. The Prince was not at all used to not winning.
“Close with him!” yelled Criston when Aegon surged forward and hit him repeatedly. “Press him backward! Stay on the attack! Use your feet!”
With that, Aegon placed his heel squarely against Jace’s chestplate, kicking him back onto the dirt.
“Don’t let him get up. Stay on the attack!”
You watched on in concern as Aegon whacked the wooden sword over and over onto Jace—to the point where you panicked and frantically tugged on Harwin’s armor, afraid he was going to do some serious damage on your friend.
Deciding to put an end to this once and for all, Harwin finally stepped forward and ripped Aegon away from Jace.
“Enough!” he bellowed, so loud that his voice seemed to echo back against the stone walls.
This seemed to enrage Aegon all the more as he screeched out, “You dare put your hands on me?”
“Aegon!” yelled the King from above.
Nobody listened.
“You forget yourself, Strong,” said Cole, voice dripping with venom. It didn’t slip by your notice that he’d dropped the honorifics with your brother. “That is the Prince.”
“This is what you teach, Cole? Cruelty to the weaker opponent?” seethed Harwin.
Tone eerily level, Cole glibly commented, “Your interest in the princeling’s training is quite unusual, Commander. Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin… or a brother… or a son.”
With that, Harwin surged forward and planted a clean punch against Criston’s face.
Criston made no attempts to fight back. Not with the second hit, or the third, or the fourth. By the fifth, he was bleeding from the side of his temple, and red ran down a stream from his split lips.
Your hands had flown over your mouth, and you staggered back, against Jace. Luke’s small hand curled into the fabric of your tunic. A son… Criston had said. And it all made sense to you now—why Harwin loved the boys so dearly, why they looked so much like your brother, why you shared the same smile as them.
They were your nephews.
This only had you protectively stepping in front of them, shielding them from the sight of their true father beating up a knight.
Over and over and over again, your eldest brother struck Cole, until his own knuckles glimmered with dark ichor—belonging to both him and the man beneath him. Two gold cloaks had to rush forward and haul Harwin away from Criston.
“Say it again!” bellowed Harwin. “Say it again!”
Despite the beating he’d just undertook, Criston laughed through his blood-saturated spittle. “Thought as much,” he choked out, turning to his side to hack out a wad of red onto the dirt.
Your father was furious.
At you, yes, but the anger he felt towards Harwin a thousand times moreso. So much so that he had ordered Harwin be stripped of his title as Commander of the City Watch, and taken back home to Harrenhal as his heir. Though, it wasn’t a home to you, seeing as you’d never even stepped foot in the place.
Your father had also tried to resign as Hand to the King, feeling immense pressure and shame from the court. But the King insisted he stay, and to your relief, that meant that you could stay, as well.
However, that also entailed that you had to say goodbye to your beloved brother.
When he first told you, you scoffed and retorted, “A funny joke, Harwin, but I’m not in the laughing mood.” And when his expression remained solemnly unchanged, you could feel your heart sinking to your stomach. “No… no, you can’t be serious. Harwin, you can’t leave! No! What am I to do here without you? What of our training?”
The following hour consisted of you crying your little eyes out, sobbing into Harwin’s armor, begging him not to leave. He had little to say, afraid that if he opened his mouth, he’d join you in your crying. But he stroked your hair and assured you that he’d write as often as he could to you.
Father was to be joining him to drop him off at Harrenhal and ensure everything was going smoothly for the first fortnight, before he was due to return to King's Landing. You wouldn’t be missing him too much—at least he was coming back. You hadn’t a clue when the next time you’d see your brother might be.
And there was the other unspoken elephant in the room—Rhaenyra’s sons. Your best friends—and, as you’d recently found out, your nephews.
“Be good to your mother, lads,” said Harwin, kneeling by Luke. “I’ll visit when I can. But that may be some time.”
He turned to Jace, who stood tall beside his mother, rocking Joffrey back and forth in his arms.
“I will return,” your brother told his eldest son, lifting his chin up with the tips of his fingers. “I promise.”
Harwin and Rhaenyra locked eyes for a brief moment. Hers watered. Harwin’s softened. He bent down to press a loving kiss to the babe’s forehead.
“I will be a stranger when we meet again,” he whispered to Joffrey, but a part of it was directed to Rhaenyra herself.
You awaited by the door for him, wiping your tears furiously with the back of your hand.
Harwin’s final goodbye was saved for you. So much to say, with so little time. He cupped your face and kissed your forehead, nose slotted against your hairline. His first and final tear fell from his misty eyes.
“Remember what I told you. I’ll always be there for you, sweet sister. Always. Maybe not physically here,” he said, before pressing a thumb just above your duly beating heart. “But in here.”
Much to your frustration, you began to cry again, chest thundering with sobs.
“Goodbye, brother,” you whispered, voice cracking.
“Oh, no, don’t cry over me, darling. I want you to keep your head high, hm? By the time I see you again, you might be even stronger than me.”
Harwin pressed another kiss to your cheek, before swiping your tears away with the pads of his thumbs, and stood up again.
You watched as he pushed the door open and strode down the hall, disappearing from your sight. Jacaerys came to your side, threading his hand with yours in an effort to comfort you. You squeezed gratefully, releasing a shuddering breath.
“We will exchange letters by raven,” placated Rhaenyra, trying her best to alleviate both of your sorrows. “Won’t that be fun?”
Bluntly, Jace turned to look at his mother and asked, “Is Harwin Strong my father? Am I a bastard?”
Shock colored Rhaenyra’s expression.
“You are a Targaryen,” she affirmed after recovering from her initial surprise, stroking Jace’s hair away from his face. “That’s all that matters.”
She hadn’t answered his question, but both you and Jace knew the truth.
News of your brother and father’s death spread like wildfire. It was said to be an accident—a tragic product of Harrenhal’s Curse. There were rumors flying around, however, that it was no accident.
Rumors of Daemon Targaryen wanting to rid his niece of her lover. Rumors of Corlys Velaryon exacting revenge for Harwin cuckolding his son. Rumors of your last remaining brother, Larys Strong, murdering his own blood to claim his inheritance.
You paid no mind to the rumors. It was an accident, and that was that.
Life is not fair, you could hear your brother’s voice say to you. He was right—nothing was fair.
After their deaths, you spent days weeping in your chambers. Jacaerys and Lucerys often dropped by to check in on you, offering to take you down to the Dragonpits in hopes of cheering you up. You’d sniffled and shook your head, curling up in the center of your bed. Rhaenyra, who saw you more like a daughter than anything, took the liberty of bringing food to your chambers, urging you to eat something.
“It’s okay to cry, sweet girl,” she told you, sitting by the edge of your bed and stroking the hair away from your face. When you began to quietly sob, she wound her arms around your small frame, and held you close to her chest.
The fortnight after their deaths, everyone treated you as if you were hewn from glass. They spoke slowly and cautiously, treading on eggshells around you. Even Jace and Luke seemed hesitant to play with you anymore, afraid you’d burst into hysterical tears any second.
What made it worse was when Rhaenyra announced that she was leaving King’s Landing with her children for Dragonstone. It was devastating news—for she and her sons were the closest thing you had left to a family.
Jace hugged you goodbye, eyes teary and nose red. Little Luke clung to your legs and begged you to come with them. Even Rhaenyra had offered you a place on the ship to join them on their journey, her voice kind but so very tired.
“You will always have a place with us, sweet girl,” she had told you, lips pressing a gentle kiss to your hairline. The Princess considered you the daughter she never had—always fiercely protective of you. With Harwin gone, that feeling only increased thricefold. You were practically her family by now.
But you couldn’t leave King’s Landing with Rhaenyra and the boys. Not with Larys Strong anchoring you to the Red Keep—and certainly not with Alicent breathing down both of your necks.
And so you watched them sail away, face drenched with your tears and hands clenched into fists by your side.
You abhorred it all, wishing everything could just go back to how they were before.
Out of all the other children at court, Princess Helaena was the only one who treated you the same as she did before, all misty-eyed and odd-of-tongue. Because of this, you found yourself glued to her side, desperate for a sense of normalcy, which you ironically found in the strangest of girls. She was a fascinating person, far more intelligent than first meets the eye—with a peculiar interest in critters and insects lurking in the shadows.
She was rather fond of you as well, though not at all used to having friends, much less other girls who took her fixations seriously and didn’t think her gross for it. Queen Alicent was mortified at having a Strong girl befriend her daughter, and yet was simultaneously relieved that she finally had someone to call a friend. Besides, having you on her side was more of an advantage than anything—especially with Larys Strong backed in her corner, as well.
“The butterfly has two large, black spots on the bottom of its wings,” said Helaena as she crouched down beside you, holding her palms up to brandish the small insect. “They are to trick the larger animals into thinking they are eyes. It is a defense tactic. The butterfly is not who the rest thinks she is.”
You smiled at her, raising a finger to touch the little insect, only for it to flutter away before you could get too close, hurrying back to the gardens.
“They’re beautiful,” you said, watching it disappear amongst the flowers. “Masters of trickery, though.”
“Yes,” surmised Helaena, though her gaze was fixed on you. “Beautiful. Deceitful. Both equally true.”
It had been three weeks since your brother and father passed.
And yet, here you were, at someone else’s funeral in Driftmark. Laena Velaryon—the late wife to Prince Daemon Targaryen.
You’d pleaded with Larys, begged him to allow you to go back to Harrenhal to mourn your family—but he only supplied you with a crooked smile and told you that you belonged in King’s Landing. With Larys being your only kin left standing, adamant with his refusal to return home to properly grieve over Harwin and Lyonel, it seemed that you were stuck with him.
You were never very fond of Larys to begin with.
At Laena’s funeral, you made it your job to avoid him as much as you could, following behind Jacaerys and Lucerys. It was strange and pleasant under the worst circumstances seeing them again so soon after such an emotional farewell.
Rhaenyra wove through the crowd, bowing her head to you with soft eyes, before fixing her gaze on her eldest son.
“Your little cousins have lost their mother,” she said. “They could use a kind word.”
Jacaerys looked to you, then back up to his mother. “We have an equal claim to sympathy.”
Brows furrowing, Rhaenyra looked around to make sure none of the lords and ladies were listening in. “Jace—”
“We should be at Harrenhal, mourning Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin. It is not fair to Y/N,” he stressed, jaw clenched. Tears warbled over your irises, but you quickly blinked them away.
“You’re right—it’s not fair. But it would not be appropriate. The Velaryons are our kin and the Strongs are not. Look at me, Jace. Do you understand?”
Bearing a sour face, Jacaerys nodded, before trudging off to give his condolences to his little cousins.
You watched him go, looking up at Rhaenyra with wide eyes. “Nothing in life is fair.”
The silver-haired Princess shot you a questioning look, but you turned and made your way into the shadows, where you knew her half-sister, Helaena was playing.
“Hand turns loom, spool of green, spool of black, dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread,” she chimed, repeating the words over and over again, cradling a spider in her palms.
When she caught sight of you, she didn’t stop her mantra, but dipped her head in greeting. She offered you the spider, but you shook your head with a kind smile, allowing her to keep playing around with the spindly arachnid.
From about a meter away, Aemond and Aegon watched the two of you.
“We have nothing in common,” the elder of the two bemoaned, slurping wine from a golden chalice. He was referring to the fact that he was betrothed to his sister now, something that neither of them seemed particularly pleased about.
Aemond pursed his lips. “She’s our sister.”
“You marry her, then,” Aegon shot back.
“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.” He watched curiously as you tossed your head back with a laugh when Helaena whispered something about collecting spider webs in a jar. Come to think of it, Aemond couldn’t remember ever hearing you laugh before. Memories of you besting him in combat flashed before his eyes.
“If only,” snorted Aegon.
“It would strengthen the family. Keep our Valyrian blood pure.”
Pulling a disgusted face, Aegon looked to his brother. “She’s an idiot!”
“She’s your future queen,” spat Aemond.
“I’d rather take the one beside her,” said Aegon, eyes glued to you. “She is growing to be a fine girl… considering how she beat your arse to the ground.”
Aemond supplied him with no answer. He was no stranger to Aegon’s lustful ramblings.
“Actually, we do have one thing in common—we both fancy creatures with long legs!” chortled the older prince, before sauntering away, off to hunt down a maid for another cup of wine. “Wench! Another!”
This left Aemond to shake his head with revolt, observing his brother go.
He spotted his nephew, Jacaerys, not too far. A part of him wanted to say something, offer his sympathies or apologies—but when Jace lifted his head and stared straight at him, Aemond could feel the words lodging in his throat, and he turned to walk away.
You observed the interaction from afar. Aemond caught your eye, merely for a brief moment, but it felt like an eternity.
And, much to your surprise, he made his way to you.
“I offer my condolences, Lady Strong,” he said, rigidly formal. “It is tragic what happened to your brother and father.”
You bowed your head, lips trembling. Though the two of you have certainly had your differences, Aemond was not heartless. He knew you were suffering a great loss.
“Thank you, my Prince,” you croaked.
The two of you stood in silence.
“I… I’m sorry. For snapping at you in the Dragonpit.”
Your head shot up in surprise. There was little you could think of saying, so you gave him a small smile—one that he mirrored after a moment’s hesitation.
Somewhere in the distance, the pained roar of Vhagar echoed over the seas.
It was the dead of night.
You were already sound asleep when Luke burst into your chambers, grabbing your shoulder and shaking you awake.
“Y/N, wake up, wake up!” he whisper-yelled.
Groaning, you peered open an eye and sat up. “What?” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.
“Someone stole Vhagar!” he said, tugging you off the bed and ushering your bleary form along. Jacaerys, Baela, and Rhaena were already rushing out to see who had taken the old beast of a dragon.
Not at all sleepy anymore, your eyes widened upon seeing Aemond clamber off the dragon.
“It’s him!” gasped Baela.
Aemond cocked his head. “It’s me.”
Face contorting with rage, Baela gritted out, “Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!”
“Your mother’s dead,” said Aemond. Briefly, his gaze flicked to you, before looking back at the two Targaryen girls. “Vhagar has a new rider now.”
“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena gruffed.
“Then you should’ve claimed her,” retorted Aemond. “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you.”
A soft gasp lodged in your throat when Rhaena strode forward with a growl, aiming a loose punch at Aemond’s face. He easily dodged, grabbing her shoulders and shoving her off to the side. Baela rushed towards him next, landing a good punch to his face. He yelled out and struck her back, a bilious crack of his fist against her skin ringing out against the stone walls.
“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” threatened Aemond.
His words made Jace yell out and jump forward, driving Luke to attack, as well. Aemond made quick work of the boys, kicking Jace back and punching Luke so hard in the face that his nose cracked beneath the pressure.
You were hesitant to fight Aemond, you really were—especially when the two of you seemed to have just gotten over your grievances with one another.
But he’d hurt your friends, and you wouldn’t stand for that. Harwin certainly wouldn’t have.
“Stop this!” you told him, protectively standing between Luke and Aemond. When he only set his jaw, you gave him a hard shove back. The conflict that danced within the purple of his irises was tangible—you could see it.
He didn’t want to fight you.
Your push took him by surprise, sending him sprawling onto the hard ground. Baela, Rhaena, and Jace took advantage of this, jumping forward to rain punch after hit after kick on the young Prince. He was bleeding now—red leaking from his nose, his lips, his fists.
“Stop! Stop!” you screamed at them, grabbing at Rhaena’s hand and trying to pull her back, to no avail. “Jace, stop!”
Luke pushed away from you to join the skirmish.
To your horror, Aemond grabbed a large rock that had come loose from the cobblestone walls, curling his bloodied fingers around it. The other hand shot out to wrap around Lucerys’ throat.
“You will die screaming in flames, just as your father did! Bastards!” spat Aemond into Luke’s face. The words seemed to have fallen from his lips without thought, as if completely forgetting that you were there.
But what he said had struck a chord within you. How dare he speak of your brother in such a way? You wished to move, to hit Aemond until he was nothing but a bloodied pile of flesh and bone—but he still held Luke in his grasp, and the looming threat of the rock in his other hand.
Confused, little Luke choked out, “My father’s still alive!”
“He doesn’t know, does he?” Aemond looked to Jace then to you, then back to Jace. “Lord Strong?”
Furious, Jace unsheathed a small dagger.
No.
No, if Jace were to kill Aemond… it would only make matters all the worse.
“Jace, no—!” you began, but your warning fell upon deaf ears.
Jacaerys dove forward with the dagger, but Aemond knocked him down with the rock thudding against his cheek, the blade flying. to the other side of the corridor. Aemond let go of the younger Velaryon in his haste.
This was a mistake.
Luke crawled about in the sand, grabbing the hilt of the dagger Jace had dropped. Working in tandem, the elder brother threw sand in Aemond’s eyes, momentarily blinding him, and Luke stood up, slashing the sharp metal straight across the side of Aemond’s face with a sickening squelch. Blade slicing flesh.
Blood splattered everywhere. All over Luke’s hands, over the dagger, over the sand.
A scream erupted from Aemond’s lungs as he clutched his maimed face with his hands, falling to his knees.
Drip, drip, drip. The blood dripped through the cracks between his fingers.
You rushed forward to the Prince out of pure instinct, grabbing his shoulders and cupping the uninjured side of his face, your breathing staggered and rapid. All the hatred you’d felt for him—all the anger, the rage, the frustration—flew right out the window at the sight of him hurt so badly.
“Aemond!” you cried. The blood was too much—pouring down his tunic, onto your own sleepwear, staining your skin.
“Cease this at once!” bellowed a voice from behind you. “Get away!”
Criston Cole ripped you away from Aemond, under the impression that you were the one that was hurting him, kneeling beside the Prince.
You began to hyperventilate, scrambling back until you hit the wall. Blood on your hands, under your nails, dampening your clothes—
Someone, you weren’t quite sure who, hauled you up, dragging you through the castle, Jace and Luke in tow.
Everyone was gathered into a large room. A maester was stitching up Aemond’s wound by the fireplace, Alicent knelt by her beloved son’s side. You stood by Jace and Luke, trembling viciously and eyes warbling with unshed tears.
“How could you allow such a thing to happen?” King Viserys asked the guards, voice cross and brows furrowed.
“The princes were supposed to be abed. Prince Aemond was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace,” replied Criston.
With a snarl, Viserys hobbled onto his feet, leaning his weight onto a cane. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!”
“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes—” began Criston.
“That is no answer!” yelled the King.
Worriedly, Alicent asked, “It will heal, will it not, maester?”
Hesitant, the maester pursed his lips. “The flesh will heal. But the eye is lost, Your Grace.”
Alicent’s expression seemed to fall at his words. She rounded to her eldest son, who stood behind her, not caring nearly enough for his brother who’d just lost his eye.
“And where were you?” screeched Alicent, rising to her feet.
“Me?” said Aegon, flabbergasted at the attention suddenly being on him.
A smack rang loud and true throughout the room as Alicent struck him across the face.
Crying out, Aegon shrunk away from his mother. “Ow! What was that for?”
“That was nothing compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” she hissed.
Just then, the doors swung open, and Corlys Velaryon strode into the room, his wife Rhaenys just behind him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, voice booming.
“Baela, Rhaena!” gasped Rhaenys. “What happened?”
The girls rushed to their grandmother.
Rhaenyra hastily came through a different set of doors, Daemon hot on her heels. Upon seeing her sons, she hurried towards them, immediately kneeling down beside Luke.
“Show me,” she told him, gently prying his hand away from his nose to inspect the damage.
A tear slipped down your cheek. The Velaryon girls had their grandparents. Jace and Luke had their mother. Aemond had his mother, as well as his siblings.
You… who did you have to comfort you? Harwin was gone. Your mother was gone. Your father was gone.
Your lips trembled. Never before had you wished to just disappear from the face of the world.
“Who did this?” barked Rhaenyra.
“They attacked me!” said Aemond.
“He attacked Baela!”
“He broke Luke’s nose!”
“He stole my mother’s dragon!”
The kids all began throwing accusations, their combined voices drowning each other out. Your head began to throb with their volume. You glanced at your dear friend Helaena, who put her hands over her ears to block out the noise.
“Enough,” ordered the King.
Nobody listened.
“He was gonna kill Jace!”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Enough!” said the King.
Again, nobody listened.
“It should be my son telling the tale!” Alicent yelled.
“He was choking me!”
“He called us—!”
“SILENCE!” bellowed Viserys, knocking his cane against the ground repeatedly. The crowd fell into a lulled murmur. “Aemond. I will have the truth of what happened. Now.”
Brows furrowed, Alicent shook her head, auburn curls flying every which way. “What else is there to hear? Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible.”
Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched. “It was a regrettable accident.”
“Accident?” scoffed Alicent. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son!”
Voice raising, Rhaenyra defended, “It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them!”
Viserys tilted his head. “What insults?”
A beat of silence.
Rhaenyra gripped Luke’s hand in hers. “The legitimacy of my sons’ birth was put loudly to question.”
“He called us bastards,” Jacaerys said.
“My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra told her father. “This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”
Alicent’s fists clenched by her side. “Over an insult? My son has lost an eye.”
Viserys leaned down closer to Aemond. “You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?”
Desperate to place the blame away from her son, Alicent cut in, “The insult was training yard bluster, nothing more—”
“Aemond,” Viserys sharply said, ignoring his wife. “I asked you a question.”
Aemond remained silent.
“Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys’ father?” asked Alicent. “Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter.”
Rhaenyra’s jaw twitched with muted anger. “I do not know, Your Grace. I… could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.”
Alicent huffed. “Entertaining his young squires, I would venture.”
Criston cracked an amused smile at her words.
“Aemond,” said Viserys. “Look at me. Your King demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”
The young Prince swallowed heavily. “It was Aegon,” he reluctantly said.
“Me?” parroted Aegon.
“Where did you hear such calumnies?” snarled Viserys to his eldest son. When Aegon refused to answer, he yelled out loud enough for you to flinch, “AEGON! Tell me the truth of it!”
The silver-haired prince refused to meet the King’s eyes.
“We know, father,” he said. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”
A tense silence folded over the crowd, only stifled by the flames of the hearth crackling. You shifted uncomfortably, stuck in the middle between Rhaenyra’s side—the side that you grew up with, the side you loved so dearly—and Alicent’s side—the side of the sweet Princess Helaena, and the Prince Aemond who’d just lost his eye. The side of your only brother left, Larys Strong. You felt stretched thin—uncertain of what to think of yourself.
“This interminable infighting must cease!” bellowed Viserys. “All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to each other. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!”
Thinking the matter over and done with, Viserys began to hobble away.
Alicent’s words stopped him in his tracks.
“That is insufficient,” she said. A thin film of tears reflected the golden light of the torches hanging on the walls. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, My King. Good will cannot make him whole.”
“I know, Alicent,” Viserys placated, “but I cannot restore his eye.”
“No, because it’s been taken!”
Viserys shook his head. “What would you have me do?”
Alicent casted her gaze to Rhaenyra. “There is a debt to be paid. I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.”
Gasps murmured through the crowd. You drew in a shaky breath, shuffling closer to Rhaenyra and her sons, until you practically stood in front of Luke. He was your friend—your kin—and you would be damned if you were to let anyone touch him.
“My dear wife…” began Viserys.
“He is your son, Viserys!” Alicent pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. “Your blood.”
“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgement,” he warned.
Frustrated beyond relief, Alicent gnashed her teeth together and said, “If the King will not see justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston… bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”
Scared, Luke grabbed onto the back of your sleeping shift, looking up at his mother with frightened eyes.
“He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son!” she gritted out.
“You will do no such thing!” hissed Rhaenyra.
Turning to Criston, Viserys ordered, “Stay your hand!”
“No, you are sworn to me!” asserted Alicent.
Cole’s eyes darted from the Queen, to the King, to Rhaenyra. “As your protector, My Queen,” he softly said.
“Alicent, this matter is finished,” Viserys said, voice heavy with finality. “Do you understand?”
A tear fell from Alicent’s cold eyes.
“Let it be known,” the King began, addressing the entire crowd this time, “anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons should have it removed.”
Blowing out a relieved exhale, Rhaenyra dipped her head. “Thank you, father.”
With sudden movements, Alicent unsheathed Viserys’ dagger from his belt and marched towards Rhaenyra and her sons.
Instinctively, you grabbed Luke and dragged him further back, shielding his body with your own. Luke began screaming out of fear when Alicent brought down the blade onto his mother, only barely held back by Rhaenyra’s hand wrapping around her wrist.
The crowd erupted in pandemonium, with guards frantically pushing each other back, not knowing who to defend. The king’s wife, or the king’s daughter and heir? Daemon came forward to stop Criston in his tracks. You tightly held onto Luke, eyes wide and heart beating frantically.
“You’ve gone too far!” Rhaenyra told the Queen.
“I?” Alicent’s voice trembled. The blade was held between them, shaking and glowing with the reflections of the hearth’s fire. “What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law! While you flout all to do as you please!”
“Alicent, let her go!” commanded Viserys.
They both ignored him.
“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?” cried Alicent. “It’s trampled under your pretty foot again!”
For the first time since everyone was gathered, her father, Otto Hightower, the new King’s Hand, said, “Release the blade, Alicent.”
“And now you take my son’s eye, and to even that, you feel entitled!” said Alicent.
“Exhausting, wasn’t it?” replied Rhaenyra. “Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness! But now they see you as you are.”
With a yell, Alicent brought down her blade and staggered back. Its sharp edge had cut through the fabric of Rhaenyra’s sleeve, carving a deep gash across the inside of her forearm.
Blood. Dripping. Thick. Red.
Luke gripped your hand tightly. The dagger in Alicent’s palm fell to the ground.
Rising from the chair, you got a good look at Aemond's wound for the first time since you entered.
It was swollen and red, the stitches extending from the top of his forehead to the side of his ear. Your heart ached—whether it was for Aemond, for Jace and Luke, or for Rhaenyra, you couldn’t at all tell.
“Do not mourn me, mother,” said Aemond. “It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye… but I gained a dragon.”
Viserys blew out a shaking breath. He was tired, and his body grew weary. “This proceeding is at an end.”
With that, the crowd began to disperse. You let Luke go, and he went rushing forth to his mother.
You watched as Aemond leaned his head on his mother’s chest.
A guard began ushering you out of the room and back to your chambers before you had the chance to tell him that you were sorry.
Barely a moon after Laena Velaryon’s funeral, Aegon and Helaena were getting married. It was held in haste, most likely to distract the court from the incident at Driftmark—give them something else to talk about for a change.
You sat in Helaena’s chambers as her ladies fussed over her, pulling the strings of her ivory dress, tying her hair into intricate knots, and applying rouge to her cheeks and lips. It was a much more elaborate process than what your own lady-in-waiting had done to you—all you had was a simple, ocean-hued dress with intricate patterns of deep green running down the length of the fabric. Your hair was pinned away from your face and a chain of silver pearls rested against your sternum. Though it was nice to wear such pretty things, you couldn’t help but feel as if you were just playing dress up—as if these clothes didn’t actually belong to you, like you were donning a charade for the night.
Whilst you were only nine, your name day having passed quietly a few moons ago, Helaena was at the ripe age of ten-and-three—she was barely of age to be married off—to her vile older brother, no less, but Alicent had insisted.
The young Princess’ eyes were clouded over, as if her mind was far, far away. She might’ve been here with you physically, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
“Three silver eggs, twisting, twisting, twisting… the blood curdles, the milk dries,” she murmured as the handmaidens finished with their final touches. Once they were done, they bowed their heads and left Helaena’s chambers.
You moved closer to her, your fingers grazing over her the smooth green-gold cloth on her shoulder.
“Helaena,” you whispered, heart aching for her. “I’m sorry. I wish I could whisk you away, keep you from the abomination that is your brother. If only I had a large dragon of my own to carry you off onto.”
“You will have a dragon,” she said absentmindedly. It didn’t slip your notice that she had completely disregarded the mention of her wedding, as if pushing it far and distant into the back of her mind. Perhaps if she didn’t think about it, the pain wouldn’t sting as much.
Helaena was not one to jest, but you waved away her words as if she had.
“If… if you need me to do something—anything, Helaena, I can’t just stand by and watch you suffer. It is not honorable. You deserve someone kind and loving… Aegon is not capable of granting you such luxuries.” It was as if you were pleading with her to say something—to try and stop this accursed union. In truth, you knew that you were powerless against the might of Alicent and her loyal subjects.
You were nobody. You were well aware of that fact.
But as of that very second, you would’ve gone to the ends of the earth for the sweet, cloudy-eyed Princess.
She fixed you with a fond gaze, though still far away.
“A dragon cannot hide the same way a butterfly can,” she whispered.
The corner of your eyes pricked with tears. “Princess, please—”
Before you could continue, the door to Helaena’s chambers swung open, and Alicent swiftly hurried in. You stepped away from your friend to give the Queen space to fuss over her.
It was time for the wedding.
The ceremony started with the septon reciting prayers, so lengthy and repetitive that your eyes drooped with the silent threat of sleep. Aegon stood beside the septon, shoulders slumped and muffling yawns every other minute.
Once the septon had finally wrapped up, the grand doors of the Sept swung open, and King Viserys walked in with Helaena on his left side. He parted with a gentle kiss to his second daughter’s forehead. It was no secret that Viserys very obviously favored his eldest child, Rhaenyra, but out of the four others, he had a certain muted soft spot for Helaena and her strange mysticism. You would’ve been surprised if he even remembered Aemond and Daeron’s names.
“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” The septon’s voice rang clear and true, echoing loudly in your head.
Looking none too pleased, Aegon all but threw the cloak over Helaena’s smaller frame, the Targaryen sigil seeming distorted from where you were standing.
“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of the gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”
Now and forever.
Your heart fell lower to your stomach.
The septon tied a knot with red ribbon around their joined hands—Aegon angrily holding onto her palm while hers was limp in his grasp.
“Let it be known that Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, and Helaena Targaryen, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”
With one tug, the red ribbon between them unraveled.
The Princess bore no emotion as she began to speak in unison with Aegon, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”
A lie. Aegon would never be Helaena’s.
You let your gaze travel to Alicent at the side, wiping a tear from her eyes. Anger bubbled within your chest. Right beside her was Aemond, a leather eyepatch fixed over his injury. His face betrayed no expression.
“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Aegon said emotionlessly, as if he were reading from an invisible script. He held Helaena’s face and planted a quick kiss on her lips. The two turned to the audience, who burst into raucous applause.
You did not clap.
The wedding feast following the ceremony was, expectedly, large and extravagant. Lords and ladies from all over the realm milled about as they ate and chattered and danced to the music.
Helaena sat beside Aegon on the longtable, refusing to eat any of her pigeon pie, repeatedly poking holes through the chunks of meat with the prongs of the fork. Her brother—now husband—had refused to lead the first dance with her, instead choosing to crossly slump into his chair and knock back chalice after chalice of spiced wine.
With little appetite to eat, you had taken to ghost around the expansive room, head abuzz with thoughts of Rhaenyra, Jace and Luke. A few lords had halted you in your tracks, asking for a dance, but you’d politely declined them all. You hardly paid attention during dancing lessons with the Septa and you were sure you’d trip over your own feet and make a fool of yourself. That, and you were in no mood to dance with lords thrice your age.
During your fourth cycle around the large room, bored out of your mind, you felt someone’s stare burning a hole into the back of your neck.
Aemond Targaryen.
He was looking straight at you, unabashedly.
Memories of his blood on your hands flashed through your mind. You ripped your gaze away.
Suddenly feeling sick, you hurriedly wove through the packed room, murmuring apologies when you accidentally trod over a few unsuspecting feet, and rushed out of the hall, just about fleeing to your chambers.
As soon as you shut the doors behind you, you began to sob uncontrollably, sliding down the wood and burying your tearful face between your knees.
The next morning, you felt terrible for leaving the feast early, and consequently, Helaena alone, as she suffered through the trauma of the bedding ceremony. The ladies of the court gossipped between bouts of laughter as they recounted Helaena’s fearful face when men began tearing at her clothes and carrying her off to Aegon’s chambers.
It was said that Helaena’s pained cries could be heard echoing across the Keep for the first few minutes, until she fell utterly silent. The creaking of the bed, however, didn’t cease for the rest of the night.
The gardens smelled of fresh morning dew and sweet clementines. You walked alongside Helaena, her hand softly resting in the crook of your arm as she dreamily chattered about how she once found a ladybug with no spots eating a small spider in under five minutes. It’d been nearly two weeks since she was wed, and she often hastily changed the subject to something else whenever you tried to bring the matter up.
“The poor spider,” you said, stopping to admire a bush of white roses. “But I suppose a ladybug must eat.”
“Yes,” Helaena hummed in agreement.
The rest of your walk was comfortably silent when you led her to a shaded spot beneath the fruit trees, where you had a blanket laid out beforehand.
A small millipede crawled out from the grass onto the blanket, and Helaena smiled at the critter, holding her hands out to let it climb onto her awaiting palms. The princess watched it snake along her skin with her earnest purple eyes.
“People often confuse millipedes with centipedes,” she explained. “Centipedes have one pair of legs for each body segment. Millipedes have two.”
The millipede scuttled down her fingers as she set it back down on the ground.
You blew out a pleased sigh, turning your head up to the sky and shutting your eyes, letting yourself bask in the warmth of the late morning sun.
“You are a fascinating person indeed, Helaena,” you told her, a laugh to your tone. “No other in the entirety of Westeros can speak of bug legs and make it interesting.”
The princess smiled, all wide and toothy. It fell the next moment when she began speaking again.
“I am with child, I think,” she whispered.
Startled at the sudden confession, you snapped your head her way, eyes wide, searching her face for any sign of insincerity. But again, Helaena was never one to jest.
You gathered her hands between yours. “Are you certain, my Princess?”
Grey seemed to cloud over her vision. “Quite. I saw it in my dreams. Two pairs of legs for each body segment.”
Your brows furrowed. Was she speaking of babies or of millipedes?
Blinking in confusion, you shook your head, allowing for a small, fond smile to replace your miffed expression. “You will make a wonderful mother, Helaena. I’m sure of it. I will be there for you every step of the way.”
Wary that she wasn’t too keen on prolonged physical touch, you loosely tugged her into an embrace. She smelled of honey cakes and rich soil. Her cheek rested against your shoulder and she shut her eyes, grateful for your friendship.
“Two pairs of legs for each body segment,” she mumbled again, voice low. “A millipede regrows limbs that are cut off. A dragon cannot.”
Training without Harwin proved to be a challenge on its own—but you were nothing if not determined.
You often snuck out to a secluded part of the yard when the pale moon was high in the sky and the sun had hours until it was due to rise. At first, you weren’t entirely sure how to go about teaching yourself how to fight. But you worked on honing the same skills Harwin had taught you for three years. Speed, agility, accuracy, strength—all were important. Though, not as important as keeping a sharp mind.
You frequented the library often, reading voluminous tomes on the history of blades and the art of battle. The faded words on the parchment told you secrets to fighting that you had a feeling not even the most seasoned of knights knew. One that had certainly caught your attention was the fact that there were certain points in a man’s body you could strike that would render them temporarily paralyzed. You wished you had an excess of detestable men lying around to practice your newfound knowledge on.
As Aegon and Aemond continued their sparring with Ser Criston Cole, you watched from the shadows, observing their technique and creating mental notes on their habitual weaknesses. Ever since Aemond had lost his eye, he worked twice as hard to better himself. He wasn’t going to let the loss of an eye hinder him from becoming a warrior.
But that didn’t make him invincible. Aemond was still greatly disadvantaged with such a large part of his peripheral vision gone.
It wasn’t until a few moons later, when you were ten and Aemond was twelve, did he confront you again.
You were testing the accuracy of your knife-throwing, two small blades you had nicked from the armory gripped in your hands. Pulling your hand back, you narrowed your eyes at the target, and let it fly forward. It sank into the ringed wood with a dull thud, but had veered slightly off course when you released, resulting in a less-than-satisfactory result.
With a frustrated huff, you tried again, this time changing the way you had thrown it.
The blade whistled as it carved through the air, but strayed even farther from the center.
Before you could react to your disappointing performance, a voice resounded from right beside you, making you let out a small shriek and flinch away with surprise.
It was the Prince.
“You’re holding the knife wrong,” he said, voice not unkind, single eye observing your defensive stance. In three strides, he tugged the blades out of the wood, making his way back to you. “You use your thumb to neutralize the blade’s rotation. Like this.”
He demonstrated, and you watched in silence.
When he returned the blades back to you, you attempted to mimic what he had shown, glancing up at him for approval.
“Move your grip lower,” he said, lifting his hands to gently shift the knife in your palm. His touch was cold, but you didn’t quite mind.
“Thank you, my Prince.” Your voice was but a hoarse whisper. Aemond nodded once, stepping back to give you space to try again.
This time, when you flung it to the target, it was far closer to the center, only barely grazing the white marker of the inner circle.
You grinned, proud of the drastic improvement.
“I’ve seen you sneak out to train nearly every night by now. Why?” the silver-haired boy asked, almost suspiciously. He didn’t forget the way you had shoved him just before he lost his eye.
The memory of Harwin telling you that you had to be prepared for a real fight briefly flashed in the back of your mind. You swallowed down the lump in your throat.
“I want to be ready,” you replied, pointedly avoiding his burning stare. You thought back to Helaena’s wedding, when he hadn’t taken his gaze off of you the entire night.
“What are you readying yourself for?”
Squaring your jaw and straightening your posture, you quietly told the one-eyed prince, “Life is unfair, Aemond. I am merely preparing to balance the scales.”
Before he could think of a response to your cryptic words, a rivulet of electrifying pain struck his empty eye socket behind the patch, ricocheting into waves throughout the rest of his skull. Aemond let out a soft cry as he doubled over in agony, hands flying to his face. It reminded you eerily of when Luke had first slashed the eye out, a memory that haunted your nightmares far more often than it should have.
Panicked, you shuffled closer to him, one of your hands grazing his back, unsure of what to do.
“Aemond! Are you alright? Should I summon the maester?” you hurriedly queried, feet already moving away, getting ready to dash off as you waited for his answer.
“No,” he gritted out through the pain, glancing up at you with his features twisted with misery. It was humiliating—Aemond felt ashamed of himself for showing his pain, for revealing a crack through his usually stoic demeanor. He felt ugly. He felt vile. He felt weak.
A restless protest was on the tip of your tongue. “My Prince, you’re clearly hurting, please—”
“No!” he repeated himself, a sharp edge of finality to his tone. “They’ll just give me more milk of the poppy—!”
Again, he doubled over, a muted roar rumbling within his chest. Not knowing what else to do, you clutched his shoulders, eyes frantically searching his single one.
After a second, Aemond seemed to snap back into his senses, flinching from your touch and just about ripping himself away from you. Mortification flooded his quickly-paling features. He turned on his heel and ran off without another word.
Plumes of dust flew up from the covers of the heavy book when you set it down on a table. Grimacing and waving a hand in front of your face, you flipped the tome open. It was an old, lengthy volume on medicinal alchemy—a genre that you seldom read and knew little to nothing about.
But for Aemond, you supposed you’d give it a shot.
The chapter you began to read was on remedies for severe wounds, such as fallen limbs or shattered bones. You were learning far too much about the grotesque nature of the human body than you had initially bargained for. Illustrations of cauterizations, sanitizations, and all sorts of diagrams of nude men filled the large pages. For your young eyes, you couldn’t quite comprehend most of what you were seeing.
However, once you fell upon the optics chapter, you perked up, reading through the small text word by word. You were hoping that by reading more about problems with the eye, you’d be able to help Aemond out with his pain in some way. If there even was a way.
And as you read on, you found a small section on the near-magical works of a plant native to Dorne—a Sabar root. It was said to be all-curing and was often used to heal outer wounds. The footnote even detailed historical accounts of the root’s juices restoring the vision of those born blind. Though you doubted that to be true, you couldn’t help but hold onto the hope that it could help Aemond with the pain, even just a little bit.
You scampered out of the library with the thick book clutched to your chest, hurrying down the Red Keep’s stairs, scrambling towards the rookery, where they kept the messenger ravens. Beneath the rookery was where the Grand Maester resided.
You were but a small thing compared to the large wooden slab of a door. Knocking thrice, the door creaked open not two seconds later, revealing Maester Mellos, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Lady Strong…? What are you doing here? The hour is late, child, you should be in bed!” he scolded, fixing you with a narrowed gaze.
You shoved the book up into his face, a pleading expression on your face. “Maester Mellos, I have found something that might help Aemond’s condition!”
“Condition…?” he began, looking startled. It was late at night, and a ten year old was at his doorstep proposing a remedy to an issue he hadn’t even known existed. To his knowledge, Prince Aemond was healing just fine and had little to no complications since he had taken the stitches out. “Forgive me, my Lady, but I am rather busy at the moment and would really prefer to have this conversation with you when the sun rises. Sleep well, Lady Strong.”
Before you could get another word in, the large door croaked shut in your face, and you were left staring at the dark wood. With a dejected huff, you turned and marched straight back into the Keep. Up the stairs you climbed, arms growing weary with how long you’d been lugging around the heavy tome.
You came to a stop in front of Aemond’s chambers, right beside Princess Helaena’s old bedroom from before she was married to Aegon. A room you used to frequent to visit your dear friend, which resulted in several awkward, and silent passes with the Prince.
It didn’t occur to you just how improper this was—knocking on the door of the Prince in the dead of night when you should’ve been in your own chambers, fast asleep. But this was important, and you needed to let Aemond know since the Maester wouldn’t listen to a word you said.
The door barely opened, revealing only a small sliver of space, where Aemond peered through to check who it was. In his hand was a dagger he kept beneath his pillow in case of emergencies. His grip slackened when he saw you behind the door, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes fiery with determination. He opened the door slightly wider, both curious and confused as to what you were doing in front of his chambers at such a late time.
“Prince Aemond,” you breathlessly said. His gaze drew down to the large book you held, nearly larger than your small, ten-year-old form. “I found something that might help your pain. It’s a plant root that only grows in Dorne, you see, but I’m sure they can have some imported to King’s Landing upon your request. I believe it can be used to relieve you of your suffering.”
Shock dawned upon his features. You’d done all this research… for him? For an issue that he never spoke of to anyone? Even after he had rudely scampered away from you with his tail between his legs like a wounded hound?
He struggled to find the right words. Should he thank you? Tell you he was sorry?
Instead, Aemond found himself saying, “Why are you doing this?”
A moment of silence. Outside the Keep, the winds howled with the threat of a coming storm.
“I told you,” you whispered to the Prince, features softening. “I’m balancing the scales.”
The months passed by in a blur. You corresponded with Jace and Luke in the form of letters via raven quite often, always visiting the rookery with a bright smile and an excited bounce to your step at the prospect of learning about the boys’ stay at Dragonstone. It seemed that Jacaerys was struggling with learning Valyrian, and little Luke was growing like a beanstalk. Princess Rhaenyra had already birthed two new sons on Dragonstone with her uncle-husband, Daemon—respectively named Aegon the Younger and Viserys, after the King. In his writings, Luke took care to detail that both babes had silver hair and purple eyes, traits that he and his elder brother both lacked. It was his way of saying that he knew you were his kin—his true blood.
They always signed off with a promise of visiting soon.
Soon truly couldn’t come soon enough.
Your training continued as normal, and more often than not, Aemond would be there with you, offering tips and gentle words of advice. He was not strict in the way that Criston Cole was, leaving you the choice of whether to listen or not, taking no offense if you decided to forgo his teachings. The two of you sparsely spoke outside of that, but you sometimes caught his eye during mealtimes, in which you’d offer him a small, grateful smile. He didn’t return them, but would dip his head in acknowledgement instead.
Helaena’s belly grew large—larger than most pregnancies—and the maesters had concluded that she was bearing twins. It was shocking news, one that elated Alicent and Helaena to no end. This only sent you into a spiral of worry, however, knowing that births were but the gods’ dangerous gambles. Having twins only doubled the risk of complications during the labor.
Thankfully, when the time came around for Helaena to give birth, everything had gone smoothly with very few bumps in the road. She had begged you to stay by her side the entire time, and you were more than happy to comply. It filled you with a sense of pride that she asked you to be there with her over her own Queen mother.
The first twin to come out was a screaming boy with tufts of silvery hair and large purple eyes. He was the spitting image of his father, and you could only pray that he wouldn’t turn out like him in the future. More interestingly, however, the little boy had six toes on each foot and six fingers on his left hand. The midwives had shrieked in partial-surprise, partial-disgust upon their discovery, but you had swept the boy into your awaiting arms, gently rocking him up and down with a wide grin.
The second twin, a girl, came out mute. Your heart lurched in your chest—you had come out silent when you were a babe, as well. She was noticeably much smaller, and bore the same hair and eye color as her twin. Her features, however, matched that of Helaena’s, to your delight. The small girl was eased into Helaena’s arms, seeming perfectly healthy, other than the fact that she was strangely quiet.
“You did so well, Helaena,” you told her, kneeling down by the birthing bed to show her her son. Your dear friend grinned tiredly, murmuring a quiet hello to her eldest child. “They’re beautiful.”
Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, their names were. You could already feel a protective love blossom inside of you, swearing to guard them with every fiber of your being. It occurred to you that this was what Harwin must’ve felt when you were born, though you were far younger than he had been.
The thought only had you clutching the wailing babe closer to your chest.
Helaena’s children grew at an exponential rate. The twins had quickly become your favorite part of the day—it was a rare sight to see you without one of the children clinging to your legs, or you without the Princess by your side.
Little Jaehaerys was loud and boisterous, being the first to crawl, to speak, and to run. He was a strong little boy, but often cried when not given what he wanted. His sister, on the other hand, was always quiet and much less active. She often took to staring aimlessly at random points of the chambers instead of playing with her brother, purple eyes scarcely blinking. You loved both of them despite their drastically different personalities.
You were well into your eighteenth year when the babes had their eighth nameday. During the later half of those eight years, Helaena had fallen pregnant again, and had a third child—a son named Maelor. He was a large baby, with a head of pale white hair and eyes a darker shade of mauve than his older siblings.
“Jaehaerys, don’t be so rough with your brother!” you lightly scolded when the boy began yanking at his baby brother’s cheeks with no restrain. A laugh slipped past your lips as you held Maelor out of his reach, which made Jaehaerys whine, as if you had taken away his most favorite playtoy. Helaena, sitting on the chaise on the other side of the room, glanced away from her embroidery to smile at her children, before returning her gaze back down to the needle and thread. Jaehaera sat beside her mother, staring into the fire with her lips parted.
Both you and Jaehaerys began playing a game of chase, where he was a fierce and mighty dragon whilst you enacted the role of a helpless knight. You had set down Maelor into his crib, where he suckled on a milk-soaked cloth.
The little boy roared, his face scrunching up with the action, before sprinting after you with outstretched hands. You were fast on your feet as you scampered away from him, but decided to slow down and let the little boy catch up to you, knowing he’d burst into tears if the game had gone on for too long without him winning. You shrieked in surprise when he grabbed at the ends of your tunic, yanking hard and yelling, “Dracarys, dracarys! I got you!”
“Indeed, you have,” you told the little boy, bending down to sweep him up into your arms with a grin.
From afar, Aemond lurked in the shadows, watching you play with his sister’s children. He watched the way you smiled with them, the way you laughed, the way you pressed chaste kisses into their chubby cheeks. It surprised him to find an inkling of jealousy for his nephews—how they had so freely enraptured your affections, whilst he was offered very little of them. No bother—all things came with due time. Besides, Aemond was not yet ready to admit his growing feelings with you.
The two of you had become considerably close over the past few years. You often frequented the library with him, the two of you sitting in comfortable silence as you read together. You trained together, dined together, and took walks together. Hardly a day ever passed by without you spending some time with the young prince.
Aemond would scarcely speak when he was with you, preferring to listen to you instead. The times he did speak, it was quiet and thoughtful and rife with endearment. It was no secret that Aemond was growing quite fond of the youngest Strong.
A tourney was held in honor of the twins’ eighth nameday.
You sat beside Helaena in the high platforms on the elongated arena, hands twisting in your lap. Tourneys usually bored you to no end—watching men hurt themselves over little else than theatrical show and bragging rights was not something you were very keen on. It felt like a waste of time to you—you’d much rather be reading, or writing to Luke and Jace, or playing with the twins. To your other side was Prince Aemond, looking equally disinterested in the event. You couldn’t help but notice his long fingers tapping impatiently against his knee, as if he were itching to leave. His older brother Aegon was nowhere to be seen, most likely somewhere in the bowels of the Street of Silk.
Round after round of jousting went by, until Harley Piper—a young, handsome lord with soft ginger curls and bright green eyes and freckled, sun-kissed skin, urged his horse closer to the platform, gaze trained on you. Draped over his armor were the colors of House Piper—gentle pink and silken white against a striking shade of blue.
“Might I be honored with your favor, my lady?” he asked, voice sweet and mellifluous.
At first, you’d thought that he had been speaking to Princess Helaena, finding it rather odd for him to ask a married woman for her favor. But when she made no move to hand him a favor, it dawned on you that he was asking you. Flustered, having never really received any sort of romantic attention before, you rose to your feet and dropped a crown of woven flowers down his long jousting lance.
You noted with muted curiosity that Aemond’s tapping fingers had curled into a tight fist.
Off Harley Piper went with your favor swaying by the lance’s handle, the metal grating of his helmet pulled down over his grinning features. You found yourself holding your breath as his joust began against another knight you couldn’t care to know the name of, eyes intently following his movements.
The crowd burst into raucous applause when the nameless knight easily unseated the young man—Harley flew off his horse with a grunt. They proceeded into hand-to-hand combat, where the larger knight leapt off his horse, grabbed a mace and swung it straight at Harley. A gasp lodged in your throat when the young man was struck cleanly in the back with a sickening thud, and he crumpled to the ground.
“I yield!” relented Harley, raising a hand.
From beside you, a ghost of a leering smile appeared on Aemond’s lips.
It disappeared when Harley struggled back onto his feet, clapping his opponent on the shoulder good-naturedly, and began limping back to your direction. You subconsciously straightened your spine, which made Helaena hide a knowing grin behind her hand.
“I’ve dishonored you, my lady,” winced the man with a head of flames. “A beauty such as yours deserves much better than I.”
“Nonsense, Lord Piper,” you replied, finding his humility rather endearing. “You are more than enough.”
Aemond’s shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched at your words. You didn’t spare him a glance.
Harley Piper beamed, as bright as the sun, bowing his head before you. “I shall take my leave, Lady Strong. Perhaps I’ll see you at supper?”
Before you could reply, Aemond coldly spat out, “I’m afraid Lady Strong will be dining with me tonight, Lord Piper. Take your leave.”
Shocked at his sudden hostility, you swung an incredulous, confused glare at the prince. Harley, equally bewildered, glanced between the two of you with narrowed lids, before bowing his head and striding away.
“Aemond, what the seven hells was that about?” you hissed, hand reaching out to grasp his forearm. His one eye darted between your touch and your furious expression—how you managed to become even more beautiful whilst angry was beyond him. “I liked him.”
The prince scoffed. “You have poor taste.”
“I thought he was sweet!”
“He lost his joust in a matter of minutes.”
“Losing a joust is nothing but a temporary blemish to one’s ego. Perhaps you could do with losing something, for a change,” you retorted, nose wrinkling at him.
The purple of his eye seemed to darken. “Mind your tongue, Strong,” he murmured, voice low. It didn’t slip your notice when he briefly glanced at your lips, parted and raw-bitten.
“Or what?” you shot back, leaning closer to him until your nose was but a hair’s breadth from his. “Will you take it from me? Will you take my tongue, My Prince?”
Before he could reply, Helaena cleared her throat, announcing that she would like to retire to her chambers. The noise was starting to get overwhelming for her. You practically ripped yourself out of your chair, eager to put some well-needed distance between yourself and the one-eyed prince. The skin on your cheeks and neck burned with heat—whether it was from Harley’s unadulterated attention, or from Aemond’s prickly behavior, you couldn’t quite tell.
His gaze burned into the back of your head as you left the arena to return into the Red Keep.
Larys Strong’s cane knocked against the uneven stone floor with each lurching step he took. The Master of Whisperers hobbled up to the Queen’s side, where she stood in front of the Weirwood tree, reminiscing her now long-ago childhood with Rhaenyra.
Hearing the echoing stamps of his cane, Alicent dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Lord Strong. Any word of Rhaenyra?”
There was an eerie smile to Larys’ face that didn’t quite reach his dark irises. “My sources tell me she has fallen pregnant again. Her third child with Daemon.”
A scowl flitted across Alicent’s wary features. “Certainly hasn’t wasted any time, I see.”
Larys spared her no response, merely humming thoughtfully.
The Queen gave him a sidelong glance, hastily deciding to change the subject. “Word has it your sister has taken an interest in the young Piper boy during a tourney.”
This time, it was Larys’ turn to frown. “Y/N is young and impressionable. She will take a liking to anyone who spares her an inkling of attention.”
Alicent tilted her head. “My children are rather fond of her—for reasons unbeknownst to me.”
“Hm. Indeed.” The Queen’s words seemed to get the cogs in Larys’ brain churning. “I am the Lord of Harrenhal—and I will sire no children. Harrenhal will go to Y/N once I have passed. Marriages are of political currency, these days, Your Grace.”
Eyebrows cinched, Alicent turned to fully face the man. “What is it you are speaking of, Larys?”
“I am suggesting… a marriage of alliance. Between my young sister and your second son, Aemond. They are already quite fond of each other, as you have mentioned before. This will do good for not only them, but the both of us and our houses, as well. Once I pass, Harrenhal will go to Y/N and Aemond and any of their children they have together. If a civil war breaks out… Harrenhal would be sworn to Aemond—and thereby you, as well, Your Grace. Not Rhaenyra.”
Shock colored the Queen’s expression. For years, she had been trying to figure out the entire picture behind Larys Strong, and his true intentions. He hated Rhaenyra so much for dishonoring his house that he had murdered his own family for it to gain inheritance of Harrenhal. And now he was willing to bargain away his young sister, practically Rhaenyra’s daughter, to Alicent’s son.
A sick feeling twisted within Alicent’s gut.
She considered the thought of Aemond marrying you. The two of you were together more often than not, anyway, and you were her daughter’s best and only friend. Not only that, but the political advantage of having Harrenhal truly backed to her family’s side was something she just couldn’t pass up, no matter how vile it made her feel.
“That is a splendid proposal, Lord Strong. I shall inform the King and my son with haste,” she told him, lips pursed.
A twisted grin etched into the corner of his mouth. “And I will break the wonderful news to my sweet sister. Good night, My Queen. I shall see you on the morrow.”
Alicent watched as Larys began limping away. It was only until his figure disappeared into the Keep’s walls that she buried her tired face into her hands.
When you were younger, Larys was but a scarce figure in your life. You practically only knew of him by word of mouth—he was only your family in blood and name—he certainly didn’t feel like your brother. Not in the same way that Harwin did, at least.
As you grew older, however, you began to notice Larys always lurking in the shadows, watching your every move like a vulture would a rotting carcass. Your second brother bore no love for you, that was glaringly obvious. Instead, he saw you as a pawn in his little game of thrones—a piece of the board he owned and was free to move around as he wished.
The Clubfoot leaned his weight on his cane as he studied you reshelving around half a dozen books you had borrowed from the library.
“Sweet sister,” he crooned, roping your attention away from the fraying spines of the tomes.
A disgusted shiver spidered down your form.
“What is it, Larys?” you sighed, already wanting the conversation to be over and done with. Later that night, you had planned to take the twins stargazing from the Keep's highest tower with Helaena, and you were hoping to squeeze in a quick bath before doing so. “I’m busy.”
“As you often are,” your older brother glibly murmured. “Forgive me for being so brazen… I couldn’t help but notice how close you and the young Prince Aemond have become.”
You blinked, the sudden mention of Aemond taking you by surprise. A pregnant silence fell over the both of you, heavy and tense. You were stiff as you waited for him to continue, but Larys was as relaxed as ever, a coy grin playing at the corner of his lips.
“You are ten-and-eight years old. Prince Aemond is twenty. Both of you have been of age to marry for quite some time. I have arranged a betrothal for you, Y/N.”
Your heart dropped to your stomach.
“What?” you whispered, taking half a step back. “Larys… what did you do?”
The shelves seemed too close together, and you found the air within your throat thinning away. You fixed your brother with an incredulous glare, heated with the fire of a thousand summers.
“The Queen has agreed to this—you will be wed to Aemond Targaryen. The Strong bloodline will continue on through you and the Prince.”
“No…” you whispered, a sharp, betrayed edge to your tone. “How dare you? How dare you do this to me?”
The calm, nonchalant expression on your brother’s features remained unchanged. “I am helping you, dear sister. You are fond of Aemond—you cannot deny this, for it would be a plain lie. He is a prince—this is the best sort of marriage you can possibly get.”
“I am no sister of yours,” you spat, lurching forward to shove him back, caught up in a fit of rage. All you could see was red. Larys stumbled into a bookshelf, yet still appeared unfazed. “You took away my choice to marry whomever I wished. My freedom. When I asked—no, I begged—to return to Harrenhal to mourn Harwin and father, you simply brushed me to the side as if I were dirt on your shoe! All these years, and you’ve hardly acknowledged me as a person, much less your family! And now you… you use me for your political gain—to appease the Queen you are so desperate for, to further drive me away from Rhaenyra… you are vile, Larys. You are everything Harwin is not. Your very existence is a filthy stain on the memory of our family… of House Strong!”
The space between the two of you crackled as you stared at him, chest rising and falling in staggered motions from your anger-fueled tirade.
“Aemond will treat you well,” was all Larys said, completely disregarding your harsh words with not a care in the world. “The Queen has informed him of the arrangement… along with the King. There is no going back now, sister-mine.”
Rage clawed through your chest, scratching down your ribs and twisting within your lungs. With not another word, you stormed past him, your shoulder roughly knocking into his on your way out of the library.
You had been so angry that night, you completely forgot about your promise to Helaena and the twins, and they were left waiting in the towers for you for hours on end. Little Jaehaerys didn’t mind, occupying his time by chasing a moth and tripping over the edges of carpets, with his little sister staring at him with her large, unblinking gaze.
The sky was starless that night.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
You spun around the hay-sewn dummy, driving your sword into its motionless form over and over again in rapid succession, until the dried wheat began to cave in beneath the force of your hits. The poor dummy was taking the brunt of your frustrations—with Larys, with the arranged marriage, with Aemond. Grunts of exertion rumbled from your lungs and cold beads of sweat dotted your hairline.
Sure, it could be worse, you had initially thought, trying your best to see the silver linings. But the more you thought about it—the idea of being tied down against your will to a Prince, almost permanently anchoring you to your wretched brother’s side…
That was no future for you. You deserved better than that.
Just as you lifted your sword to strike the dummy again, you could feel a familiar, infuriating stare burn into your skin. With precise movements, you pivoted on your heel and swung your sword around, slanting the sharp blade right up against Aemond’s throat. The cold metal kissed his skin, but didn’t press deep enough to draw blood. It was a threat of sorts. You’d been training for more than a decade of your life by now—and you were more than capable of knocking him onto his arse, just as you had all those years ago during your first spar with him.
The silver-haired prince cocked his head, single purple eye blazing with an unreadable intensity you couldn’t exactly place. Ever so slow, he raised both hands.
A beat of silence. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cawed.
You lowered your sword.
“Go away, Aemond,” you spat, tone heavy with betrayal.
Sensing this, he stayed rooted to his spot. “It is not I who arranged the marriage,” he whispered, in an almost conciliating manner. It hadn’t yet occurred to you that Aemond might’ve been just as upset as you were—after all, the choice had been taken away from him, as well.
You spared him no response, turning your back to him and raising your sword to stab the dummy once more.
His next words made you freeze. “I know not why you are so upset about this. Am I that detestable, Lady Strong? Or is it because you’ve already fallen in love with that oaf from House Piper? You do know that their sigil is one of a naked maiden, do you not? It is no wonder he lost his tourney so quickly.”
With a choked yell, you rounded to face him again, lifting your sword and bringing it down with staggering speed. Aemond, however, had anticipated this, easily rolling to the side and grabbing a discarded sword from the yard’s ground, parrying away with ease. Unrelenting, you pulled back to land another blow on him. His sword met yours halfway, the blades singing against one another. You gritted your teeth, practically snarling at your betrothed.
The hostility was quick to wane away the longer you stared at him. He was your friend—the boy you had grown so fond of over the course of the last half a decade. Your vision began to blur with unshed tears as you started to physically shake. A hot droplet meandered down your cheek. You let the sword fall limp in your grasp.
Furious with yourself and embarrassed beyond relief, you swiped away the tears with the back of your palm, lifting your gaze to meet Aemond’s.
Something had changed within his features. It had softened considerably, pale and glowing beneath the moonlight. His lips were parted, as if deliberating between words and action.
He chose action.
With no warning, Prince Aemond surged forward, sword clattering to his feet as his hands came forth to cradle your face within his palms. His fingers were cold against the sweltering skin of your face, but neither of you cared. His nose bumped against yours, foreheads knocking into one another. Your eyes locked with his, intense and tumultuous and molten with yearning. His lips were but a hair’s breadth from yours—tantalizingly close.
When you made no move to pull away, he kissed you.
It was a desperate embrace, needy and clawing and furious. It made your heart lurch within your chest, your breath crystallized to the sides of your throat, your eyes wrenching shut. Aemond stepped even closer, chest pressed up against yours, his knee slotting between your legs in a way that made your neck flush with heat. The grip he had on your face tightened, as if he were ensuring that you were real.
This was real.
You just about melted into his touch, one of your hands lifting to hold onto his bicep, the other still clutching onto your sword, not daring to let go.
It was only when his lips left yours for a second of air, did your eyes snap open, and the trance you had so easily fallen into began to thin away.
You placed both palms on his chest and shoved the prince away, breathing heavily and eyes wild. Frustrated and so very conflicted about how you felt for him, you wiped the back of your mouth with your hand and shot him an offended look, before storming away angrily.
The sword clattered to the ground with your departure. Aemond found himself staring at his own warped reflection within the blade. He loathed what stared back at him—a taunting of his own tarnished image, and wrenched his gaze away.
He would talk to you on the morrow, he decided. For now, he would let you go, knowing full and well that he would not be able to find you even if he tried.
After all, a dragon cannot hide the same way a butterfly can.
Aemond didn’t talk to you the next day, or the day after that. The two of you didn’t speak to one another for weeks on end. You were quite good at hiding from him, always turning the corner and hurrying away when you could feel his attentive stare begin to blaze into you, or relocating your training to the darkest nooks and crannies of the Keep just so he wouldn’t be able to find you. Even Helaena and her three lovely children you adored so much had barely seen you as of late, because you knew that being around her would make it easier for Aemond to come and speak to you.
You hadn’t meant to avoid him for this long, you really hadn’t. By now, you’d expected the two of you to talk things out, clear the air between you, and return back to how the way things were before. But the more you waited, the more conflicted you became about the kiss and your own feelings for him, thus prolonging your inevitable confrontation with the Prince.
The two of you had keenly noticed that the longer this game of silence had drawn out, the less it became one of true avoidance, and the more it grew to be like a round of cat-and-mouse. Sometimes, you’d even find yourself waiting in places you knew the prince would pass by, only to scurry away just as soon as he came. Aemond himself was enjoying watching you dance away from his grasp, just as much as he was frustrated with it. He’d get you eventually, he oft told himself. You’d come around.
Alicent had pushed back anything related to their wedding the sicker King Viserys grew—wanting to prioritize her husband’s health first and foremost above all else. It was yet another example of Aemond being pushed to the side in favor of another.
Around you, however, he never felt second. Sure, you also loved Helaena and her children, but he did not feel as if they were competition for your affections. It was why he enjoyed drawing out this game of chase with you so much—having your attention constantly devoted entirely to him made his pride swell and a fire kindle within his lower abdomen. He wanted you more than ever before.
It was why the news of his nephews and his half-sister returning to King’s Landing to rebuttal the challenge to the heir of Driftmark soured his mood so badly.
Upon their arrival, your game of chase had come to an end—effectively stealing away any and all of your addictive attention. He saw you far more often than before, but you hardly ever paid any mind to him, instead focusing on the plain-featured boys.
It’d been nearly a decade since you last saw them.
You were the only one to greet them when they arrived at King's Landing. It was a rather sad affair, with no one to welcome Rhaenyra and her sons but a young Strong—practically a nobody in a den of dragons. It was an insult on Alicent’s part—as if she were indirectly saying she had more important matters to attend to than Rhaenyra.
You didn’t quite care for their little rivalry—all you really wanted was to see your nephews.
The boys had grown so big. It startled you to see that Jace was practically a man grown now, with a sharp face and eyes exactly the same as your late older brother, brown hair straight and neatly groomed. Luke, on the other hand, had softer features like that of Rhaenyra, but bore his true father’s nose and mouth, with a head of dark, messy curls.
You ran forward to greet them, excitedly shouting their names with a permanent smile etched over your lips. Little Luke—you made a mental note not to call him that anymore, seeing as he was no longer little—was the first to embrace you, yelling your name and barreling forward to squeeze you into a hug so tight that all the air was pushed from your lungs. Jace was gentler with his approach, but you gripped onto him tightly all the same, pressing kisses to both of your nephew’s foreheads. Then, you kneeled down and took little Joffrey’s hand within yours, kissing his palm, and his chubby little cheeks. The little boy looked mildly confused as to who you were, since they’d left for Dragonstone when he was only but a tiny little baby. You stood back up to face the three of them.
“My, how you’ve grown,” you told the boys, patting Jace and Luke’s cheeks affectionately. “Feels like just yesterday we were little children together. I haven’t seen you since…”
Since Aemond lost his eye.
“You haven’t changed one bit,” commented Luke, a wide smile to his face. “It’s nice to see you, Y/N. We’ve missed you dearly on Dragonstone. Exchanging letters just isn’t the same.”
“It really isn’t,” you hummed in agreement. “But you’re here now—and I couldn’t be more happy.”
It was then that Rhaenyra and Daemon joined you, each holding a white-haired babe in their arms. They must’ve been Aegon and Viserys. Lips parting, you dipped your head in greeting, a bright, watery smile painting your complexion golden.
“Princess Rhaenyra,” you said.
“Oh, sweet girl,” she murmured, shaking her head and using her free hand to rope you into an embrace. “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to watch you flourish into one.” Tears welled up in your eyes when she leaned forward and whispered into your ear, “Your brother Harwin would be so very proud of you.”
Your breath caught within your throat. “Thank you,” you told her, voice cracking with emotion. The purple of her eyes gleamed with gentle affection. You glanced, down eyes widening upon seeing her swollen belly. “Congratulations, Your Grace. Let’s hope the next one is a girl. You’ve had enough sons as it is.”
Your words made Rhaenyra huff out an amused laugh. “Yes, a daughter would be lovely. Though, you’ve filled that position for long enough, I would be happy with yet another son.”
A bright beam pulled your lips impossibly wider. After a few more minutes of exchanging pleasantries and catching up, you said hello to little Aegon and Viserys, before urging them into the Keep, not wanting to keep them waiting after such a long journey. Luke had talked your ear off about how he had puked thrice over the side of the ship from his relentless seasickness.
The entire time, you pointedly avoided making any mention of your betrothal to Aemond, wanting to remain in blissful ignorance for just a bit longer.
The Red Keep was almost unrecognizable to the young boys. As the years passed without Rhaenyra there to watch over the kingdom in Viserys’ stead, the Targaryen heraldry was taken down, slowly replaced by symbols of the Seven in the form of erected stone statues and carvings of seven-pointed stars. The change had been so gradual that you’d barely noticed, but to Jace and Luke, it was a shock to see their home completely different to how it used to be.
You took them on a guide throughout the expansive castle, exchanging stories of their times throughout the years. They asked you how you’ve fared here, and you hesitated to tell them about everything going on with Larys, with Harley Piper, with… with Aemond…
Instead, you chirped on about Helaena and her children, and how they were always the brightest part of your day.
“Have you still been training on your own?” Jacaerys asked just as you rounded the corner to lead them to the training yard.
You paused, thinking back to all the late nights you spent clashing swords with Aemond.
“Yes,” you replied cautiously. “My brother Harwin would’ve wanted me to keep honing my skills, even after he’s passed.”
A grim look passed over the two boys’ faces.
Once they began descending the stone stairwell to the yard, Luke’s nose wrinkled in disdain. The court was full of training men, a cacophony of steel against steel, of thuds against dummies, and exerted grunts all echoing across the expansive grounds.
“It’s much smaller than I remember,” said Luke.
You spared the younger Velaryon a sweet smile. “Perhaps that’s only because you’ve grown much larger since last you were here.”
“It looks exactly the same to me,” Jace said, bounding down the last few steps to hurry to the rack of weapons. “Come on!”
Though Jace was willfully oblivious to the stares of the guards and the handmaids and all the rest that were in the yard, keeping his head held up high, Luke was aware of everybody’s eyes on him. Glaring, judging, and piercing every which way. He shifted uncomfortably beside you.
Jacaerys patted one of the large dents in a while, a wide grin to his handsome features. “See? I told you this would still be here! And you thought you could swing Criston’s morningstar. You almost took your own head off!”
Luke gave him a half-hearted grin, but it was quick to melt away when he whispered beneath his breath, “Everyone’s staring at us.”
The older brother pulled a sword from the rack and playfully lowered down into an attack position, Lucerys’ words largely going ignored.
“Of course they’re staring,” you stated matter-of-factly. “You are the Princess’ sons.”
Luke shook his head, dark curls flying about his forehead. “That is not why they’re staring, and you know it. No one would question me being heir to Driftmark if… if I looked more like Ser Laenor Velaryon than Ser Harwin Strong.”
Releasing a deep sigh, Jacaerys hung his head. “It doesn’t matter what they think, little brother,” he asserted.
You watched as Luke turned to you, as if silently asking you to back him. “Oh, Luke,” you murmured, unsure of what to say. “As I said before, you are Rhaenyra’s son, first and foremost—”
Before you could finish your sentence, a crowd from across the yard burst into raucous applause. Curious, Jace grabbed your hand, dragging you along to see what was going on.
It was Aemond—sparring against Criston.
Your heart sunk into your stomach. You hadn’t prepared yourself nearly enough to face him just yet.
At the sight of their uncle, Luke and Jace visibly tensed beside you.
He was beautiful—spinning around with ease and grace. Criston swung his morningstar at the prince, only for Aemond to duck, blocking the heavy weapon with a wooden shield. It splintered beneath the force, and he shirked it away to the side. Aemond used his speed to his advantage, dancing away from each of Criston’s swings, tactfully tiring him out. Seeing his opportunity when Criston’s arm dropped for but a millisecond, Aemond skidded around the ball-and-chain, pointing the tip of his sword right at his mentor’s throat.
A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slowly slipped from your lungs just as the audience began clapping again.
“Well done, my Prince,” said Criston, setting down his weapon to yield. “You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.”
The purple of Aemond’s eye blazed as he turned his head away from Cole to face you. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” he murmured, taking great pleasure in the way you physically stepped back. “Lady Strong, my sweet betrothed… have you come to train?”
Heat snaked up the skin of your neck and seeped into your cheeks at his words. My sweet betrothed. Jace and Luke both sent you deeply puzzled, almost affronted looks.
“Aemond, no, I—” you began, but he strode forward in no more than three steps, grabbing your forearm and pulling you to the center of the circle, much to Jace and Luke’s dismay.
The Prince paid no mind to your protests. “Criston. Give her a sword.”
The knight, none too fond of you ever since the first incident when you were only a child, thrusted a dull blade into your arms.
With your jaw set, you huffed out a curse beneath your breath, and stabilized yourself into a defensive position. If a fight was what Aemond wanted, then a fight was what he was going to get.
He struck first, darting forward to arc his sword into your side. You took half a step back and parried, guiding his arm up over your head and ducking beneath his swing. Using this to your advantage, you kicked at the back of his knee, sending him buckling down to the ground. A growl rumbled within his chest. Aemond was quick to react, twisting around to sweep his sword between your legs, knocking you back as well.
Winded and caught off guard, you desperately parried away his continuous strikes, the tip of his sword getting closer and closer and closer to your face. You scrambled to get back up on your feet, but Aemond was unrelenting, pressing on with no restraint. Aemond was practically on top of you at this point, his knee pressing nearly painfully into your thigh.
“Yield,” he hissed, breath hot against your ear.
You glared up at him. Briefly, you allowed your eyes to slip past Aemond, to the two young boys behind him, worryingly watching you.
Humiliated, you huffed out a shaking breath, wishing to just end this here and now. “I yield.”
The crowd began clapping for Aemond again, though, this time much more hesitant and sparse. Scandalous murmurs rippled through the audience. From the side, Criston smirked at your defeat.
Satisfied, Aemond stepped back, offering you his hand. You let him help you up, dusting your trousers off with a huff.
He briefly let go of your hand to wind his arm about your waist, tugging you closer. An internal part of you screamed in embarrassment, not wanting him to behave in such a way when Jace and Luke were right there—watching the two of you with bewilderment. He smelled of smoke and steel and leather, and you couldn’t bring it in yourself to push away. “You are skilled, Lady Strong—but your arrogance betrays you.”
“Arrogance?” you whispered back, eyes roaming over his expressionless features, your brows knitting together. “I let you win. Release me, Aemond. People are watching.”
The prince’s eye momentarily flitted down to your parted lips, then back up to meet your tumultuous gaze. He hummed in thought, before relinquishing his hold on you completely, swiftly turning to Jace and Luke.
“Nephews… have you come to train, as well?” he asked them, straightening himself, practically oozing with intimidation.
Jace’s mouth parted, still stupefied.
Before anyone could utter another word, a guard bellowed out, “Open the gates!”
The large metal gratings groaned as they were pulled open. Velaryon banners filled the training yard—and in the center of all of them, stood Vaemond Velaryon. Corlys’ brother, and, according to him, the rightful heir to Driftmark.
You swallowed down the bile that rose in your throat.
Fear splattered clear as day over Luke’s features. Aemond only grinned at that.
The gardens were much more intimidating in the nighttime. Large statues of the Seven hid behind the rose bushes in a menacing fashion, and the fountain bore a seven-pointed star in the center that looked sharp enough to cut. You never frequented the place after sunset, deliberately taking Helaena and the children out on walks when it was still light out.
Nonetheless, it was one of the only few quiet places in the Keep where you could be sure curious ears wouldn’t be able to hear your whispers over the gushing of the water fountain. Though, you couldn’t be too certain that your brother wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows.
Jace and Luke were standing across from you, both of their arms crossed expectedly.
The older of the two seemed disappointed, as if he’d expected better from you. Luke, on the other hand, looked crestfallen, feeling as if you’d betrayed him.
“I’m sorry for not telling the two of you earlier,” you quietly said. “I couldn’t find a way to break the news.”
The silence stretched thin between the three of you.
“I don’t want it,” you said, wringing your hands nervously. “My brother, Larys, and the Queen are forcing this upon me. I had no choice in the matter. Aemond is my friend, as much as I know you two mislike him… he’s my friend. He had no say in the matter, either. I don’t know—perhaps I should just be grateful I’m betrothed to him rather than a pure stranger. He would not hurt me, I’m sure of it.”
Jacaerys’ expression seemed to soften upon your confession. It was no wonder you were so afraid to tell them. You must’ve been so confused and scared. Silent, the taller boy reached out to pull you into a hug, gently patting your back. Tears of relief began to well in your eyes—you’d truly been expecting them to turn their back on you.
“I… I feel as though my control of my own life is slipping right through the cracks between my fingers,” you whispered, voice crumbling with emotion.
You began to softly cry into Jacaerys’ shoulder. Luke joined in the embrace, wrapping his arms around you from behind.
The three of you stood in the eerie garden, each of you equally upset and uncertain for the future to come.
“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds…” Otto Hightower began, descending an instantaneous hush upon the throng of lords and ladies in front of the Iron Throne, “we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice in this—and all other matters.”
Otto’s last sentence made bile climb up your throat. Not too long ago, your own father held the position as Hand, and held it in a just, and unbiased manner. You were afraid you couldn’t say the same for Otto Hightower.
You stood a couple steps away from Rhaenyra and her sons, hands tightly clasped behind your back. To the right of the Iron Throne was Alicent and her children—Aegon with rumpled hair as if he had just rolled out of bed, Aemond with his gaze flickering back and forth between his nephew and his betrothed, and Helaena, who was staring at the warbling light of the torches on the wall. All you wanted to do was get this over and done with—the succession of Driftmark was not a subject you cared for, seeing as you strongly believed it should go to Luke. Bastard or not, it mattered little to you—he was Laenor’s son regardless of blood and deserved his own inheritance.
“The crown will now hear the petitions. Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”
The man stepped forward, head held high.
“My Queen. My Lord Hand. The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies… House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebears came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name. I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin—his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”
Tongue as sharp as ever, Rhaenyra interjected, “As it does in my sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No—you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition.”
Looking down at the Princess, Alicent raised her brows. “You will have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra. Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing him to be heard.”
From the side, Aegon hid a snicker behind his palm.
Vaemond turned to Rhaenyra. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you—and you still wouldn’t recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.” Luke took a small shuffle back when Vaemond rounded his scalding glare on the younger boy. “My Queen, Lord Hand. This is a matter of blood. Not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above it all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor—the Lord of Driftmark, and Lord of the Tides.”
Satisfied, Otto nodded once. “Thank you, Ser Vaemond.”
Smug and confident he had swayed the decision in his favor, Vaemond stepped back to his respective side.
“Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.”
The white-haired woman took three steps to the center, one hand holding her large, pregnant belly.
“If I am to grace this farce with some sort of answer,” she began, already exhausted of the entire ordeal, “I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago, in this very—”
Before she could finish, the doors swung open. Everybody turned their heads back. Your breath caught in your throat.
It was King Viserys.
The last time you’d seen him… was most probably longer than a year ago.
And how the tall and mighty fall from such grace. He was practically rotting away, skin patched and peeling, teeth gnarled and black, figure fragile and bent. The white of his hair fell in but sparse strands from his scalp where the crown sat, lopsided but gleaming nonetheless. A gilded mask was placed on one half of his face, hiding the decaying flesh on right cheek, and the pulsing cavern where his eye used to be. He hobbled forth on his cane, one of his feet dragging along behind him, not unlike your brother Larys, shoulders heavy with his cloak. He was in a great deal of pain—that was made abundantly clear with his wincing and groaning. But he pushed forth nonetheless, determined to voice his support for his daughter, Rhaenyra.
The guard by the door announced his presence: “King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”
Shock fell upon the court at the sight of the King up and out of his chambers, much less walking on his own. It did not slip past you when Vaemond and Otto exchanged concerned looks. You bowed your head as Viserys passed by, biting down on your tongue.
The royal family seemed to have different reactions to the King’s presence. Rhaenyra was stunned into silence, which was quick to meld into one of subtle gratitude. Rhaenys turned her head away at the sight of her brother in such a pained state. Helaena smiled faintly, though you weren’t quite sure what she was smiling for. And Alicent appeared the most conflicted out of all.
“I will sit the throne today,” he told his Hand. Otto looked none too pleased, but dipped his head, stepping away to the side for Viserys to pass.
He began to lose his breath as he climbed up the steps, leaning forth on his cane. The crown slid from his head and clattered onto the stone floor. Prince Daemon—his brother—was the one to pick it up for him, and patiently helped him up the rest of the steps to his seat. He gently placed the crown back on Viserys’ head, before stepping back down to stand beside his wife.
“I must… admit… my confusion,” said Viserys, breathless. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes, is the Princess Rhaenys.”
His older sister lifted her head. “Indeed, Your Grace.” With cautious strides, she made her way forward. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”
Your lips parted in surprise. The two boys… betrothed? Just two minutes ago they were both barely tall enough to reach for supper in the middle of the dining table, and now they were already going to get married? Though, you supposed you were speaking rather hypocritical, as you had just gotten betrothed not too long ago yourself.
Muted frustration befell Alicent’s expression.
“Well… the matter is settled. Again.” The King blew out a sigh. “I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”
Clear disdain painted itself green across Vaemond’s face.
“You break law… and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.”
Confused, Viserys’ brows drew together. “Allow it?” he echoed. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”
Suddenly raising his voice, Vaemond turned and jabbed a finger straight in Luke’s direction. “That is no true Velaryon! And certainly no nephew of mine.”
Desperate to keep the accusations at bay, Rhaenyra pushed Luke behind her. “Go to your chambers, boys. Vaemond, you have said enough!”
Taking great offense to his words, the King said, “Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you… are no more than the second son of Driftmark.”
The man shook his head. “You… may run your house as you see fit… but you will not decide the future of mine.”
Gasps rang out across the court. What Vaemond had just said to the King was treason.
Despite this, on Vaemond continued, “My house survived the Doom—and a thousand tribulations more! And gods be damned… I will not see it ended on the account of this…”
Prince Daemon cocked his head, challenging, “Say it.”
“Her children… are…” said Vaemond. “BASTARDS!”
The audience murmured scandalously. Your brows raised in shock, gaze wildly swinging from Luke to the King.
Vaemond was not yet done, having one final blow to serve. “And she… is… a whore.”
Disgust coiled within your stomach. It made you even angrier to see a smirk toy with the corners of Aemond’s lips.
Viserys angrily limped onto his feet, unsheathing his dagger. “I… will have your tongue for that!”
In a blur of black and red, Daemon swung his sword as quick as a bolt of lightning, cleaving it clean through Vaemond’s head. A sick squelch of flesh and blood and steel rang across the court, quickly blending into the startled shrieks of Lords and Ladies. You had flinched back, hands raising to cover your mouth.
Helaena had gasped the loudest, her hands flying to rest over her ears and hurriedly turning her face away from the grotesque sight. From all the years you had been her dearest friend, you knew blood was one of the few things she could not handle.
Right beside her, Aemond had stepped back, hand defensively falling to his sword. His purple eye was wide and trained onto the body, but quickly flicked up to look at you, as if ensuring that you were alright.
Though you couldn’t see Luke’s expression, you could see the way his shoulders flinched and his feet began to panickedly shuffle away.
Vaemond’s body fell to the ground, dark red blood dripping over the stones and meandering into the cracks and crevices.
Satisfied, Daemon observed the blood begin to graze the bottom of his shoe. “He can keep his tongue,” he commented nonchalantly.
“DISARM HIM!” screamed Otto. Half a dozen guards drew out their swords, pointing it straight at Daemon.
“No need,” said the Prince, cleaning his sword with the bottom of his shirt, uncaring of Vaemond’s blood getting all over him. He sheathed the steel and backed away with a small, victorious grin.
It was then that Viserys collapsed back onto the throne, groaning in pain.
“Call the maesters!” Alicent yelled, rushing up the steps to her husband. “Please, my love, you must take something for the pain!”
“I will not cloud my mind…” said the King. “I must… put things right…”
The King commanded a supper—with all of his family to attend, as this was the first time they were all gathered in the Keep since nearly a decade ago. Seeing as you were now betrothed to his second son, you supposed you were officially considered part of the family now. Though, you had considered yourself one of Rhaenyra’s daughters ever since childhood.
Your handmaidens had washed you in a tub full of flower petals, the warm water heaven to your tense muscles. They scrubbed you with soap that smelled of honey and milk, a sweet scent that pleasantly burrowed beneath your skin.
Afterwards, they laid out a dress for you. It was a beautiful, dark green garment with golden linings, no doubt a gift from Queen Alicent. The dress fit you perfectly, falling over your form like a stream of water over a stony bank. The collar was modest enough, but dipped down just beneath your clavicle bone, where a necklace of gleaming silver pearls rested against your sternum. As you stared at your reflection in the mirror, you couldn’t help but notice that the dress looked nearly black in certain lighting.
It was strange to be so dressed up—you weren’t quite fond of skirts and dresses in the first place, finding it much easier and practical to don trousers for everyday use, uncaring of its impropriety. People of the court often joked that House Strong no longer had a Lady, as you were often seen doing traditionally male activities, such as sparring and educating yourself. You paid them no mind—fighting and reading made you no less of a Lady than all the other women in court.
There was a knock to your door just as the handmaidens finished with pinning up your hair. They rushed to swing it open, Princess Helaena stepping in with a mild grin to her lips, though it was not enough to mask the sadness in her face.
“Helaena,” you said, surprised at her sudden visit, grasping her hands within yours. “It’s lovely to see you. It feels as if we’ve hardly spoken as of late.”
The memory of Vaemond’s blood and Helaena’s distraught flashed at the forefront of your mind. If only you had the chance to speak with her afterwards—but Alicent was adamant on sending her daughter straight to her chambers that instant.
“Are you… are you alright?” you gently asked, not wanting to pry. “After all that happened earlier today… I know how much you mislike blood.”
“I’ll be fine,” the Princess wispily replied, carefully sidestepping the subject that made her queasy. “I miss you. The children miss you.”
A lump formed in your throat. “Oh, how are the little terrors? I promise to take them out on a promenade soon.”
“They are well. Jaehaerys never ceases asking about you,” she replied, before allowing her gaze to roam over your attire. “You look wonderful, Y/N. It is surely a rare sight to see you so dressed up.”
A laugh bubbled in your throat. “Well, I’ve certainly never had to go to a supper as important as this one. I’ve hardly ever had a reason to dress up in such a way before. Thank you, though. You’re looking radiant as ever, as well.”
Helaena smiled at you, wide and genuine. It disappeared after a brief moment, and her plum-hued eyes seemed to mist over.
“A storm is on the horizon,” she murmured. “A dance of dragons. They will keep dancing, even once the music has stopped. They care naught for when their feet begin to bleed.”
The Princess’ strange words echoed in your head for the next few hours. What had she meant by that? Before you had the chance to ask her what she was talking about, Helaena had excused herself to go check on the kids before dinnertime, floating out of your room as if she hadn’t just spoken the most mystifying words to you.
Overwhelmed and desperate for fresh air, you made your way back out into the gardens. The sun was just barely beginning to set, spilling soft clementine and dark tangerine hues across the canvas of the sky.
You stood in front of the water fountain, watching the clear water burble over the stone and fall into the pool below.
It was not long until your betrothed came to join you, his hands neatly clasped behind his back.
“Lady Strong,” he greeted with a dip of his head. “You are more beautiful than ever before, which says much as you were already beguiling enough to begin with.”
Firmly, you shook your head. You were still angry at him for humiliating you in front of Jace and Luke earlier that day. “Stop it, Aemond. Do not speak your sweet lies to me. I have no taste for your saccharine words.”
“Tis not a lie, Y/N,” he whispered your name, all soft and heavenly on his tongue. “You are beautiful.”
You blew out a frustrated breath. The two of you stood in a precarious silence for a moment longer.
The muttering of your question shattered the quiet between you. “Are you not upset, Aemond? About the betrothal?”
The Prince hummed, and took a few seconds to consider what you were asking. Finally, he replied, keeping his eye trained on the fountain. “I’m glad it’s you,” he simply said.
Your breath hitched within your throat.
Rotating on his heel, Aemond was now fully facing you, lifting his hands up. Cold fingers grazed over your jaw, before he cradled your face in its entirety, the pads of his thumbs smoothing over your flushed cheekbones. It was not unlike the first time he had kissed you—but there was something softer about this atmosphere.
Acceptance. Affection. Yearning.
His purple iris darkened, the orange light of the setting sun bathing him in a warm glow. Shadows arched over his face, only highlighting his most handsome, sharp features. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander to his lips, curled with fondness, lax with temptation.
Aemond could see the conflict dance about your visage.
He dipped forward to press a kiss to your forehead, lips grazing against your hairline.
“I shall see you at supper,” he whispered into your skin.
With that, he stepped back, dipping his head respectfully, and left you in the garden, completely alone with only your tumultuous thoughts to accompany you.
Candles were lit everywhere, the flames warbling in the air, melted wax dripping down the sides. The servants were still placing down dozens upon dozens of dishes—ranging from grilled cod, to seared mutton chops, to creamed potatoes, to various platters of fresh fruits and cheeses. Chalices of wine and honeyed cider were passed around, all full to the brim.
You were seated with Helaena to your right, and Aemond to your left, at the end of the table. From across the room, Rhaenyra had flickered her gaze from you to your betrothed. She had only received the news from her sons moments ago, and was still processing the shock of it all.
From the center of the expansive feast, Viserys began to speak. “How good it is… to see you all tonight… together.”
“Prayer before we begin?” asked Alicent, ever the religious figure.
Viserys agreed, nodding his head weakly.
“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”
Daemon rolled his eyes in exasperation at the Queen’s last sentence. You clasped your hands together as she prayed, but kept your eyes open. Luke mirrored you, shooting you a look as if to say, “Do you do this every day?”
With small movements you shook your head, and the younger boy could only suppress a smile in response. Aemond kept his head down and his eyes closed as he listened to his mother’s prayers. He’d always been the more devoted out of the two of you.
Once Alicent was done, Viserys said, “This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons… Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena. The daughter of my former Hand, Y/N Strong… will marry my second son, Aemond. These marriages will further strengthen the bond between our great houses. A toast to the young princes… and their betrothed.”
Chalices raised, everybody took a sip. You exchanged a look with Aemond, offering him a small smile as you drank from your cup. Tentative, you reached beneath the table to take his hand—a truce of sorts. It was your silent way of telling him that you were willing to move forth with the marriage—that you were glad it was him, as well. Aemond showed little reaction, other than a small twitch of the corner of his lips, nearly reminiscent to that of a grin.
“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman,” said Aegon to the dark-haired prince, somehow already quite drunk. Jacaerys set his jaw but paid him no mind other than that.
Again, King Viserys spoke, “Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys. The future Lord of the Tides.”
Luke’s betrothed, Rhaena, clinked her cup against his. “You’ll be great,” she told him kindly, eyes gleaming with warmth.
Unrelenting, Aegon bent to the side to lean closer to Jacaerys. “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that…”
With a sharp tongue, Baela whispered, “Let it be, cousin.”
Jace scowled. “You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.”
Aegon rolled his eyes, grabbing another cup of wine and knocking it back in no less than a few seconds. “Aemond is well versed in the art of bedding—are you not, brother?” Before giving him a chance to respond, Aegon continued on with his rambling. “I took him to the Streets of Silk when he came of age. Didn’t even see him come out! Must have been enjoying himself. At least Y/N will be in good hands… though I am always willing to show him the ropes lest he forgets how to man the ship.”
The eldest prince’s words made your skin flare with heat. Aemond’s grip grew tighter around his own cup, but he remained silent as ever. You were only grateful that the adults at the other side of the table were too busy chattering amongst themselves to hear the obscenities the children were speaking of.
With great difficulty, Viserys made to stand up. He nearly buckled under his own weight, but a gnarled hand shot out to rest against the table, steadying himself before he could fall forward into a bowl of soup. The mask that was tied to the rotten side of his face gleamed with the warped reflections of the candlelight.
“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.” With trembling fingers, the King began to untie his mask, revealing the decaying flesh in all its glory for everyone to see. His empty eye socket was sunken and dry. “My own face… is no longer a handsome one—if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a King, but your father. Your brother. Your husband. And your grandsire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer amongst you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. Set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man, who loves you all so dearly.”
Tired, the King settled back down into his seat with the help of his wife. Alicent’s eyes were pained and misted over with unshed tears.
With pursed lips, Rhaenyra suddenly stood up, holding her chalice up high. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”
As if wounded, Alicent reared back slightly and blinked away her tears. She refused to meet Rhaenyra’s eyes. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow.” Surprising you, Alicent stood up, holding her goblet in her hand. “I raise my cup to you and to your house. You will make a fine Queen.”
The rest of you drank to the toasts, an amicable atmosphere settling over the family.
Always one to ruin the mood, Aegon stood up, making his way over to Baela, pouring himself another glass of wine. He leaned down close to her, murmuring, “I, uhm… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”
At his limit, Jacaerys slammed his fists against the table, rising to his feet and glaring at Aegon. The white-haired Prince slunk back to his seat, a salacious grin toying at his mouth. Startled by the sudden noise, Alicent and Rhaenyra looked to Jace, who was now awkwardly standing up.
It surprised you when Aemond let go of your hand to stand up himself, as if challenging Jace, his single eye blazing with an unreadable expression. Your gaze bounced back and forth between the two, unsure of what was going to transpire between them.
Jacaerys pursed his lips, patting Aegon on the shoulder, with a bit more force than necessary. “To Princes Aegon and Aemond, and the Lady Strong. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. To my uncles, as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.”
Aegon cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the formalities thrust upon him. “To you as well,” he begrudgingly grunted out once his mother shot him a warning glare.
Reluctant, Aemond sat back down, and reached underneath the table to take your hand once again. He sought your touch to console the bitter green wildfire that roared within his chest.
“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” muttered Helaena as she fidgeted with a wooden carving of a cockroach. Suddenly, the Princess stood up, a dazed glimmer to her expression. “I would like to toast Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad… mostly, he just ignores you. Except sometimes when he’s drunk.” With a sweet smile, she sank back down into her seat. The rest of the table glanced at each other awkwardly, whilst Aegon just pulled at his face in exasperation.
In an effort to save the atmosphere, you stood up with your chalice in hand. “There have been many toasts this evening,” you murmured, a bit intimidated. It suddenly occurred to you that this was the first time you had the King’s undivided attention. “But I’d like to direct one to Princesses Rhaenyra and Helaena. The former, I owe the deepest of my gratitudes for treating me with kindness throughout my childhood, and taking me in as if I were her own. The latter, sweet Helaena, for being my dearest friend for years, and hopefully for many more to come. As I am to be married to Aemond soon, I look forward to being both of your sister-by-laws.”
Rhaenyra smiled at you kindly, raising her glass to drink to your toast. Helaena did the same, beaming into the rim of her chalice. The Queen, however, was far more reluctant to touch her goblet at your toast—which had pointedly avoided any mention of her.
“Good,” said the King, weakly nodding at you. “Let us have some music. Please, eat, everyone.”
A soft symphony of strings and bells and drums began chiming away, and you contentedly began digging into your food, nearly ravenous after all that waiting.
A few minutes into the feast, Jacaerys bent towards his betrothed, murmuring a polite, “Excuse me.”
He then made his way around Aegon, to Helaena, offering his hand for a dance. Surprised, the Princess took his arm and Jace led her away to the dance floor. You watched with a warm smile gracing your expression, happy that your friends from opposite sides seemed to be mending bridges together.
The table began engaging in amicable chatter—Luke and Rhaena were excitedly speaking about dragons and their eating habits, Rhaenyra and her husband began quietly laughing at how he already managed to splatter crab sauce all over his tunic, and Alicent spoke with her father about the gradual changes in weather.
“You and my brother will make a fine pair,” slurred Aegon, his eyes fixed on you as he lounged back on his chair. “He’s had his gaze set on you ever since childhood.”
“Is that so?” you responded, casting a fond gaze to Aemond, who only shook his head with amusement. “I can’t say I wasn’t the same. After all, how could I take my eyes off the handsome Prince who rode the largest dragon in the world?”
A ghost of a smile graced Aemond’s face. He was never one to take compliments well—for they were sparsely ever given to him.
Aegon, always one to spoil the mood, quipped, “I heard rumors that red-headed Piper idiot stole your maidenhood.”
Aemond’s head snapped towards his brother. You gritted your teeth, narrowing your eyes at him. “Lord Harley Piper was a friend. There was no romance between us, sexual or otherwise,” you hissed, lowering your voice to a whisper.
“Really? And here I thought my brother was marrying a whore,” snorted Aegon.
Before either you or Aemond could react, Helaena flounced back to the table with a joyful beam, taking your arm. “Come dance with us, Y/N!” she exclaimed, breathless and bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Jace stood behind her, grin equally wide and hands clasped behind his back.
You shot a look at Aemond, as if telling him not to lash out at his brother during such an important supper, and stood up to join Helaena and Jace in their dance.
None of you were really that good—you hadn’t danced in years—but it was great fun, nonetheless. You twirled Helaena in your arms until she grew delightfully dizzy, and Jacaerys accidentally trod on your feet thrice, but you only laughed harder each time, cuffing his shoulder affectionately.
Amidst your dance, Alicent called for the guards to take the King away, for he was tired and aching. He departed the room with one last look to his family—all united, together as one.
It was surely a beautiful, rare sight to behold.
One that was destined not to last.
The dance came to an abrupt halt when Aemond suddenly slammed his fists against the table, so hard that the platters of food clattered with the sudden force. The music suddenly stopped, and all the conversations ceased. You turned your head away from your dance partners to see what was going on.
Oh.
In front of Aemond was a roasted pig, still sizzling with oil. And all the way across the table, Luke was not-so-discreetly hiding a laugh behind his palm.
Oh, no.
“Final tribute,” said your betrothed, lifting his glass. There was a dangerous fire to his eye. “To the health of my nephews. Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…”
No, Aemond, you silently begged. The Prince kept his gaze trained on Luke, refusing to meet your desperate stare.
“... Strong,” he finished, after an extensive pause.
“Aemond—” Alicent began.
“Come,” her son quickly said, cutting her off. “Let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys.”
From right next to you, Jace gnashed his teeth together. “I dare you to say that again.”
“Why?” asked Aemond, feigning innocence, pushing away from the table to step closer to Jace. “‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”
A gasp lodged in your throat when Jacaerys dove forward, landing a punch right into Aemond’s face.
“Jace!” yelled Rhaenyra.
It did little effect on the taller man, and Aemond’s head merely snapped to the side but his body remained rooted to the same position. A smug smile etched across his features. Simultaneously, Aegon rose to his feet and grabbed Luke by the scruff of his collar, shoving his face straight into a searing hot platter of fish.
“A gift for the new Lord of the Tides!” Aegon cackled with glee, indulging in the chaos.
“THAT IS ENOUGH!” commanded Alicent to her sons, but neither of them listened to her.
Scrambling forward, you tried to stop Aemond from retaliating, but he shoved Jace so hard the younger boy went sprawling against the dance floor. Jace was quick to get back up on his feet, an angry growl erupting from his throat. Before he could reach Aemond, two guards sprung forward and held him back, another pulling Luke away from Aegon as well.
You found yourself torn between the two sides, resulting in an indecisive dance between Jace and Luke struggling against the guards, and your betrothed smiling into his cups.
Queen Alicent got to him before you could, grabbing her son’s arms roughly. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?” she hissed.
“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother. Mmh, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs. It wounds me so, seeing as my sweet betrothed is soon to be my family, as well,” said Aemond, ripping his hand away from Alicent.
Breaking free of the guard’s hold, Jace made a charge at Aemond again.
“Wait,” Daemon ordered his stepson, striding in between the two boys before they could bash heads with one another once again. Jacaerys immediately halted in his motions, though not without great restraint.
Stern, Rhaenyra turned to her sons. “Go to your quarters. All of you, go. Now.”
The two boys were reluctantly led away by the guards, shoulders drooping with both embarrassment and anger.
Daemon released a sigh, fixing his gaze upon Aemond. They stared at each other for a moment longer, before Aemond huffed out a small, discontented hum, and began walking away.
“I’m sorry, Rhaenyra,” you told the Princess, so very tired of the ceaseless fighting and the constant torn feeling within you.
The stern expression she held softened when she looked at you. Her hand came away from her pregnant belly to rest gentle upon your cheek. “It is not your fault, sweet girl. Go on… get some rest. I shall have the servants send up food to your chambers since you didn’t get to finish your supper.”
With a grateful bow of your head, you took your leave, bidding Helaena and the Queen a quiet good night, before hastening out of the dining hall, and up the stairs to your chambers.
Your feet ached and your head pounded with stress. What a day it’s been.
Imagine your utter shock when you gently opened the doors to your bedroom, and slowly shut them behind you—only to turn and see your betrothed standing by your desk, scattered with quills and stained bottles of charcoal ink and stacks upon stacks of unopened letters you had yet to read or send off.
“Aemond,” you whispered, brows furrowing. “What are you doing here?”
The Prince remained silent, watching you keenly as you strode forward, until you were nearly nose-to-nose with him.
“What is wrong with you?” you murmured. Just moments ago, you were ready to forgive him, move on with all your grievances and accept your betrothal with not another thought. And he went and ruined it—all because his hatred for Jace and Luke were greater than his affections for you. “Are Rhaenyra’s sons that much of a bane that you must go out of your way to insult them?”
“And why do you care so much for them? For two little boys that you knew a lifetime ago? It is I who stayed by your side your entire life. It is my sister Helaena who never strayed from you. They have done nothing but leave you in their dust, retreating to Dragonstone with their tails tucked between their legs at the first sign of danger,” murmured Aemond, hands coming forth to grip your forearms, drawing you nearer to him.
“Because they are family,” you choked out. “And I love them. They are like brothers to me.”
A tantalizing hum fell from Aemond’s lips. He dipped forward, running the tip of his nose along the curve of your exposed neck, inhaling the addictive honey-lavender scent wafting from your skin. “Oh, but they are not your brothers, are they? Say it, my love. They are not only my nephews… they are yours, as well.”
“No…” you said, breathless when he began laying kisses along your heated skin. You couldn’t resist his deliberately light touches, melting against him for more. It was humiliating, how easily you caved for him. “What you are saying is treason, my Prince. Please, just think about what you—”
“There is no one else in the room but us,” he murmured, gently biting into the junction between your shoulder and neck. “Just us, jorrāelagon. You need not hide your true thoughts from me.”
Tears welled up in your eyes, and you shook your head. “I can’t. I just can’t. Aemond, please… put this to rest. They are Rhaenyra’s sons, without question. That is all that matters.” You lifted a hand to grip his chin, forcing him to look straight at you. “If you have but a shred of affection for me… you will stop this relentless fighting. Do it for me, Aemond. It pains me that the most important people in my life are constantly at odds with one another.”
A beat of silence stretched thin between you. He dipped his head once more.
“Yes, my love,” he whispered, leaning forward until his nose was slotted against yours. “For you.”
For that moment, you let yourself believe him. And you allowed yourself to love him, unconditionally and without restraint—for it was only you and him in your chambers, and no other was there to waver your opinion.
You released your hold on his chin to wind your arms around his neck instead, tugging him close and melding his lips over yours. A soft sigh fell from your lungs. He tasted of fresh fruit and earthy smoke, something you wished to drown yourself into.
You began blindly walking in the general direction of your bed with Aemond’s guidance, falling against the feather-stuffed mattress once it hit the back of your knees. The entire time, you refused to separate from his kiss, willing to suffocate from lack of air if it meant you got to continue kissing him.
It briefly occurred to you how improper this was—you were not yet married to Aemond, after all. But you couldn’t find it within yourself to care, and neither did Aemond. He wanted you now—and judging by the look in your eye, he knew you craved him equally so.
He began reaching behind you, unlacing your dress and yanking the dark green fabric off your shoulders, shoving it down your chest and abdomen and hips, kicking the nuisance material away once it bunched to the bottom of your legs. As he began to expertly undo your shift beneath it, you hurriedly tugged his tunic off, a button ripping loose in your haste. Aemond could only smile at your desperation. You swallowed heavily upon seeing his toned chest, seasoned with training.
“It is a shame,” he gruffed once he finally got your thin shift off, admiring you in all of your nude glory, shamelessly allowing his eyes to roam over your breasts and arched back. “The dress looks so much prettier on your floor.”
You groaned at his words, yanking him back down to meet him for another kiss. It grew more frantic as more time lapsed—all tongue and teeth and bites and moans. A throbbing ache flowered between your legs—not a foreign sensation, but certainly the first time it was to be vanquished by something other than your own hand.
“Aemond, please,” you pleaded, unsure of what you were asking for. “I need you, please.”
“My sweet betrothed,” said the Prince, hands wandering up and down your sides, occasionally moving to squeeze your breasts and pinch your stiffened nipples, before moving further down, purposefully avoiding the sensitive parts between your thighs. “I’ll give you everything.”
With one final kiss to your lips, Aemond shifted himself further down your body, trailing his hot tongue along your skin in his wake. He met your gaze once he gently pried your legs open, his pretty hands gripping your thighs tightly.
The sight he was met with made his cock twitch angrily within his briefs. Your cunt was drenched and glistening with your arousal—and it was all for him. A greedy sense of possessiveness consumed him whole. You were his, and his alone.
He blew a stream of cold air right against your clit, which made you suck in a sharp breath, unconsciously bucking your hips closer to his face in a desperate seek for relief.
A pleasured cry—verging on a sob—tumbled from your lungs when Aemond surged forward, lips wrapping around your sensitive button, his tongue curling in the most devilish of ways over the bundle of nerves. Wailing his name, you fisted the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do with yourself. Aemond just about moaned into you, one hand letting go of your thigh to prod your slick hole, slowly pushing in two fingers.
“Oh, please—Aemond!” you groaned, simultaneously trying to pull away from his touch and pushing yourself closer to his face.
“My good girl,” he praised, the vibrations of his words against your cunt making you keen with undulated pleasure, as he began pumping his fingers in and out of you. “You taste heavenly, jorrāelagon.”
A gasp hitched within your throat once Aemond yanked your hips closer, practically burying himself within your thighs.
“Aemond, my darling,” you sobbed, one hand falling into his hair, tugging at the long, pale strands, and the other squeezing your breast. “I’m going to…”
“Cum for me,” your betrothed said, unrelenting as he circled his wicked tongue along your clit.
And who were you to disobey the Prince?
With a breathy shout, you were pushed over the edge, clenching viciously around his still-thrusting fingers. Your orgasm slammed into you like a tidal wave, leaving you winded with green stars dancing about your vision.
“That’s it,” murmured Aemond, gently pulling away once you came down from your high, the lower half of his face gleaming with your arousal. He crawled back up your form, shirking his trousers off, leaving him just as nude as you, save for his leather eyepatch still fixed over his scar. His cock—long and hard and angrily weeping with pearly beads of precum, slapped against his lower abdomen.
You pulled him down again, kissing him with wild abandon, sighing when you realized that you were tasting yourself on his tongue.
He flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. Despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. You whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. Aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.
He was a monster—and no amount of sweet talk would be able to change his mind from such a cemented fact. Not even from you, whose opinion he valued the most in the world.
“I love you,” he whispered, nose brushing down your jaw, still appreciative of your efforts nonetheless. “You are my everything. My heart, my soul, my life. I only wish for nothing but your happiness.”
You wrapped your legs around him, his throbbing cock pressed right against your fluttering cunt, clenching around nothing in anticipation. Lowering your voice to a whisper, you gently bit at the outer shell of his ear. “And I love you, my darling Aemond. All I wish for right now… is your cock inside me.”
Your lewd words made his length throb impossibly harder. “Your wish is my command,” he softly replied.
And with that, he eased himself inside of you. Your warm, pulsating cunt was gripping him like a vice, a shuddering groan choked out from his lungs. You mirrored his reaction, squeezing your eyes shut and holding onto him for dear life as he began to rock into you.
With each snap of his hips into yours, you found yourself murmuring his name like a mantra, pressing sloppy kisses to his bare shoulder. One particularly hard thrust had you scratching angry red lines down the expanse of his back. Aemond didn’t seem to mind—in fact, this only seemed to spur him on further, as he growled an obscenity, grabbing your ankle to throw over his shoulder and slamming his length back into you with no abandon.
Your eyes rolled in the back of your head once he snaked one of hands down to thumb at your clit, eliciting a lewd moan from your kiss-swollen lips.
“So good, Aemond,” you cried, cunt spasming around his cock once the beginnings of your second orgasm began creeping up on you. “Cum inside… oh—make me yours, darling, please!”
A near animalistic noise tore through Aemond’s chest and he began to pound his cock deeper into you, the thought of you growing round with his child filling his thoughts as he desperately sought his own release. You tightened around him one last time when your orgasm surged forth, so hard that it had Aemond’s quick rhythm faltering. With a broken groan and a mutter of your name, he spilled his seed into you, thick spurts of white coating your slick walls.
A content hum danced between you once you kissed him again, easing into a wince when he slowly pulled out of your overstimulated cunt. He drew back to watch his seed drip out of you, hot and thick and so very arousing, it nearly made his cock hard all over again.
“You did so well for me,” Aemond murmured into your sweaty skin, freckling kisses over the bridge of your nose and over your eyelids, hooded with exhaust. “Are you alright?”
“Quite,” you replied, smiling at him kindly. “I suppose Aegon was right. I certainly am in good hands.”
The Prince hung his head, shaking it fondly, mildly embarrassed by your praise. “Do not speak of my brother while we are in bed, dear betrothed. It is unseemly,” he said, though his words lacked any true bite.
“Forgive me, Aemond. I seem to forget my manners when I am with you,” you said, a laugh dancing alongside your words. “You make for a grand distraction.”
“Mmh, do I, now? I am glad to be of service.” Your betrothed gathered you in his arms, easing you down amongst your pillows and brushing away loose strands of hair that stuck to your damp skin. “Rest, my love.”
You let yourself acquiesce to his words, sinking into the comfort of your bed.
“Stay,” you whispered sleepily, pressing a light kiss to the back of his palm. “Stay with me.”
And Aemond did so, with little protest. His eye was soft and his touch was loving as he laid down beside you, holding you close to his chest, nose buried within your hair.
You fell asleep hopeful that night. Hopeful that your soon-to-be husband loved you more than he hated your nephews. Hopeful that perhaps marrying Aemond was the best thing for you. Hopeful that things would be alright, eventually.
Hopeful that a war was not on the horizon.
There was a cold stillness to the air the next day. Jace and Luke left early in the morning back to Dragonstone before the sun had a chance to rise, with solemn goodbyes and grim faces. You knew not when you were going to see them again.
It weighed heavy on your shoulders as you sat beside Helaena, sharpening one of your daggers with a small whetstone. There was a certain uncomfortable feeling twisting about your stomach—but you couldn’t quite tell what was wrong.
You had tried distracting yourself by playing with the twins, gifting them new wooden dragons you had bought from a carver in town, but it was not enough to take your mind off of the unsettled feeling within you. When the twins hadn’t worked, you thought about Aemond, and the time you shared last night… along with the early morning following, with his touch sweltering and his voice gruff from slumber.
It still didn’t work. Perhaps you were just having an off day.
“It is our fate, I think, to crave always what is given to another,” said Helaena, working on her embroidery of a spindly black spider with a red abdomen, seeming impervious to your nervous state. “If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away.”
“Balancing the scales,” you murmured. The princess hummed in agreement.
All of a sudden, Alicent burst into the room, strides quick and fists clenched into the fabric of her emerald-hued dress. Otto was hot on her heels, though his expression did not betray nearly as much as that of his daughter’s.
“Where is Aegon?” she asked, eyes wild.
The two of you exchanged worried, yet curious glances. Lifting her shoulders, Helaena stoically replied, “Not here.”
“He’s not in his room?” clarified Otto, as if angry at the two of you for not having kept an eye on the Prince.
You had to fight the scowl threatening to make an appearance across your face. Helaena dipped her head to avoid eye contact with her grandfather, but you held his gaze with a squared jaw.
Gnashing his teeth together, Otto turned on his heel and marched right out of the room.
“Father—” Alicent said, but he was already long gone.
The Queen glanced at the twins—Jaehaerys, babbling his father’s name and clapping his hands together, whilst Jaehaera only tightened her small grip around the wooden dragon you gave her.
“What has happened?” whispered Helaena, addressing her mother directly, something she sparsely ever did.
A morose expression folded over her features. Alicent sat beside Helaena, a film of tears misting over her eyes.
“Your father…”
Helaena’s usually calm features twisted into one of anger. Viserys was hardly a father to her. “There is a beast beneath the boards,” she hissed, repeating her whispered words from yesterday’s dinner.
Alicent’s conflicted eyes searched her daughter’s distraught form. “Oh, my dearest love…” She reached out to hold Helaena, but the Princess frantically flinched closer to you, smacking the Queen’s palms away.
“No, no,” she whispered, crossing her arms across her chest, as if to shield herself from her mother.
Crestfallen, the Queen shifted her stare onto you, her fists clenching even harder around her dress. It did not escape your notice when her pupils darted down to glance at the freshly-sharpened dagger in your lap.
“What has happened to the King, Your Grace?” you asked, tone cautious and wary not to overstep any bounds.
Before she could reply, Aemond stepped from the shadows out of seemingly nowhere, a jaded, nearly haunted look of realization befalling his features.
The King was dead.
Aemond’s hand tightly clasped yours as you sat in front of the crackling fire pit. The dagger you had sharpened was clutched in your other palm, having not left your side for even a second. These were dangerous times—the scales had never been this lopsided before.
Alicent paced in front of the chairs a few feet away, murmuring incoherently under her breath at the puzzling disappearance of her eldest son.
Not too long after, Ser Criston Cole made his way into the chambers, shutting the door behind him. “Prince Aegon is not to be found within the castle walls, Your Grace. Your father has sent Ser Erryk into the city to find him.”
The Queen hung her head. “Ser Erryk knows Aegon… he has the advantage.”
Both your and Aemond’s heads turned at her words. There were treasonous schemes brewing within the Keep, that was made abundantly clear. If Alicent was not the one who sent Erryk after Aegon… it must’ve been Otto Hightower. Known to show little remorse, you could only guess that the Hand wanted his own grandson on the Iron Throne rather than Princess Rhaenyra. A sinking feeling twisted your guts upon realizing that he not only intended to usurp Rhaenyra with Aegon, but to be rid of her entirely, knowing full and well the Princess would never bend the knee to her younger brother.
Criston glanced at you with an obvious disdainful suspicion painted crystal clear over his face. For once, however, you were on Alicent’s side on finding Aegon before Ser Erryk did. You would rather Aegon be crowned King than Rhaenyra be executed.
“I trust again to you, Ser Criston, and to your loyalty. Aegon must be found, and he must be brought to me. The very fate of the Seven Kingdoms depends on it.” She stepped closer to the knight, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Everything you feel for me… as your Queen.”
The Dornish man bowed his head. “I will not fail you.”
Surprising you, Aemond declared, “We shall come with you.”
Head snapping towards the two of you, Alicent strode away from Criston to her son. Aemond’s hand fell away from yours to hold his mother’s forearms in a placating fashion.
“That would not be my desire, Aemond. If anything has happened—”
“Cole needs us, Mother. Ser Erryk isn’t the only one who knows Aegon’s doings. Y/N has spent many a night prowling the streets outside the Keep. She knows much about the nooks and crannies Aegon might be hiding within.”
It was no secret that you often used to sneak out of the castle during your childhood, eager to see King’s Landing outside of the Red Keep. The habit continued on during your teenage years, where you would often explore trade markets and smithies. By now, you knew the town as if it were the back of your hand.
Though reluctant, Criston bobbed his head in agreement. A quiet sigh slipped past Alicent’s lips, and she let go of her son. You brushed past her, following after your betrothed straight out the door.
You may have hated Aegon, but you’d do anything to keep him away from Otto and his treasonous hands.
As Helaena had mystically informed you yesterday—a storm was on the horizon. A dance of dragons.
“Aegon brought me to the Street of Silk on my thirteenth name day,” said the Prince, dark grey cowl pulled over his long, silver hair. You and Criston both had matching cloaks draped over your shoulders. The cobbled steps of King’s Landing were uneven and often damp with an unknown substance. People milled about, chattering loudly and without care. None of them had a clue that war was upon them. “It was his duty as my brother, he said, to ensure I was as educated as he was. At least that’s what I understood him to mean.”
“How pleasant,” you replied, voice dripping with contempt for his older brother, and your soon to be brother-in-law.
“I don’t follow,” Criston said, brows furrowing.
The Prince leaned forward. “He said, time to get it wet.”
Criston recoiled ever so slightly in disgust. “Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.”
You scoffed at that, rolling your eyes to the side.
Humming, Aemond tilted his head. “He paid half a dozen whores and thrust them upon me, then left the room. Two of the girls there were younger than I, barely ten years of age and trembling like leaves… never before had I been more revolted by my brother. I crawled out of the window and ran back to the Keep.”
You glanced appreciatively to your betrothed, finding yourself once again glad that it was him you were to be married to.
Leading the two men in front of a wooden door, you gestured for them to knock, stepping back to give them space. It was a pleasure house—one of the most popular in all of King’s Landing. Aemond’s single eye roamed the building, a spark of recognition dancing within the mauve of his iris. This was where Aegon had taken him all those years ago.
The door creaked open, revealing a woman draped in a sheer assortment of yellow silks and dozens upon dozens of golden jewelry littered across her skin. She narrowed her kohl-lined eyes at Ser Criston, glancing at you and Aemond right behind him.
“Sometime last night, we… misplaced our drinking companion,” said the knight. “Knowing that he has been, in the past, a patron of your fine establishment, we thought to inquire here as to his whereabouts.”
“Describe him,” replied the woman, bracelets clinking loudly against one another with every small movement.
Cole shifted his weight from foot to foot, before quieting his voice to a mere whisper, nearly lost to the crowd. “That is… a delicate matter. You see, the man we seek is the young Prince Aegon. I may trust, I hope, in the discretion of your trade.”
The woman let out an amused chuckle. “The Prince is not here,” she told him.
“Has he been here as of late?” you asked.
Curious, she laid her eyes upon you, roaming over your cloaked form. “Not as of late. Years ago, yes.”
“But more recently?” pressed Criston.
She shook her head. “He does not frequent the Street of Silk any longer. His tastes are known to be… less discriminating.”
“Meaning what?” Criston queried.
The woman smiled, wisely keeping her cards close to her chest. “I wish you luck, good Ser. And my best to your friend.” She swiveled her intense gaze to Aemond, who had bowed his head. “How you’ve grown,” she told him.
Aemond’s jaw clenched. With a hum, he took your hand, and began leading you away from the whorehouse, Criston in tow.
“It seems you were mistaken to Aegon’s habits,” said the knight.
“He could be in the hands of mercenaries, on a ship to Yi Ti. He could be dead, for all we know,” Aemond replied, nonchalantly speaking of his brother’s death as if he were discussing tomorrow’s dinner.
You allowed a hollow, humorless laugh to bubble within your throat. “It would be a cause for celebration, would it not?”
Criston sent you a sharp glare. “Let us hope, for your Queen mother’s sake, that is not the case.”
On you strode, twisting and turning through the narrow streets. The further into King’s Landing you walked, the dirtier the roads became, and the more poor, homeless folk were seen scrounging through trash for food and drinking out of barrels of muddy water. The air was humid and stank of rotten flesh.
“Here I am, trawling the city, ever the good soldier in search of a wastrel who’s never taken half an interest in his birthright,” spat Aemond, growing frustrated at the fruitless search for his wretched brother. “‘Tis I, the younger brother who studies history and philosophy, it is I who trains with the sword, and I who rides the largest dragon in the world. It is I who should be…”
Aemond bit down on the inside of his cheek, effectively stopping himself from continuing his sentence.
It upset you that he was behaving this way—just yesterday he had whispered his promise into your ear that he would halt his treacherous tongue. Had his words meant nothing to him? The death of his father had surely spun his mind into one of frantic chaos, despite his calm outer demeanor.
Pursing your lips, you could only gently reply, “There is no doubt that you are the better brother, Aemond. It does not deter the fact that we have to find him—lest your half-sister, Princess Rhaenyra, be murdered by his command under the influence of the Hand.”
Your betrothed parted his lips, as if he wanted to say something, but wisely kept his thoughts to himself.
“I know what it is to toil for what others are freely given,” Criston told Aemond, stepping closer to the younger man.
Aemond quietly grunted in frustration. “We can’t find him, Cole. You are a decent man with no taste for depravity. His secrets are his own, and he’s welcome to them. I’m next in line to the throne—should they come looking for me… I intend to be found.”
Your lips trembled as you staved away the burning within your nose, threatening tears pricking the corners of your eyes. It seemed that Aemond was truly far gone in his thirst for revenge, for power—you were a fool to believe his promise, even for a short second.
It was growing more and more dangerous for you to stay in King’s Landing, surrounded by venomous Greens. You had to hold your Black-biased tongue, for it could now result in treason of the highest orders, and, consequently, your death. You were to pose as a Green now, for the sake of your own safety.
Helaena’s words from all those years ago rang in your head. “They are to trick the larger animals into thinking they are eyes. It is a defense tactic. The butterfly is not who the rest thinks she is.” Masters of trickery—beautiful and deceitful, both equally true.
The Prince could feel the slightest of regrets once you pulled away from him, surging several feet ahead with angry steps. Your loyalty to Rhaenyra and her sons knew no bounds, and Aemond was well aware that if it came down to it, you would've chosen them over him. He loved you, truly, more than anything in the world—but his deep-rooted hatred for the Blacks had festered strong for the majority of his life. That was something that not even you could remedy, no matter how much you tried.
It was by pure luck the three of you happened upon Sers Erryk and Arryk, along with Otto Hightower, speaking to the infamous White Worm by a spice market. You followed the twins in front of a great Sept—where Mysaria had hidden away Aegon for safekeeping.
Not five minutes later, a familiar voice began shouting out obscenities and colorful curses to his captor, Ser Arryk. Criston brandished his sword, and you unsheathed your dagger beneath the protection of your cloak.
“I do regret this, friend,” said Cole, blocking their path.
Seeing this as a chance to flee, Aegon kicked at Arryk’s foot and sprinted away, down the Sept’s wide stairwell. Criston engaged Arryk in combat while you and Aemond darted away to chase after Aegon.
Quick on your feet, you were the first to tackle Aegon to the ground, shoving the Prince’s face into the uneven stone of the ground. He choked out a yell, flailing about beneath you like a fish out of water.
“No! Stop, you wretched woman! Stop!” he cried once you grabbed his arm to yank him up. Aemond came to the other side of his brother, helping you drag him up. The older Prince began to laugh maniacally when he punched you across the face, sending you reeling back with stars dancing about your vision.
A growl caught in Aemond’s throat and he grabbed at the lapels of his brother’s tunic, hauling him closer. “I was hoping you disappeared,” he said, voice dripping with venom.
Purple eyes gleaming, Aegon asked, “Is our father truly dead?”
“Yes,” replied Aemond, “and they’re going to make you King.”
A sick feeling twisted within your stomach.
Equally angry at his brother’s words, Aegon spat a thick glob of saliva right into Aemond’s only eye, trying his best to escape the two of you, to no avail.
“Let me go!” he screamed when the both of you grabbed his arms. “Let me go! Brother! I have no wish to rule! No taste for duty—I’m not suited!”
Aemond barked out a dry laugh. “You’ll get no argument from me.”
With surprising strength, Aegon shoved you away, gripping his brother’s face in his filthy hands. “You let me go—and I will find a ship and sail away.”
His proposal was most certainly a tempting one—even Aemond had given pause to his words, freezing in place. If Aegon were to be presumed dead… he would be crowned King, and you would be his Queen.
“The Queen awaits,” said Criston, pulling Aegon away from Aemond, having bested Ser Arryk in combat.
You let out a soft sigh of relief. At least, with Aegon by his mother’s side, there was no way he would order the execution of Rhaenyra. The battle has been won, but the war was still lost.
Aegon was still to be crowned King.
Once you returned to the Keep, you had locked yourself in your chambers, refusing supper. You had little appetite, and hadn’t the heart to face any of the Greens. Aemond had stopped by to check on you, knocking on your door.
You opened it reluctantly, face streaked with reflective tear tracks and eyes red-rimmed.
“Aemond, my love,” you whispered, allowing him to step into your chambers. “I fear I am no longer safe in King’s Landing.”
It broke your heart when your betrothed had no words of comfort to spare you—for you were right to worry. As a supporter of Rhaenyra, you weren’t safe here.
The Prince remained silent, cupping your cheeks in his hands, and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
And though the two of you were enemies on rival sides of the war—you still loved him for the man underneath all that. And Aemond would never stop loving you, no matter how much he hated his nephews, and his half-sister.
For just a couple hours, the two of you allowed yourselves to be free of thought. No Blacks and Greens, no Princes and Ladies, no violence and hatred.
Only you and him.
The butterfly and the dragon.
Aegon’s crowning was witnessed by thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people. You were forced into a bright green dress by Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting, your hair done up and silver jewelry pinned around your neck, and to your ears. You stood beside Aemond, playing your role as the faithful wife-to-be. On your other side was Helaena, in a dress of sweet blue, and her watering eyes trained to the ground. In front of you was Alicent, in a dark dress of viridescent hue, a golden seven-pointed star resting on her chest, her face grim.
“People of King’s Landing!” announced Otto Hightower. “Today is the saddest of days. Our beloved King, Viserys the Peaceful… is dead.”
The crowd murmured in surprise upon the announcement.
“But it is also the most joyous of days! For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him.”
Shock spread across the audience. After a few moments, they began to cheer and clap. Your insides roiled with disgust at their blatant disregard for Princess—now rightfully Queen Rhaenyra.
Not too long after, trumpets were sounding, and Aegon began walking down a pathway cleared for him by Goldcloaks. His silver-white hair shone, standing out starkly from the crowd. His expression was stony, and the corners of his eyes were red with unshed tears.
“It is your good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this! A new day for this city—a new day for our realm! A new King to lead us!” announced Otto.
Queen Alicent pressed a kiss to her eldest child’s head and led him forward to the Septon. Aegon knelt down before him. Helaena stared at her brother-husband, purple eyes misting over.
“May the Warrior give him courage. May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need. May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom.” With each sentence, the Septon dipped his thumb in blessed water and dragged the finger across Aegon’s brow.
The crown was then given to Ser Criston Cole, to place upon Aegon’s head.
“The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations,” he proclaimed, resting the heavy silver ring against Aegon’s silver locks. “Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne.”
Aegon rose to his feet. Criston and Alicent bowed their heads before their new King. Helaena set her jaw, looking none too pleased that her monster of a husband was now the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, but bowed slightly nonetheless. You were next, dipping your head ever so slightly—a deceitful butterfly.
“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 Protector of the Realm!” said the Septon.
“Aegon the King!” bellowed Criston.
The crowd burst into raucous applause.
The newly crowned Targaryen let his eyes roam over the audience. They were all cheering… for him. All his life he’d been searching for praise, for validation, and now they were all giving to him on a silver platter.
“Aegon the King!” they all screamed. “Long live Aegon!”
He unsheathed his Valyrian steel longsword, Blackfyre, and held it up with a victorious smile. The crowd cheered loudly with every thrust of his sword into the air, and he spread his arms out, feeling powerful for once in his life. A ghost of a smile crossed Alicent’s lips. Helaena shut her eyes tightly.
A beast beneath the boards.
The ground shook as the stone of the floor gave way. Plumes of dust and smoke filled the air. Screams of terror erupted from the throng of common folk and they scattered every which way.
The shrill roar of a dragon echoed loud and true. It was Meleys, the Red Queen of dragons, her scarlet scales rippling with each movement, having burst out from the Dragonpit below. Dozens of onlookers were trampled beneath her large copper-hued claws as she snarled out an ear-splitting screech.
Out of pure instinct, Aemond had grabbed your arm, pushing you behind him protectively, placing himself in between you and the large dragon. You gripped his shoulder tightly.
Once the smoke and debris had vaguely settled, you could start to make out her rider—Rhaenys Targaryen. The Queen who never was.
Alicent grabbed her eldest son, standing in front of him, terror painted across her features. She shoved Criston towards Helaena, ordering him to protect her.
The large dragon growled as she prowled closer to the royal family—smoke falling from behind her bared teeth and golden eyes blazing. Rhaenys watched you from above, eyes narrowed. For a moment, she caught your stare, bowing her head ever so slightly in your direction.
It was as if she were offering you a way out. She was well aware of your strong allegiance to Rhaenyra, and your fondness for her granddaughters’ betrotheds.
You glanced at Helaena, then to Aemond, and swallowed the lump in your throat. How could you find it in yourself to leave them both?
The Princess met your eyes, her purple ones softening ever so slightly. “Go,” she mouthed silently, nodding once. Tears blurred your gaze.
Ever so slow and trembling slightly, you stepped out from behind Aemond, much to the rest of the family’s shock. Aemond held onto your wrist, unwilling to let you go—how could he? How could he let go of you, the person he was meant to marry? The woman he loved with the entirety of his being?
You turned to your betrothed just as a hot tear slipped down your cheek.
“Goodbye, my love,” you murmured, voice cracking with emotion as your free hand lifted to cradle his cheek. You surged forward to kiss him, one last time, uncaring of the onlookers. It was quick and chaste and you could only wish for it to last longer. Raw despair and anguish and muted fury flickered across his pale visage all at once. “Let me go, Aemond. I love you, darling, please, let me go.”
Not so long ago, you were begging him to stay. And now you were asking him to let you go.
You were the only thing he had left to himself—for everything else in his life was not truly his. The two of you belonged to each other, Aemond knew this to be true… and yet you were still leaving. He refused to cry, but could feel his throat burning with restraint. If he didn’t let you go, he feared the dragon would burn his entire family alive. His wretched brother, he would’ve been alright with, but his sweet sister and mother deserved a better fate. Aemond set his jaw, and loosened his grip on you.
You rotated away just as the second tear fell, and strode towards the terrifying creature that was Meleys. The rest of the Greens remained rooted in their spots, deathly afraid of the beast in front of them. She lowered herself for you to climb on behind Rhaenys—your green dress ripped loudly in your haste. The dragon’s scales were warm, nearly burning to the touch.
Alicent shut her eyes, accepting what she thought to be her fiery death.
No dracarys ever came.
Instead, the dragon only planted her feet and bellowed out another loud, ear-splitting shriek—a warning of sorts.
With that, Rhaenys urged her dragon to turn and fly over the terrified citizens, away from King’s Landing. Cold wind blew against your face, drying your tears, and undid the intricate hairstyle your ladies-in-waiting had worked so hard on. The two of you were going to Dragonstone, where Rhaenys was to inform Princess Rhaenyra that her father passed away and her half-brother had just been crowned King.
A clashing symphony of sorrow and relief buried deep within your chest.
You craned your head back as Meleys soared away, hoping to look upon Aemond and Helaena one last time—but they were too small to see, growing into blurred figures in the distance.
Lucerys could not take his eyes off of the map of Westeros, intricately carved into stone. His hand reached out to graze over that of Driftmark—which was to be his, when Lord Corlys Velaryon passed away. It felt as if there was a heavy stone sinking within his stomach.
“There you are,” said his mother, which made Luke’s gaze snap upwards.
Rhaenyra strode towards her son, both her hands rested on her pregnant belly.
“The Sea Snake is going to die, isn’t he?” asked Luke.
Shocked at his sudden words, Rhaenyra began to say, “Luke—”
“I can’t be Lord of the Tides! Grandsire was the greatest sailor who ever lived. I get greensick before the ship even leaves the harbor! I’ll just ruin everything, mother. I don’t want Driftmark. It should’ve passed on to Ser Vaemond,” the young boy said, brows furrowed.
Rhaenyra shook her head, long silver hair swaying over her shoulder. “We don’t choose our destiny, Luke. It chooses us.”
“Grandsire let you choose whether you’d be his heir. You told us so, Mother. Grant me the same mercy—I do not want Driftmark.”
Her features softened, understanding her son’s turmoil.
“Do you want to know the truth of it?” she asked, voice quieter. “I was frightened. I was four-and-ten… same as you are now. I wasn’t ready to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—but it was my duty nonetheless. And, in time, I came to understand I had to earn my inheritance.”
Luke swallowed the lump in his throat, casting his gaze to the side. “I’m not like you,” he murmured.
His mother tilted her head. “In what way, sweet boy?”
“I’m not so… perfect.”
Rhaenyra could only smile at that, stepping closer to her second son and cupping his face, kissing the skin right beside his dark brown eyes. “I am anything but,” she whispered. “My father looked after me and helped to prepare me for my duties. Your mother will do the same for you.”
A small, accepting smile danced over Lucerys’ expression. He nodded, before noticing the guard approaching the two of them from behind.
“Good morrow, Princess,” said the guard, making his mother turn to face him. “Princess Rhaenys has just arrived on dragonback, with Lady Y/N Strong accompanying her. She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon.”
Shock flashed across Luke and Rhaenyra’s features. They hadn’t received any news of either of your plans to visit. Though he had just seen you a few days ago, Luke was excited to see you once again—you had never been to Dragonstone before.
“She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon,” the guard added.
Luke’s shoulders slumped. It seemed he’d have to wait a bit longer before he could greet you.
Your legs were sore from the long ride, and wobbled as you began walking into the large castle, hot on Rhaenys’ heels. It was not long until the guards led you into a large, expansive room, where Rhaenyra and Daemon awaited the two of you.
“Princess Rhaenys. Might we hope for news of Lord Corlys’ recovery?” she acknowledged as soon as she spotted the older woman, with not a clue about her father’s passing. Her purple eyes lit up when she saw you, but her expression quickly melded into one of unfiltered concern. You were a mess—dress ripped, cheeks still-damp with tears, lips bleeding with how hard you’ve bitten them in the midst of your anxiety. “Y/N, sweet girl, what is the matter? Are you alright—?”
Princess Rhaenys’ sharp words cut Rhaenyra off, loud and echoing. “Viserys is dead.”
There was a long moment of silence.
Daemon turned upon the unexpected news, eyes wide.
“I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra. My cousin… your father, possessed a kind heart.”
Rhaenyra’s expression faltered.
“There is more,” continued Rhaenys. “Aegon has been crowned as his successor.”
A sudden jolt of pain struck within Rhaenyra’s belly. “They crowned him?” she murmured, eyes darting between you and Rhaenys in disbelief. The green dress you were wearing finally made sense.
“How did Viserys die?” asked Daemon, heartbroken over his lost brother.
“I could not say,” said Rhaenys. You remained silent, hands clenching and unclenching into fists.
Pain lacing her tone, Rhaenyra asked, “How long ago?”
“A day ago, perhaps two,” said the older woman. “I was made a prisoner in my quarters while the Queen made her preparations. Y/N tracked down Aegon in an effort to keep him away from Otto Hightower, so as to not order your execution.”
If it were under any other circumstance, Rhaenyra would have smiled at you gratefully. But she couldn’t, doubling over in agony as more rivulets of pain struck her stomach.
“Viserys has been slain,” said Daemon, anger rising within his voice.
Affronted, Rhaenyra spat out, “Alicent demanded you declare for Aegon?”
“She did. I refused her,” replied Rhaenys.
“And yet you are still alive,” hissed Daemon, gaze suspicious and sharp.
Rhaenys cocked her head. “The High Septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit. I witnessed it myself just before I fled on Meleys.”
For the first time you arrived, you spoke, voice hoarse. “There were thousands of people there, all bearing witness to Aegon’s coronation.”
“They crowned him before the masses,” Rhaenyra said, horrified at the news.
Rhaenys nodded. “They will see him as their rightful king.”
Accusingly, Daemon gritted out, “That whore of a Queen murdered my brother and stole his throne and you could have burned them all for it.”
Rhaenys stood her ground, remaining endlessly calm and patient. “A war is likely to be fought over this treachery—but that war is not mine to begin. I only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and to my house. The Greens are coming for you, Rhaenyra. And for your children. You should leave Dragonstone at once.”
Tears glossed over Rhaenyra’s eyes. She glanced at you, practically her daughter in every way but blood and name—aware that your life was in danger now that you had run away from the Greens.
Another wave of pain. She cried out, hands splaying out over the table in front of her. With frantic motions, Rhaenyra reached under her dress.
Her hand came out from beneath the fabric bloody.
“The babe is coming.”
Rhaenyra had stripped down to her shift, walking around her chambers with her hands on her hips and breathing irregularly. She was sweating profusely, skin a blistering shade of red and silver hair sticking to her sticky flesh.
The midwives were all murmuring to themselves, unsure of what to do and how to help her, especially when Rhaenyra kept waving them away, telling them, “Just fuck off!”
Even the maester appeared worried, murmuring low beneath his breath to the eldest midwife, “Her term is far from complete… this should not be happening.”
Rhaenyra had stormed up to them, growling out behind gritted teeth, “It is fucking happening!”
“Keep your head about you, Princess,” the midwife crooned. “We’ve done this five times before—just keep your spirit and the sixth will be no different.”
“Get off, get off, get off me!” Rhaenyra hissed, yanking herself away from the fussing midwives. “Ow, ow, oh…”
Salt pricked the corners of her eyes when she turned her head in a frustrated manner, gaze landing on you. You were in the corner of the room, having been the one who ushered her here, hands shaking and cheeks damp with a constant stream of worried tears. Your mother had died giving birth to you—and you couldn’t imagine what it would be like if Rhaenyra died in front of your eyes, as well.
“Sweet girl, darling, fetch me some water, please,” she gasped, breathless, reaching out to you with a wince.
With a frantic nod, you scrambled to the bedside table to pour Rhaenyra a cold cup, rushing to the woman who had taken to leaning against a stone pillar, chest heaving. A cry left her throat as she felt another wave of pain overtake her body.
She collapsed into you as she screamed through the pain, and you braced yourself with her weight, clutching her close to your chest.
“Drink, Princess,” you urged her, holding the rim of the cup to her chapped lips. Rhaenyra tipped her head back and swallowed a few mouthfuls to quench her dry throat, nearly choking as agony struck her belly once more.
Ten minutes later, Jacaerys and Lucerys were summoned, descending down the stairs to their mother’s chambers with confused and concerned expressions.
“Mother?” asked Jace, mouth parting upon seeing you by Rhaenyra’s side.
“Fuck!” groaned Rhaenyra, huffing out a warbling breath. She turned to look at her two boys, both their brows furrowed and worry splayed plainly over both their faces. “Your grandsire, King Viserys, has passed.”
Both the boys straightened at the news, their eyes widening with shock.
“The Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne. Aegon has been crowned King,” Rhaenyra said, through bouts of intense pain.
Jacaerys’ jaw set. “What is to be done about it?”
“Nothing yet,” she replied.
“Where is Daemon?” asked her eldest son.
“I don’t know. Gone to madness—gone to plot his war,” she bit out, lips trembling.
Furious that his stepfather wasn’t by his mother’s side, Jacaerys turned and began striding back up the stairs. “Leave Daemon with me,” he said.
“Jace!” called Rhaenyra. “Jacaerys!”
Jace halted in his strides.
“Whatever claim remains to me, you are now its heir. Naught is to be done but by my command. Do you understand?”
The young man dipped his head in a nod, and he disappeared out of the room.
Her purple eyes landed on Luke, appearing frightened beyond belief.
“Are you going to be alright, mother?” he whispered.
“Yes, sweet boy,” she replied, the lie falling off her tongue easy. “Go. You mustn’t see this.”
Hesitating once more, Luke caught your eye, and you gestured for him to leave, a reassuring warmth to your gaze. The boy scampered away, leaving you to Rhaenyra once more.
As soon as her boys left, she bent at the waist and began screaming again, nails digging into her thighs. You were the only one she allowed close to her, barking at the midwives to stay away anytime one of them tried to get near her. But there was little you could do, and so you just pressed a cold, soaked cloth to her head, wiping away her sweat and drew her hair away from her face.
The seconds blurred into minutes.
Blood stained her shift.
The minutes blurred into hours.
“Get out, get out!” she screamed at the babe within her, voice breaking, teeth clenched so hard it was a wonder they didn’t crack beneath the pressure.
The hours blurred into half a day.
Her agonized yells rang so loud it echoed across the entirety of Dragonstone. After a long while of strenuous pushing, blood pooled out from beneath her shift—and a minute later, a sick squelch befell the chambers as the stillborn baby came out of her. Its small, undeveloped body fell to the stone floors.
The babe was a girl.
And she was silent. Unmoving.
The midwives all turned away with tears in their eyes.
With tired, shaking, bloodied hands, Rhaenyra fell to her knees and picked up her baby, wrapping her shift around its tiny form. Red soaked through the fabric, drenching her skin, her hair, her face.
You wanted to cry some more—but you forced the burning urge away, steeling yourself to stay strong for Rhaenyra. And so you sat beside her, with a hand resting upon her shoulder, face stoically set.
The two of you stayed that way for the rest of the day, long after the sun had set, with Rhaenyra rocking her dead daughter in her arms and her other daughter dutifully by her side, swallowing down her tears.
Sparse few attended the funeral.
Visenya, the babe’s name was. Rhaenyra had whispered it to you right before she had gotten up to wrap up her daughter in linens for the burning.
It was a dreary event, the sky covered with grey clouds and the oceans quietly lapping at the shores of Dragonstone. You stood beside Luke, his hand held tightly within yours. Rhaenyra did not cry, for she had done so for hours on end and had no tears left to spare.
A familiar figure passing through the thin crowd made your brows raise in surprise.
“I mean no harm, brothers,” Ser Erryk Cargyll said when two guards drew their swords upon him. The man took off his helmet, kneeling down before Rhaenyra and Daemon. He then pulled out a golden crown from his satchel, presenting it to the two. “I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”
It was, by no means, a lavish coronation. After all, it was unexpected and sudden, and took place during the funeral of her stillborn daughter.
But it was better than any amount of gold could ever buy for Aegon.
Daemon took the crown from Erryk and placed it upon Rhaenyra’s head. He was the first to kneel. “My Queen.”
The rest of her people followed suit, bending the knee towards the true Queen.
“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” announced Daemon, standing at the head of the stone-carved table of Westeros. “Your Grace.”
Rhaena Velaryon offered the Queen wine, and Rhaenyra graciously took the chalice, beckoning for her to come closer to the war table, along with her sister Baela.
You stood beside Jacaerys, staring at the glowing markers on the table, eyes fixed upon King’s Landing—where Helaena and her darling children were. Where Aemond was.
“What is our standing?” asked Rhaenyra.
Swiftly, Daemon replied, “We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms. Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch—I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”
A maester chimed in, “We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, along with Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon.”
Rhaenyra nodded. “My lady mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”
“Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace,” said the maester. “With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”
“Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed,” Rhaenyra said. “He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position, and that we will support him, should it come to war.”
Seeing as Grover was the head of the overlord house of Harrenhal, you knew much about the man, and were also aware that he was not one to put trust in. Feeling the need to speak up, you cleared your throat. “If I may, Your Grace—Lord Grover is old and sickly. He is bedridden, and far too aged to act with haste. It would do us well to address his grandson and heir, Elmo Tully, instead. Ser Elmo is sensible and loyal to a fault. He would surely support your cause.”
A ghost of a proud smile traced Rhaenyra’s expression. “That would be wise, Lady Strong. Maester, see to it that you do as she says.”
“What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?” asked Ser Erryk.
“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath,” said the maester. “With House Stark, the entirety of the North will follow.”
Rhaenyra toyed with the ring about her finger. “We cannot speak to Storm’s End with surety—Lord Borros Baratheon will have to be reminded of his father’s promises first.”
Finally, the Queen turned to face Rhaenys. “What news from Driftmark?”
“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone,” said Rhaenys.
Still ever so suspicious of her, Daemon narrowed his eyes. “To declare for his Queen?”
Rhaenys did not wither beneath his glare. “The Velaryon fleet is in my husband’s yoke. He decides where they sail.”
“We shall pray for both you and your husband’s support, then,” said Rhaenyra, “just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health. There’s no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet. What of our enemies?”
Fingers flexing against the hilt of his sword, Daemon replied with a venomous tongue, “We have no friends amongst the Lannisters. Tyland has served Otto Hightower too long to turn against him… and he needs the Lannister fleet.”
“Without the Lannisters, we are not likely to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth,” said Rhaenyra.
Daemon huffed out a breath. “The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.”
One of the lords began speaking from the other end of the table. “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.”
Rhaenyra’s mouth slackened. “The Greens have dragons as well—”
“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer,” said Daemon, counting off on his fingers.
“Daemon, none of our dragons have been to war,” replied Rhaenyra, tone sharpening.
Unrelenting, Daemon pressed on, “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.”
“And who is to ride them?” asked Rhaenyra, baffled.
“It does not matter. A dragon needs no rider to be an asset. We have thirteen to their four. I have another score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont. Now, we need a place to gather—a toehold large enough to house a sizable host.” Daemon stepped around the table to place a marker on the map. “Here, at Harrenhal. And Lady Strong is our key to that—she is its rightful heir, after her older brother Larys Strong—and he is not a favorable man. The people there are more likely to bend the knee if they know we have their Lady’s support. We’d cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with the dragons, and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”
Surprise filled your expression at the mention of your hometown. Though you’d never been to Harrenhal, you knew Harwin and your father were well-liked. Perhaps they could be swayed in your favor instead of slimy old Larys, as well.
Before anyone could respond to Daemon’s hot tongue, a guard ran up to Rhaenyra. “Your Grace, a ship has been sighted offshore. A lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”
Your heart leapt to your throat. Could it possibly be Aemond?
“Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies,” said Daemon, already making his way out of the room.
Fully expecting to be sent to your private quarters, you were shocked when Rhaenyra laid a hand on your forearm. “Y/N, my sweet girl, you are of great value in this war. You are quick-witted in the political tongues of battle and a good fighter. You shall come with me.”
You blinked in surprise, before bowing your head. “Yes, My Queen.”
Otto Hightower was most certainly not a sight for sore eyes. His face was set in stone, powerful and commanding and pretentious all at once. This was the most power he’s held in his entire life, and he was relishing in it.
“I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of his Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms,” he uttered, somehow managing to look down upon Daemon despite him being taller than Otto. “Where is the Princess?”
From the skies, Syrax’s roar rumbled the very clouds with its piercing volume. She descended upon the bridge you were standing on, yellow scales rippling as she lowered herself for Rhaenyra to climb down.
The knights Otto had come with cowered at the sight of the golden beast.
“Princess Rhaenyra,” Otto greeted, not even bothering to bow in the slightest.
“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now,” she coldly replied. “And you all are traitors to the realm.”
The older man narrowed his eyes. “King Aegon Targaryen, Second of his Name… in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms.” After a beat of silence, Otto took it as his cue to continue talking, despite Daemon’s restless fiddling with his sword. “Acknowledge Aegon as King and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. Return Lady Y/N Strong to her husband-to-be, the King’s younger brother, Aemond. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be reaffirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark, and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon. Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honor at court—Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, and Viserys as his cupbearer. Y/N will be treated well and married to Prince Aemond, after which she can choose to live with you on Dragonstone if she so pleases, until it is time for her to collect her inheritance of Harrenhal with Aemond. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”
Otto Hightower was a clever man, with a sharp tongue of persuasive influence.
But Daemon saw right through him, scowling deeply. “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a King.”
“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Otto reaffirmed. “He wears the Conqueror's crown, wields the Conqueror's sword, and has the Conqueror's name. He was anointed by a septon of the Faith before the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him. And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon—houses that have also received and are at present, considering generous terms from their King.”
Rhaenyra clasped her hands together. “Stark, Tully, and Baratheon all swore to me, when King Viserys named me his heir. Has that perhaps slipped from your mind, Lord Hightower?”
“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess,” reminded Otto. “The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”
With deliberate steps forward, Rhaenyra marched towards Otto, grabbing the Hand of the King’s pin on the front of his coat, tossing it somewhere over the stone bridge. “You are no more Hand than Aegon is King. Fucking traitor.”
Otto seemed unmoved by this.
“Grand maester,” he said, holding out an awaiting hand.
“What the fuck is this?” Daemon muttered under his breath from beside you, fingers clenching and unclenching around the hilt of his sword.
The maester gave Otto a worn piece of paper—one that Rhaenyra seemed to recognize from her childhood growing up with Alicent.
“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other,” he said. “No blood need be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace. Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”
“She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father’s mouth, along with his withered cock!” spat Daemon. “Let’s end this mummer’s farce.”
With that, he drew his shield, prompting every knight present to also pull out their swords. You wrapped your hand around the hilt of your dagger, hidden within your cloak, but you made no move to unsheath it just yet.
“Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself,” growled the white-haired Prince, ever the impulsive hothead.
A tear slipped down Rhaenyra’s cheek as she stared down at the page. From behind Otto, Syrax gave an outraged growl upon seeing her rider upset.
“No,” Rhaenyra said, glancing back at her husband with a warning stare. Daemon put his sword down and hung his head with a sigh, deeply frustrated he was denied the pleasure of cutting off Otto’s head. “King’s Landing will have my answer on the morrow.”
With that, Rhaenyra turned to leave. Daemon followed close behind.
“Lord Hightower,” you said, drawing his attention to you. “Tell Prince Aemond he is on the wrong end of the scales. Tell him I will be forced to balance them, whether or not he is on my side. He will understand what this means.”
With not another word further, you turned on your heel, striding away from the former Hand, hurrying to catch up to Rhaenyra.
The next morning was much busier than last night. More lords had keener insight to offer, and plans were starting to roll into place.
“The Lord of the Tides,” announced Erryk Cargyll, “and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”
You paused in your conversation with Jacaerys to watch the Velaryons descend the staircase. Baela came to Jacaerys’ side, the two of them nodding at each other stoutly. Rhaena strode over to Luke, a bright smile to her face, which was equally mirrored by the young boy.
Corlys’ cane echoed loudly as it stamped against the floor. There was a slight limp to his step, but there seemed to be nothing else dire in terms of his condition.
“Lord Corlys,” greeted Rhaenyra. “It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”
The Sea Snake leveled her with a calculating gaze. “I’m very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man.” He hobbled closer to the stone-carved map. “Your declared allies?” he asked, glancing at the markers strewn across the table.
“Yes,” Rhaenyra said.
“Too few to win a war for the throne,” surmised Corlys.
Rhaenyra hesitated, before saying, “Well, we would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”
“Hope is the fools’ ally,” the Sea Snake said.
The Queen drew herself to her full height. “Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house. But all of them swore oaths to me.”
Corlys cocked his head. “As did House Hightower, if I can recall correctly.”
Tone sharp, Rhaenyra responded, “As did you, Lord Corlys.”
The Lord of the Tides found himself at an impasse for a reply. He glanced back at his grandchildren—Jace and Baela, along with Luke and Rhaena.
“Your father’s realm was one of justice and honor,” said Corlys. “Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand. You have the full support of our fleet and house, Your Grace.” He bowed his head low to his Queen.
Gratitude shone through Rhaenyra’s expression. “You honor me, Lord Corlys. Princess Rhaenys. But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war’s first stroke is to fall, it shall not be by my hand.”
Surprised, Corlys’ brows shot up. “You do not mean to act?”
“Taking caution does not mean standing fast,” said Rhaenyra. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.”
Allowing yourself to play the fool for once, hope clutched at your ribcage. Rhaenyra would make for a good Queen.
“The consequence of my near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them. I took care to fully garrison the territory, this time. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already,” Corlys told Rhaenyra with a firm nod. “The triarchy has been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours. If we further seal the gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King’s Landing.”
Stepping forward, Rhaenys offered, “I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.”
You studied the positions of the Blacks on the map before voicing your input, “With the Narrow Sea obstructed by the Velaryon fleet, King’s Landing can be easily surrounded, and a bloodless siege could be levied onto the Red Keep. It is a strong castle, but more than vulnerable, given the right number of knights and extensive knowledge of the inside. I know the castle like it’s the back of my hand—along with the secret tunnels to smuggle people in and out unseen. Once the Keep is impregnated, the Greens’ would be forced to surrender.”
Rhaenyra smiled at you, perhaps the first time she’s genuinely smiled since the death of her daughter. “If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.”
The maester bowed his head. “I’ll prepare the ravens, Your Grace.”
From beside you, Jacaerys spoke, “We should bear those messages. Dragons can fly faster than ravens—and they’re more convincing. Send us.”
Corlys regarded his grandson with an impressed look. “The Prince is right, Your Grace.”
Rhaenyra nodded her head once after a moment of thought. “Very well. Prince Jacaerys will fly north—first to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm’s End to treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. Lady Y/N will go with you, Luke. She is quick-of-tongue, has been trained in the art of combat, can bargain against Lord Borros’ temper if need be, and is around the same age as his four daughters. Hopefully that will make for some common interest.”
Surprise rippled around the room, but you determinedly bobbed your head once.
“I’ll do my best, Your Grace,” you said, earning you a warm dip of her head.
“We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore,” Rhaenyra proclaimed. “And… the cost of breaking them.”
The waters lapped voraciously against the tall, stony cliffs, the sea’s waves crashing loudly against them. You turned your gaze up to the sky, watching the dark, heavy clouds slowly shift with the whistling winds.
There was a storm on the horizon.
And it’d be your second time mounting a dragon.
“It’s been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men,” Rhaenyra said to her sons. “And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms… we must answer to their gods. If you take this errand, you go as messengers—not as warriors.”
Luke sent a worried gaze to his brother and then to you. He was frightened and terribly nervous, of course he was—this was the first time he’s been sent off for something this high of importance—but he was immensely relieved that you were to go with him. He knew you were a formidable fighter, even if they were avoiding violence, it was comforting to know that he wasn’t going to be alone.
“You must take no part in any fighting,” Rhaenyra told them, expression solemn. “Swear it to me now, under the eyes of the Seven.”
“I swear it,” said Luke without hesitation.
Jacaerys took a moment longer to follow after his brother. “I swear it,” he parroted.
“You as well, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra said, turning her dark purple gaze to you. “I need this ordeal to be bloodless.”
“I swear it, Your Grace,” you whispered, bowing your head. “I’m honored you trust me with such a task.”
A smile traced Rhaenyra’s lips. The rolled up pieces of parchment in her hands shifted as she held one out to Jace. “Cregan Stark is closer to your age than is mine. I would hope that as young men, the two of you can take a mutual liking to one another.”
Jacaerys nodded determinedly. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Rhaenyra regarded her eldest son fondly, before turning to the younger boy. She noted the unadulterated worry in his eyes.
“Storm’s End is a short flight from here. You have Baratheon blood from your grandmother, Rhaenys. And… Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to host a prince of the realm—and his dragon. I expect the both of you will receive a very warm welcome.” The Queen smoothed down his cloak, and brushed his curls away from his face.
“Yes, Mother. I mean, Your Grace.”
Rhaenyra shook her head, an affection glint to her eyes. Her sweet boy… grown far too quickly.
Finally, she turned to you, handing you the parchment. “Lord Borros is a temperamental man, but you are smart—smarter than most your age—I have faith you will easily persuade him for support. Let us hope he will see his daughters within you… you and his eldest, Cassandra, are of the same age.”
“I will not fail you, Your Grace,” you said.
Rhaenyra cupped your face, dipping forward to slant a chaste kiss upon your temples. “I will see you soon, daughter. Get to it, then.”
A warm smile brushed across your features. You pulled away, bidding Jacaerys a warm goodbye, before walking away with Luke.
“Are you ready?” he asked you.
“No. Are you?”
“No.”
The two of you grinned at each other, nervous.
You placed a comforting hand on his shoulder before he could mount his pearlescent dragon, Arrax. “Luke… everything’s going to be okay. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The younger boy rolled his eyes. “I should be the one saying that to you—I’m the one with a dragon.”
With that, he mounted the small beast, commanding Arrax to bend down so you could climb on, as well. The dragon seemed to purr contentedly when you stroked his pale scales.
And to the dark skies the both of you took, the howling warnings of the wind falling upon deaf ears.
Storm’s End was cold and dreary and grey all over. Pinpricks of frigid rain stung your skin.
The flight was short but uncomfortable, as the winds made for a difficult journey and the saddle was really only made for one person, since Arrax was still a young dragon. Nonetheless, Luke helped you down, and the two of you made for the castle.
A shrill roar in the distance made the two of you flinch, looking west to see Vhagar in the distance, shrouded with cold fog and smoke, more than five times the size of Arrax. The two of you exchanged worried glances.
Aemond was here.
Fear clutched at your chest.
Determined, Luke stepped forward to the guards manning the castle doors.
“I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon. I bring a message to Lord Borros from the Queen.”
The guards nodded, turning to lead him through the massive stone archway.
Thunder rumbled angrily through the sky, rivulets of white lightning carving pathways between clouds.
Somehow colder inside than out, you drew your blue cloak closer to you, sticking close behind Luke.
The guards brought the two of you into the castle’s great hall, where Lord Borros was seated upon a stone throne. He was a burly man, with a mane of black curls and a thick beard shadowing his jaw. To his left were his four daughters, each tall and dark-haired and fair of skin.
To his right was your betrothed.
He was calm as ever, hands clasped behind his back, foot tapping rhythmically against the ground. His purple eye was fixed on you, expression unreadable. You could feel your heart stutter within your chest—despite everything, you missed him terribly.
“Prince Lucerys Velaryon, son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen,” announced the guard. “Lady Y/N, of House Strong.”
Luke shifted uncomfortably at the sight of his uncle.
“Lord Borros,” he started, voice trembling. “I brought you a message from my mother, the Queen.”
The Baratheon lord showed little interest in the young princeling. “Yet earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King. Which is it? King or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.” He began laughing to himself, loud and hollow, bouncing off the cold stone walls of the castle. “What’s your mother’s message?”
With your head held up high, you stepped forward to hand the Lord the bound scroll. He eyed you with disdain, a sigh falling from his lips.
“Where’s the bloody maester?!” he yelled, his patience growing thin. Borros was not a man of words, and could not read for himself.
Aemond’s stare pierced into Luke, nearly scalding. Subconsciously, Luke rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
The maester stepped forward to read for him, before bending down to whisper the message into Borros’ ear.
Fury painted itself golden across his grizzled features.
“Remind me of my father’s oath?” he echoed, voice booming with anger. “King Aegon at least came with an offer! My swords and banners in exchange for a marriage pact!”
Your eyes widened, and you chanced a glance to Aemond. Had he offered his hand to one of the Baratheon girls? Had he already cast you to the side as if you were nothing?
“Aegon’s youngest brother, Daeron, is to wed one of my daughters. Prince Aemond was just negotiating dates and dowries,” said Borros in a boastful manner.
A strange sense of relief befell you, one that you didn’t quite understand.
“If I do as your mother bids… which one of my daughters will you wed, boy?”
Voice quaking, Luke shook his head. “My lord… I am not free to marry. I’m already betrothed.”
“So you come with empty hands,” said Borros, an incredulous scoff following his words.
A slight smile crossed Aemond’s features. You gritted your teeth.
“My Lord, if I may,” you began, holding the Baratheon’s graze strongly. “It matters not what we offer. This is a warning to you, from the Queen. The might of the Velaryon fleet has already sworn fealty to Queen Rhaenyra’s cause. Winterfell has never forgotten their oaths and will support Her claim, along with the entirety of the North. The Tullys and the Arryns and dozens more great houses are also to be loyal to the Queen’s cause. Will you be willing to risk your own noble house against the strength of the Blacks if war is to come?”
Borros Baratheon was stunned into silence. He wasn’t a man easily swayed, stubborn to a fault—but your words had struck a chord within him. The threat of the entirety of the North was not one he could hold defense against, not to mention the Velaryon fleet, the Vale, and the Riverlands.
A grumble resounded in his chest. Borros was not one to back down. “Rhaenyra has taken House Baratheon for granted far too long. A son—a male heir—is of higher order than a daughter. Aegon is the true King.”
You pressed forth, “Lord Borros, I beg you to think about the future of your house—”
“NOT ANOTHER WORD FROM YOU!” he shouted, effectively cutting you off, thick brows drawing together. You fell silent, angrily biting down on your tongue. The burly man drew out a heavy sigh, addressing Prince Lucerys once more. “Go home, pup. Tell your bitch of a mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not a dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”
The both of you stiffened at his blatant disrespect.
“I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord,” said Luke.
The two of you turned to take your leave of the blasted place.
“Wait.”
You froze in place, turning only your head to see Aemond staring straight at his nephew.
“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm with my dear betrothed… trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he said, words as sharp as knives.
Luke straightened himself, remembering what he swore to his mother. “I will not fight you,” he told his uncle. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”
“A fight would be little challenge,” said the one-eyed prince. You protectively moved to stand in front of Luke. Aemond hummed at this, regarding you with a heated stare. He reached behind his head to pull off his leather eyepatch—where a gleaming sapphire was placed within the scarred socket. Memories of when he had bared himself to you fully and wholly that one fateful night flashed across the forefront of your mind. You yearned for that time back. “No… I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine. Just one will serve. I would not blind you. Hm… I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”
With that, he reached down into his coat, brandishing a curved dagger. He tossed it down to the ground in between you, the blade glowing with the light of the torches lining the walls.
Revenge was consuming him. He was angry—infuriated that the Blacks had stolen his wife-to-be, and now they were parading about the realm, falsely claiming Rhaenyra to be the rightful Queen.
“Aemond, stop this madness,” you hissed, stepping closer to him, your hand resting over your own dagger hidden within your cloak. “He will do no such thing.”
“Mmh, then he is craven as well as a traitor,” said Aemond.
“Not here!” bellowed Borros.
The prince paid him no mind, surging forward with quick steps. “Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!”
You met him halfway, just as he scooped up the dagger he had tossed. One of your hands found his chest and you shoved him back, the other coming forth to slant your dagger right against Aemond’s stomach. The prince met your eyes briefly, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn you saw regret dancing amongst the mauve of his iris. But it was gone just as quickly as it came.
“Touch my nephew and I will cut you open from head to toe,” you threatened in a hushed whisper, lips grazing his ear.
Aemond found himself chuckling lowly at your slip up. “So you finally admit it, my love. He is a Strong, just as you are, hm? Look at this sad creature, my sweet betrothed… little Luke Strong, the bastard. He is drenched. Is it raining outside or has he pissed himself in fear?”
With a growl, you shoved at him again, which only barely made him take a step back.
Luke had drawn his sword, hands trembling around the hilt.
“NOT IN MY HALL!” yelled Borros. “The boy came as an envoy. I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof! Escort Prince Lucerys and Lady Y/N back to his dragon. Now.”
Luke sheathed his sword, and Aemond twirled the dagger in his grasp, before doing the same. You were the last to put your weapon away, glaring at your betrothed with the might of a thousand suns.
“For what it’s worth, Aemond,” you told him as a lump formed in your throat, “I’ve missed you. Or, at least—I miss the man you used to be.”
You did not wait to see his reaction.
Instead, you turned to tell Lucerys, “Go, Luke. I will stay and try to barter with Lord Borros. With time, I think I can convince him.”
The princeling shook his head, wet curls flying. “No, Y/N, you must come home with me. We can tell mother together!”
You brushed his damp hair away from his face. “I can do this, Luke. Go. I will see you at Dragonstone—I shall take a ship back.”
Reluctant, Luke nodded once, before rotating on his heel and heading out the door.
When you looked back, Aemond was already gone. Unease settled within your chest.
The storm seemed to have worsened—the rains were far heavier and the gusts of wind were stronger. You made your way out of the castle to watch Luke go on his young dragon.
Vhagar was nowhere to be seen.
Your eyes widened. Aemond must have already taken her to the skies—no doubt to torment his nephew further.
Or… or worse than torment…
You ran out into the muddy clearing, screaming Luke’s name. Your voice was lost to the storm. Frantic, you made your way out of Storm End’s walls, desperately trying to see through the thick fog.
“LUKE!” you screamed. “AEMOND! No, no, no…”
Vhagar’s rumbling roars echoed loud and true over the stormy seas of Shipbreaker’s Bay.
Raw terror sank its dark hands around your ribcage, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing—
In the faint distance, you could see parts of a pale dragon streak from the sky.
A fluttering wing membrane.
A spined tail.
A gnarled talon.
A dragon head.
And along with it, the corpse of your nephew, falling down, down, down, into the waters below…
You screamed your throat bloody until your voice gave out.
In three days' time, you would find yourself back in Dragonstone, and be the one to tell Rhaenyra that her son was dead. You were weathered and broken, and had to write the words out for your own voice had failed you.
Daemon was enraged upon hearing the news.
“An eye for an eye, a son for a son,” he had said. “Lucerys shall be avenged.”
#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen smut#aemond targaryen angst#aemond targaryen fanfiction#aemond fluff#aemond smut#aemond targaryen x you#hotd fanfiction#hotd angst#rhaenyra targaryen x reader#jacaerys velaryon x reader#lucerys velaryon x reader#helaena targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen fluff#aemond targaryen e2l#aemond targaryen x strong!reader
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Alright imagine this but with Aemond and Targaryen-Strong Niece!reader just him swearing up and down he hates her but the moment he finds out there’s a potential suitor ready to take her away from home (from him), he’s all like “ugh fine I’ll do it, only because I don’t break my promises unlike other people 👀and don’t think that I’ll make this easy for you, niece” but deep down he’s like YES ✊🏻, I’ll have her falling for me in no time, telling me how much she loves me”. But reader is an absolute menace, giving him a run for his money, showing him that even in marriage she’s still a little shit. He’ll have to confess himself after all.
Feel free to write this and if you do tag me, I’d love to read it!
#tw:incest#tw.incest#tw.incest aemond#targaryen aemond#aemond#aemond fanfiction#aemond imagine#aemond one eye#aemond targaryen#aemond x reader#hotd aemond#aemond targaryen x targaryen!reader#aemond targaryen x niece!reader#aemond x y/n#aemond x you#aemond fic#house of the dragon aemond#aemond targaryen x strong!reader#aemond x niece!reader#aemond x strong!reader#targaryen reader#aemond x reader enemies to lovers#enemies to lovers#aemond x fem!reader#aemond x female reader
432 notes
·
View notes
Text
what's the worst that could happen to a girl whose already hurt?
pairing: aemond targaryen x strong/velaryon!reader
summary: you were the last person he wanted to know, but you were the first to find out.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
your marriage with prince aemond targaryen was nothing but a way to bring peace to the velaryon and targaryen houses at first but, as time went on it became much more.
the time spent in your shared chambers, the late night dragon rides, and the overall companionship you shared made it a marriage of love, and trust.
alicent did not support the marriage pact for all the time leading up to your swears before the seven, you were a strong through and through in the eyes of the queen consort. it was until she saw aemond with you, his eye patch was discarded and his eyes beaming at you from where he sat with his mother.
"do you love her?" alicent asked him, her hands grabbing onto his forearms and looking into his eyes with nothing other than care for her second son.
"thoroughly, mother." he responded truthfully, looking back at where you sat with your handmaiden threading the string, creating one of your many embroideries.
you loved him aswell, he never allowed the resentment he felt toward your brothers to cloud the love he felt for you. he thought of asking your opinion on it, on his eye being lost to your brother. in the end the prince never did, he knew that you would stand strong behind lucerys, which is why he threatened everyone who knew that you would never hear a word of what he had done.
before he left for storm's end you had begged that if he saw lucerys, or jace that he would allow them to get their words across, allow them to make allies. aemond promised you no harm would come to your brothers, but when he saw luke standing there, hatred blinded him.
it was hard for him to remember his promise when he was flying through the rain with vhagar, chasing lucerys, and losing control of his dragon, bringing luke to his end.
your hand-maiden came through with a rolled up parchment, and a frightened look on her face. you immediately thought something happened to aemond in the storm, but you never could have imagined this.
once you read the letter from daemon it felt like the room had started to close in, you suddenly couldn't breathe. your dearest brother, had been murdered and your husband was the one who killed him.
you were on the ground in moments, clawing at your chest, trying to breathe and pretend it was not true. the green dress that was gifted to you from aemond suddenly disgusted you, you tried your best to rip it off but could not do it alone.
"take it-" you choked on your sobs not being able to form what you wanted to say, "please help, i can't breathe in this"
your hand-maiden allowed herself to forget all formalities, and help you rip the back of the dress that you had so forcefully attempted to rip off of yourself.
"it is midday my princess, you have to be dressed." your lady-in-waiting ana suggested worried by your sudden outburst.
you watch ana with blurry eyes bring out another green dress, of course given to you once more by aemond and suddenly you feel sick to your stomach.
"i will not wear anything green. i am not a hightower, i am a targaryen." you stand, dress falling down your shoulders, refusing to look at the deep green dress in her hands.
the fire before you was large in the fireplace, it was almost as large and hot as the blazing anger in your eyes. aemond had no right to go to storms end, no right to murder your younger brother.
the prince would never see his princess after tonight.
your chamber doors open and close quickly without a word, you know who it is. the only person who enters without any introduction. you keep your eyes on the fire, not sure of what you could say to him.
"hello, my wife" aemond reaches down to touch your hair, but you move before his hands could get anywhere near you.
you stand quickly to look into his scarred eyes and see his dripping wet body, the look in your eyes isn't filled with love, that's when he knows.
the prince looks down at your figure and sees the black and red dress, targaryen colors.
"aemond." you greet him coldly, moving from in front of him to the other side of the room. trying to get as far away from the man you loved and you could be.
"what is wrong, my love. your words are cold." aemond knows exactly what is wrong, but he wants you to say it.
"you know exactly what is wrong aemond, he was a boy." you whispered the last word, your sadness overtook you but, you could not let aemond see you cry.
"i was a boy aswell when he took my eye."
you could almost scoff at his words, "he took your eye in self-defense, so you murder him in cold blood? aemond, you know that is not the same."
"but it is, princess. it was not supposed to end in death. i was only meant to frighten him." you can tell aemond is trying to reason with you, scared of your reaction. scared he might lose you, not knowing he already had.
"he was my brother, my blood. how could you do this to me?" your question is honest, and full of curiosity and disgust.
"he is your blood, but what am i?" aemond is walking closer, quickly, and there is no where for you to go.
"you were my husband, now you are nothing." you move to your wardrobe, thinking of packing your things, but realize there is nothing here you want to take to dragon stone, no memories you will forever hold onto.
"and what will you do? leave me here? my love, we made a vow before the seven. we are one." his begging tone is making it difficult for you to stay angry, and then you remember.
"i will leave for dragonstone before night, i am wanted at my home."
"this is your home, princess." your braids feel almost as tight as the knots forming in your chest, how do you tell him you wish you loved him enough to stay, how do you tell him he has done the unforgivable?
there is no way to tell him so you just do, "this is not my home aemond, it never truly was. i have loved you almost my entire life, but not enough to forgive you for this. i am not sure if i can ever feel for you again."
your words feel like daggers going straight into his chest, and if you knew it you would not think twice about it. you wanted him to feel as bad as you do but, you know that he could never feel the way you do.
"i will tell mother of this, you cannot leave. it would be a betrayal of our vows."
"do as you wish, tell who you wish. i intend to leave and never come back whether i am betraying you or not." you wipe the tears from your cheeks and refuse to look into his eye. at one point in time you adored his beauty, and now you can not look past his hideous actions.
"you will not leave me." you are stunned where you are as he yells at you, storming out of the chambers you once had so many loving nights in. the thought of your happiness leaves a sour taste in your mouth, and you can no longer wait to go.
you quickly change into your riding close as fast as you can once ana releases you from your dress, "allyax saddles two ana, if you wish to come with me."
"i do not believe my time here in king's landing is done, princess. i do not wish to be in the middle of a war." although you truly wanted her to travel to dragonstone with you, you know she cannot abandon her duties in the sept.
"i understand ana, i wish you the best here." the hug is quick, due to the urgency and swiftness of your leave.
"i will protect your name here, and the crown." her words make you smile, the tears quickly well up in your eyes.
it is not leaving aemond that makes you upset, it is the broken relationships, and the war that is to come. once you reach the dragon pit relief exudes from you, you are so close to home. once you are in the air there is no one stopping you.
no one stopping you from going home.
no one stopping you from avenging your brother.
the targaryens never forget.
#aemond targaryen#aemond imagine#aemond fanfiction#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen x you#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond targaryen x fem!reader#aemond targaryen x strong!reader#aemond targaryen x velaryon!reader#aemond x reader#hotd fanfc#hotd fanfiction#hotd x reader#house of the dragon#game of thrones
333 notes
·
View notes
Text
Drawing the Lines
Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader
Warnings: Violence, Yelling, Crying
Word Count: 848
A/N: This is the first part in a series inspired by a request by @kamyred98 , but if I put in the ask it would spoil the story. So I shall be posting it with the last part. I am only accepting short form requests right now as I am working on two series, but the ask box is still open.
Masterlist / Taglist / Requests: Open
Part 1 / 2 / ?
You feel someone watching you as you move across the court yard. Your skin burns under the watchful gaze. You turn around scanning the yard but no one appears.
“Please come out.” You call, “I received your letter. I just want to see you are.”
You hold the letter tightly in your hand and it wilts inward as does your hope. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and sigh heavily. You had hoped that at least someone would have showed.
Then Aegon slips out from behind a pillar. Your heart grasps with shock. You couldn’t believe who stands before you.
“Aegon, I- I meant to be meeting someone here.” You sputter out.
Aegon approaches you, “I know.”
“So, you wrote the letter?” You question.
“The green seal didn’t give it away?” He laughs, “Or, maybe you were hoping for someone else?”
He drew even closer. You could feel his breath on your cheeks. He reaches out and brings a piece of your hair forward tenderly.
“My dear princess, you have such lovely hair.” Aegon purrs, “It is so very dark though.”
You freeze when he says that. Your heart pound inside your chest
“It does make you stand out from the rest of our family.” He says cautiously, “I think it makes you very beautiful.”
He brings his finger and then to the edge of your chin tilting your head up. His lips are so close to yours. You close your eyes. He moves his hand to the side of your cheek. That’s when you feel it, a blade cuts up the side of your face. Your eyes flash open, Aegon is holding a large lock of your hair that he has shore from you. You reach your hand to your face where the blade caught your flesh. Aegon erupts in laughter.
“It is such a shame you bare such a strong resemblance to your father. “He mocks.
You flee from the courtyard. Your blood is coming out think and warm in to your hand. You run towards your family’s apartments. Your legs burn as your feet pound against the stone. You carry your skirts in one hand and the crumpled letter. You run past lords and ladies tears and blood streaming down your face. Your body suddenly stop as you smash into anther person. The impact knocks you back on to the ground.
“What has happened.” A voice questions gently
You look up to see Aemond pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it your face.
“The letter, Aegon, he cut my hair.” You squeak out as sobs rack your body.
Courtiers are starting to gather at the commotion. Aemond pulls you to your feet and leads you in to an alcove. Aemond turns to his guard.
“Do not let anyone past.” He commands.
“Yes, Your Grace.” His knight responds in turn.
Aemond loops an arm around the small of your back holding you in close. Beams of sunlight play along his long silvery hair. His face however is gravely serious.
“Give me the letter.” He demands harshly.
You quiver in his grasp, but stand-fast.
“No, it is mine.” You say.
“No, it is not now give it here, I can not have that falling in to anyone hands.” He debates.
“I want to know, that at least for a moment, someone loved me.” You cry.
Tears begin to well up in your eyes and you grip the letter so hard bits of the seal break off in to your hand.
“Aegon does not love you, that is the truth of it he did this to be cruel, to mock us.” He retorts.
He rips the letter from your hand and stuff it in to his pocket.
“Please, Aemond.” You beg.
“He did not even right the letter!” He says raising his voice.
Your face drops. You had always trusted Aemond. You knew despite everything he was the only one you could confess things to and he would not say a word. You had ignored countless actions he had taken against your family. Even after he called you and your brothers bastard. You always sided with him. How couldn’t you, you had loved him since you were a child. You were the one who held his hand as the maester stitched he cuts closed. He never once had returned your affections.
“You were in on it?” You ask softly, “On such a cruel joke. After everything I have done for you.”
You push him away from you and breathe heavily as your stomach turns. You push past him running out of the alcove. The guard catches your hand.
“You will let me go I am the princess.” You command.
Aemond chases after you, “Wait, it is not some joke, I love you.”
You whip your head around to face him as you continue to struggle in the guard’s grip. As you do you notice a green gown out of the corner of your eye. Your brains turns over and over processing it. The queen.
“What is the meaning of this,” Alicent roars.
871 notes
·
View notes
Text
Lady Strong | Part 2
PHOTO NOT MINE. THIS IS ALL FICTION.
Genre(s): Strong!reader / Angst?
Fandom(s): House of the Dragon (TV series)
Pairing(s): Aemond Targaryan x Strong!reader / Jacaerys Velaryon x Strong!reader (platonic/siblings)
Summary: It's not easy being a Strong; with a mother who committed suicide, a father who sired three children out of wedlock and then died for it, and a creepy uncle who has nefarious plans for his niece, it's hard to find people who truly mean the best for you. Luckily there are your brothers and your fiance... right?
Warning(s): Murder of a man
A/n: I may or may not went a bit overboard with the second part.
[Masterlist] [Mini masterlist] [Part One] [Part Three]
Six years have passed. The wound took a long time to heal and left a big scar. It sometimes throbs, like the memory.
Harrenhal is almost finished with its reconstruction. After the fire, not all was lost. The main pillars of the castle still stood upright once the fire was extinguished. And after six years it's almost rebuilt to its former glory.
The flapping of wings pulls your attention and you look up. From a distance, the distinct green colour of Vermax is easily spotted. Jace circles the tower you stand in before flying down and landing in the courtyard.
You run down the endless flights of stairs and into Jace's arms. He holds you tight to his chest, laying a hand on the back of your head. "Jace! It's been too long. How is your mother? And how is Luke?"
Jace laughs as you lead him into the castle. You ask a couple of servants to make both of you tea and some tarts. Taking place in one of the informal reception rooms, Jace and you take a couch.
"You would know how mother and Luke were if you came by more often..." Jace gives you a slight glance over his mug, but you wave his comment away.
"My dear lord uncle knew when I snuck off with you to go to Dragonstone every time. He has rats everywhere. I'm convinced he's locked me up in Harrenhal to either kill me by boredom or marry me off to the highest bidder." You slump down in your seat and huff.
The oldest Valeryon prince puts down his cup and turns to you. "If finding the right suitor makes you worried, I could..."
A gag escapes your mouth. "I respect your Targaryen traditions and customs, but no. Gross. Can't you ask your mother if she knows some houses with lads of my age? Isn't the Lord of Winterfell of our age?" You give Jace a teasing smile, but it drops as you see the serious look on his face.
"I didn't come here to catch up, my dear sister. We have a favour to ask of you." He grabs both of your hands. "Luke's claim to the Drifmark throne is being challenged by the brother of our Grandsire. We ask of you to stand by the Blacks to bolden Luke's claim."
"What does Luke want? What do you want?", you ask, peering into Jace's eyes.
He sighs. "Luke had been preparing most of his life to take the Driftmark throne. Is he ready? No. He still is young. And I? I just... want you safe and not in the middle of the family conflict."
You hum, nibbling on your bottom lip. "I already took a knife for him, so why not? When are we leaving?"
Jace jumps up from the couch and pulls you along the corridors. "Now, mother and Luke are almost at King's Landing."
"Couldn't you get to me sooner? What if I said no? I need to change first into a red or black dress!", you motion to the soft orange tone of the dress your currently wearing. Jace huffs but lets you change into something more appropriate.
Jace lifts you up on Vermax by your middle and secures you to the saddle before climbing behind you. And with that, you are off to the capital.
For your first time riding a dragon, it wasn't that bad. It was nice to feel the wind through your hair and it felt incredibly freeing, soaring above the water and through clouds. If you had a dragon, you would be flying every day.
Jace rushes past a ship, the one his mother and prince Daemon are on. A dragon flies next to the both of you. Arrax, Luke's dragon. He waves at you happily before taking a nosedive towards the water and nearly missing it.
As much fun as it is to fly on a dragon, you are happy that your feet are touching the muddy ground of the Red Keep. There is nobody to greet the Princess and her family and they huff in annoyance.
The two princes rush off towards the training grounds, but you stick around Rhaenyra.
"My Princess", you say while curtsying deeply. "You practically glow."
She waves you off with a smile and grabs the arm of her husband as she motions for you to walk with her. "How are you dear? Is Harrenhal good to you?"
You nod. "Yes, your Highness. It can be a tad boring, but it's good and safe."
Princess Rhaenyra seems content with that answer and you let her and her husband go to her father. You chose to follow her sons and go to the training field.
There is a crowd collected around one fight; Ser Criston against Prince Aemond. You grimace. You kinda hoped to not see the prince. Or at least the bear minimum. Both Luke and Jace watch gleefully the match.
As you want to turn around, a voice stops you. "Lady Strong, nephews, what a pleasure."
With a scowl, you turn around and give the prince the slightest smile. "My Prince. Well done, you'll be winning tourneys in no time." You curtsey slightly.
Aemond Targaryen has grown quite a lot over the years. He has grown taller, and leaner, and his hair resembles that of his forefathers. A true Targaryen prince if you have ever seen one.
What clashes with his fair complexion is the leather eyepatch over his left eye. A scar creeps from both under and above the patch.
You can feel his stare do the same to you, sizing you up, seeing how you've changed over the years, and then landing on the scar that cuts into your upper lip and goes over your left cheek.
You turn your face away, chewing on your bottom lip. Jace comes to stand next to you in support.
"I don't give a shit about tourneys, Lady Strong."
With a nod and a curtsy, you turn around, not caring to stick around any longer.
Knowing that the Princess is with the King, Princess Heleana is with her children, and your brothers are at the training grounds. So you aimlessly wander about the castle, seeing how much it has changed through the years.
The clicking of a cane you can hear come closer to you from down the hall, and you let out a sigh. "Uncle."
Larys Strong stops in front of you, his face without emotion. "What are you doing here? Didn't I order you to stay put at Harrenhal?"
Straightening your back, you answer back, "I am here to show my support to Prince Lucerys' claim to Driftmark."
Your uncle tightens his grip on the cane he holds, his jaw ticked. He looks like he wants to make words foul. But instead, he turns around and limps away.
"You for sure are not your uncle's favourite niece." Aemond appears behind you.
Feeling on edge, you bow. "Prince Aemond."
The corners of his lips turn up, a mischievous look in his eyes. "So, you're here to defend the little bastard? How brave of you, Lady Strong."
"How so, my Prince?" Your eyes narrow at him. The mention of your brothers' parentage is still a sore spot for the family. People still doubt they're late Leanor Valeryon's sons. And you're all too glad to say that all three of your brothers are Valeryon's to spare them a hard life.
Aemond takes an unexpected step towards you and reaches out a hand, softly trailing over the scar above your exposed collarbone. You pull away, the touch scorning hot against your skin.
His lips part to say something but at that moment the announcement of the vote beginning makes him snap out of his trance.
You bow and hurry away. Once the coast is clear, you lean against a wall and hold your chest, cursing your heart for beating so rapidly and the flutters in your stomach to calm down. You shouldn't be feeling this way about the one who constantly insults and speaks blasphemy about your brothers.
Making your way into the throne room, you stand at the back of the small group, squeezing Luke's hand in support. He gives you a grateful smile and turns back to the throne, holding onto his mother for dear life.
As you're not even listening to Vaemond Valeryon, you look around the throne room.
The Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, is seated on the throne, nodding along with Vaemond. The Queen stands with her children, and Uncle Larrys is somewhere in the crowd, his judgemental eyes burning to the back of your head.
From the hand full of sentences you shared, you know he isn't happy with your decision to stand by the Blacks. But you don't care. This is the family that truly cares about you, even if it needs to be a secret.
This is the family that celebrates your name day every year. And you are invited to spend every one of theirs in their company. This is the family that makes sure you don't wilt away in that damned castle like your mother.
This is the family, even if you weren't related by blood, still would be your family.
Another pair of eyes ─ or rather one eye and an eyepatch ─ have their unwavering attention on you. Aemond's. You glance at him and you lock eyes with him. He smirks slightly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. His smirk unnerves you.
Jace also notices his uncle's full attention on you and he takes a small step backwards, standing protectively in front of you. His own eyes challenged that of the prince's to dare something, now or later.
As it is the turn of princess Rhaenyra to speak for her son and defend his claim, the doors open and in comes the King, hunched over and leaning heavily on his cane.
"King Viserys I Targaryen, the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men", announces a King's Guard and a gasp of surprise ripples through the throne room.
As the King drags himself into the room, everybody bows, just like you.
His breath is laboured and he has half of his face covered by a plate of gold, an imprint of a face decorating it.
The Greens share borderline panicked looks like this isn't supposed to happen. Which you guess shouldn't, seeing the state of the King.
Otto Hightower quickly moves off the throne and stands on the right side, with his family.
Before the King moves up the steps, he turns towards his hand. "I'll sit the throne today", he wheezes out before struggling upwards. He waves away a guard and continues on.
Halfway there, the crown falls off his head, and the King rests tiredly on his cane. Prince Daemon moves out of the crowd to help the King. He helps him sit on the throne before placing the crown back on the King's head.
After a moment of collecting his breath, the King speaks. "I must... admit... my confusion. I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession."
The voice of the King, although weak, echoes with power through the throne room.
"The only one present... who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys's wishes, is the Princess Rhaenys."
At the words of the King, everyone turns to the Princess, who stands with one of her granddaughters. "Indeed, Your Grace."
She moves to the middle of the room. "It was ever my husband's will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son... Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him.
"As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys's granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal which I heartily agree."
You turn towards Jace, and he towards you, questions in his eyes.
"Well", begins the King again, "the matter is settled. Again, I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides."
A silent relief goes through my body and a smile breaks out on my face. Luke's future is safe, as heir to Driftwood, but also in marriage to his cousin.
Vaemond Velaryon lashed out, angry at the decision of the King. He starts screaming around, pointing towards Luke angrily.
"You may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom, and a thousand tribulations besides, and gods be damned, I will not see it ended on the account of this b..." Vaemond stops just in time before he can utter that dreaded word.
On Prince Daemon's face grows a sadistic smirk. "Say it."
He turns towards Prince Daemon with a smile. "Her children... are BASTARDS! And she is a whore."
Gasps are going around the crowd. You want to go to Vaemond, fight him, claw his eyes out to even dare to claim such a thing.
Suddenly, Vaemond turns towards you. "And we all know why they kept that wench around. I would bet on my life she’s also one of her BASTARD children."
Prince Daemon sneaks behind the lord and hacks off his head, only his tongue staying in place.
A whimper leaves your lips and you turn to hide on Jace's shoulder. He puts a protective arm around you as he leads you away, Luke in tow.
You are fully prepared to spend your evening supper alone, not too keen on company after witnessing such a brutal sight. A knock on your door however informs you that you are to be expected in the dining room.
A handmaiden helps you in a formal dress and put your hair up before you make your way down, fully aware of your lateness.
As the doors get opened for you, you see the entire royal family seated at the table, King Viserys in the middle flanked by his wife and his daughter. Eyes fall upon you and you grow uncomfortable, picking at the edge of your long sleeve, covering most of the burn.
Jace raises out of his chair, a smile forming on his face.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, Your Graces." You bow, ashamed.
The queen stands up, a bright smile on her face. "None sense, my child. Let us pull up a chair for you." She motions for you to come in.
Servants move quickly to set up a place next to Prince Aemond, the only free place left at the table. You make eye contact with Jace before moving towards the seat.
Aemond shoots up and moves to push your chair once you are seated on it. Sending a quick smile towards the Hand and Prince Aegon, you look at your plate.
The Queen grabs her goblet and raises it in the air. "I am proud to announce the betrothal of my son, Prince Aemond Targaryen and Lady (Y/n) Strong."
Taglist:
@jeyramarie | @fuckinglittlekitten | @neenieweenie | @myspotofcraziness | @tired-ninfa | @yoshiplushie | @percyjacksonspeen | @lol-im-done | @manitskatrina | @myspotofcraziness |
#aemond x strong!reader#aemond targaryen x you#strong!reader#house of the dragon#house of the dragon imagine#house of the dragon scenario#house of the dragon x reader#house of the dragon x you#house of the dragon x strong!reader#hotd#hotd imagine#hotd scenario#hotd x reader#hotd x you#hotd x strong!reader#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond targaryen scenario#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen x strong!reader#aemond#aemond imagine#aemond scenario#aemond x reader#house of the dragon fiction#aemond x you#house of the dragon fanfic#hotd fanfic#hotd fiction
543 notes
·
View notes
Text
Lilagon hen zaldrizoti
Part One: Debts and stale oaths.
Read on Ao3
Summary: AU where Visenya, Rhaenyra's only daughter lives and is born as her eldest child. To all of Westeros she is seen as the only trueborn child of Ser Leanor and Rhaenyra, but in truth her father happens to be Deamon.
Author's note: Hello lovely readers!
I have desappeared for a while.. life sometimes gets in the way.
I have thought long and hard about this fic, and, as much as I love it, re-reading it made me cringe at some of the hearliest chapters.. so, as I have hinted in the last author's note, I have decided to rewrite everything until chapter 8. There will be some minor changes, for the better.
I cannot possibily move on writing this without fixing the beginning, my brain doesn't allow me to.
Since I found transalting in Valyrian a mess (also becouse every translator gives different translation), for longest phrases I'll simply put them between asteriscs . So if you see anything that is being said formatted like this <<*dialogue*>> that's meant to be in high valyrian.
So, if you are a new reader and you wish to know what happens next.. both here and on Ao3 you'll find all of the 12 chapters I've written so far.
Here on Tumblr, once I'll have the rewritten chapter ready I'll delete the old one and post the new, both in the master list and in the index at the beginning of each part.
On Ao3 each chapter will stay up until I've completely rewritten everything that needs to.
If you have any suggestions, please feel free to comment them down below. I'd love to hear them and better my work!
Prequel | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11
<<Go home, pup, and tell the bitch your mother that the Lord of Storm's End is not a dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes>> Said Borros Baratheon with a smug look on his face.
The round hall of Storm’s End was packed with people, how many it was impossible to say. The gargantuan hall was too big and dimly lit to possibly ever count every single present. Worse still, all the nooks, pillars and columns offered the perfect hiding spot for all of those who were curious to just get a glimpse of the two Targaryens present.
The entire room fell silent for a long moment, as if holding its breath. The only sounds that could be heard were those of the raging storm outside.
Everyone was too eager to hear how the young prince would respond to such insult thrown at his mother.
That, perhaps, was why no one paid any attention to the angry footsteps that were fast approaching.
Lucerys was about to open his mouth and speak, slightly trembling between the imposing figures of the Lord of Storm’s End and the uncle he didn’t expect to find there, but he was cut off before he could make any sound by a stronger, angrier, voice.
<<Then all of Westeros will know that Borros Baratheon, the Lord of Storm’s End, is an oath breaker and a man without honor>>.
She could see Borros stiffening in his seat, Luke’s back straightened recognizing his eldest sister’s voice. The young prince was bracing for impact: either her anger was directed at him, for the failure of that diplomatic mission, or at the Lord of Storm’s End. His head shooting in her direction, a wave of dark curly hair falling in front of his eyes wide opened in shock. She passed him, and just quickly, taking care that no one saw, squeezed his hand in reassurance.
Immediately she took notice of Aemond, almost hidden in the dark side of the room, not far from the stone throne at the center. She forced herself not to stare, nor think, at the silver-haired prince, and locked her gaze on the high lord in front of her, but she did not give him her entire focus. Never, that she left for Aemond alone.
A young page, drenched from head to toe, came running, halting just a few steps in front of her. He bent over for a moment with his hand on his knees catching his breath. It was a gesture of physical need, rather than a curtsy towards his liege, he was supposed to announce her presence. <<The princess Visenya, of the houses Targaryen and Velaryon, my lord>> He said, between heavy breaths, <<my prince>> he added, when he noticed Aemond staring in their direction. The young man was immediately dismissed with a wave of Borros’ hand, not to be seen again.
Visenya lifted her chin, and took note of her prey: the man on the high seat. Borros was a middle aged man, heavier in shape, but still the hint of the warrior could be seen hidden under the heavy furs. Not that she really thought the man did any sort of physical fighting in the past years.
His body was tense, like a rope. He was clutching the throne’s handle so hard his knuckles became white, and she imagined the tips of his fingers would soon bleed, either from broken nails or from the scratch of skin on the rough stone. He was a proud man, like the crowned stag flappin on the banner atop his head. And the insult she threw at him had rendered him so enraged he could hardly think straight. Just as she had wanted him.
<<And worse still>> She continued, moving two steps closer to the object of her own anger, <<may I remind you that we are kin by blood? My grandmother, the princess Rhaenys is your cousin, no?>> Visenya felt now how Borros was already tasting the bitter accusation on the tip of his tongue. No one, in the huge round hall of Storm’s End had yet dared make a sound, <<what would her uncle, the late Lord Boremund think, of his son waging war on his own flesh and blood?>> His face was slowly, but surely, turning all shades of red by now, <<is that what you wish? To forever brand your house as Kinslayers? Men without honor? Is that what the men of the Stormlands wish to become?>>
Visenya had given up on winning House Baratheon over to their side the moment she landed in the yard. Parts of her had known ever since her mother decided to send Luke, just like her father had known. Still Rhaenyra was hopeful, and naive, that this man would abide by the vows of his father.
Yet even if the high lord was a better man, there was something that they could just not grant him: a marriage. The princess allowed her gaze to wander the room for a moment, three girls stood on one side of Borros, his daughters. One behind Aemond. Who wouldn’t wish for their blood to mix in the royal family?
Borros had no love for Rhaenyra, and had taken his decision long before even Luke stepped foot in these halls, but, if she played her game the right way, she could persuade his lords to mutiny. And now she was indeed winning.
She could see, clear as day, the seed of doubt in the eyes of the lords around Borros, the fear, not for her, or for her parents, not yet, but the fear for what the gods might bring them should they follow that man into war. That was her only chance.
<<Do not mistake the Queen’s offer for weakness, my Lord>> Visenya willed her voice to become gentler, softer, more diplomatic, <<my mother, unlike the Hightowers,>> and yourself, was what she didn’t say, <<does not wish to plunge the realm into war, or else I wouldn’t be here to talk>> she moved her gaze towards her uncle then, the only true danger in that room, or outside of it, <<but if her hand is forced, then I will have no other choice than to fly Balerion the dread to war once more.>> Aemond hadn’t moved a step from his position. He was standing at ease, his hands locked behind his back, a sardonic smile gracing his features, as if he was enjoying the scene.
Everyone else straightened at her words.
It was now widely accepted that at least one battle was going to be fought over Viserys’s succession. Or else the negotiation would take place among the royal family, yet no one had dared voice what, deep down, they feared: a Targaryen civil war would never be fought on land with an army. It would be fought on dragonback. And everything else might as well burn down by the time they were finished.
<<My sweet niece>> Aemond purred. His voice sent a chill down her spine, Visenya wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating Aemon’s abilities only because of the lack of one eye. She remembered seeing him best Ser Criston Cole with ease in the training yard not even a moon ago. So her hand, as useless as a gesture it was, went instinctively on the hilt of the dagger her father had given her upon parting from Dragonstone.
He was, after all, the only reason she was in Storm’s End to begin with. Upon flying home, she had felt Balerion sensing the presence of Vhagar. And in that specific moment she realized she had no other choice: there wasn’t a scenario where poor Luke was going to make it back to Dragonstone unharmed, not if Aemond were in sight. Not after what had been done to her uncle, which still angered him to no end, apparently.
<<I fear your time here is wasted. Lord Baratheon has already declared his support for Aegon, and surely, he cannot take back his world>> She looked between her uncle and the man still mute on the throne, whose muscles were still all contracted in rage.
Aemond’s offer had been indeed an offer of marriage, as she had thought.
Visenya decided to take in his figure for a moment: he was tall, lean, and his leather clothes -riding gear, perhaps- were clean and dry, where hers were drenched by the storm outside, and her boots were covered in the mud that now flooded the yard.
Her hair were equally as wet, and fell in loose waves attached to her face, neck and leathers, his looked like a straight soft curtain of silver silk.
Aemond had been here for at least a day. A day he could have used to devise whatever plan to ensure his brother’s ass would sit on the throne at least a while longer. Because it was obvious to anyone that messengers would go on about every corner of the realm to ensure the support of the major houses.
She felt the grip of anxiety taking a hold of her stomach: what if he had anticipated them being here? After all, when not on Balerion’s back she wasn’t that big of a threat, definitely not to a warrior with his skills.
<<He offered his hand in marriage to the eldest daughter of Borros>> Whispered Luke in confirmation. His tone still betrayed his fear, and broke her attention by the dark pit that her mind had become. She willed herself not to be hostage of her fears <<worry not>> she whispered back, looking him in the eyes, <<you should leave>> she said. Luke didn’t listen.
Aemond’s hatred for her brothers was well known, especially for Luke, the one responsible for his, probably still very painful, injury. She noticed the way he eyes Lucerys every now and then, how he was completely trained on her brother’s every move, like a predator waiting to strike.
<<Oh>> She said, willing all of her nerves to calm down. Visenya lifted her upper lip, in a childish expression, <<then I shall order Balerion to burn the keep to the ground, and end this treason before it starts>> Aemond smirked, it was clear that he did not believe that she was actually thinking about it.
Visenya was considering it as an option though. Yes, Rhaenyra wouldn’t be happy, on the contrary, she would be furious if she did, in fact, start this war. Yet Visenya couldn’t help but remembering her father’s words “you cannot allow this treachery to take root” Daemon had angrily said in the privacy of their chambers, is anger amplified ten folds after the news of the stillbirth, “they have murdered Viserys, our daughter, any faithful Lord we had in the capital. They had signed their own death sentence. Or ours, if we do not act”. In stark contrast with his wife, Daemon would rejoice greatly if his beloved daughter started a war. And, at times, she felt much more like her father’s child rather than her mother’s.
She understood both sides though: Daemon was like the dragon, fiery, proud and untamable. Rahenyra was like that too, but she was a woman: considered unfit to rule only for the missing cock between her legs, she had grown to be wiser, calmer, prone to choose diplomacy over fire and blood. For she couldn’t afford becoming also the one who started this war, even though right now, battle seemed inevitable, Visenya could hear it, what everyone would start to whisper then Maegor the cruel come again, Maegor with tits.
Yet she could see the truth in Daemon’s words, if left unchecked the Hightowers will eventually eat away any support her mother has now. Seven hells, they were already doing that.
<<Princess Visenya..>> Spoke Borros at last, uncertain of his own words.
The threat of Balerion seemed to have awakened him from his rage. He looked calmer now, paler. All redness faded from his face, his hands were not clutching the throne with the same strength, and, as she had imagined, she could see dried blood on the tips of fingers, where his nails had broken. He was old enough to have lived in the last year of the Old King’s reign, old enough to be at the great council in Harrenhall. Meaning that he had seen first hand the blasted ruin Balerion had made of the greatest keep that ever existed in Westeros. He saw what her dragon was capable of doing.
<<I must assume that my uncle has promised you a wedding>> She said, playing ignorant. The high lord slowly nodded, turning his head towards his daughter. It was confirmation enough. She too looked again in that direction, only to find Aemond’s surprised expression. He knew what she was about to say, he probably thought that she would not actually go through with it.
<<Yet he is not free to offer his hand in marriage>> She said with gritted teeth. Visenya reasoned that she could, indeed, walk out of the Round Halls, climb atop Balerion and order him to burn the keep to the ground. It was what Daemon would do.
Rhaenyra, however, would try to be diplomatic. In one swift stroke Visenya could avoid the war for a while longer, in either case she would take the second largest dragon in the world out of the picture. But there could be a twisted, dark pleasure in turning Aemond against his family, just like Alicent and Otto had done.
<<What do you mean?>> interrupted Borros, with an irritated tone. His daughter, Cassandra, if she recalled correctly, instinctively moved closer to him.
<<In his wisdom, and with the hope it would bring unity back to our house, the late King Viserys, in his very last act as King, declared my betrothal to Aemond. His eldest unwed son, to me, the lawful heir to my mother’s throne>> The stormlord pursed his lip, he had been used and played, in the end, truly like a dog that had been commanded at need, yet not by Rhaenyra, but by the Greens. His pride wouldn’t allow him to let this go easily, or, at least she hoped so, <<does she speak the truth?>> he asked Aemond, rage once again gracing his features. Borros instinctively gripped the handles of the throne again, only to let go almost immediately. Probably because of the stinging pain of broker nails and ruined fingertips.
Visenya wasn’t happy to bring this up. In truth, amidst the sorrow for the loss of a grandsire, and the rage for the ease with which Otto and Alicent Hightower had usurped the throne, she had been relieved the day her grandmother had brought news from King’s Landing, for it meant that her betrothal to Aemond had no more reasons to be.
Yet now it seemed the only reasonable thing that would end this mess without bloodshed. She hoped that, at least, between a devastating war fought with dragons, rather than armies, and the prospect of Aemond eventually ruling the kingdoms by her side, the Hightowers would choose the latter. Even though she knew that a similar match had been bitterly refused by the queen dowager once.
She hoped that this one time she chose to be like her mother, the aftermath wouldn’t come to bite in the arse later.
<<We do not need your armies, Lord Borros, for I’m sure you have been thought what had happen the last time Balerion had been sent to war against other dragons>> She looked at Aemond while speaking, the one she would be sent to kill should war break out, or the husband she would have to wed, <<we came to offer you peace, under the one true Queen of Westeros>>.
There was a long pause before anyone spoke out loud, many lords, or advisors, she didn’t care to know, spoke in hushed tones to Lord Baratheon, likely weighing their options. At last a guard came, from outside, given the pools of rainwater he left at every step, surely to confirm the presence of her dark monster within the castle walls. As if she could have appeared out of nowhere in any other way.
<<Out, all of you>> Screamed at last the Stormlord, <<as I already said, the Stormlanders are not dogs to be whistled up at need>> Visenya guessed that this was the best result she would ask for. Borros would’n support Rhaenyra, but he wouldn’t either give his support to Aegon.
Once more she pushed Luke back, with more urgency now.
As long as they were under Baratheon's roof, she knew Aemond couldn’t really harm him, or at least she hoped so. But once they were out it was another story entirely. Arrax, after all, could easily fit in either Balerion or Vhagar’s mouths.
Finally Lucerys understood the message, and turned on his heels, followed suit by some of the guards that were stationed at their side. He quietly bowed to Borros, a gesture of respect that had Visenya raise a brow, and started to walk outside.
<<Wait>> Called the velvet voice of Aemond. It sent a cold chill down her spine, <<my Lord Strong>> -don’t turn- Visenya angrily thought, -keep walking- yet of course her brother had to stop and turn her head.
<<Did you two really think that you fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne without consequences?>> Visenya’s hand gripped the dagger she had hidden, praying that dark, hateful Aemond wouldn’t consider harming a woman. Not that she was afraid of her life, she had quit feeling any sense of self preservation the night she had claimed Balerion, no, she just knew that if Aemond went for Luke and ignored her, she could have an opening to push her blade right in his black heart.
<<Is it truly stealing though, when you are merely taking back what is yours by right?>> She said, stepping in the middle of the fight against all common sense. It took one look towards her brother to realize how terrified he was of Aemond. And that sent her mind spiraling again: if she wasn’t fast enough? <<Do you think yourself so inadequate, incapable, of ruling to spit like that on the prospect of sitting the Iron Throne by my side?>> She saw then the anger in his one eye, Visenya had definitely hit a sore spot.
In one swift, graceful movement Aemond stepped closer to hte siblings, grabbed his own dagger and removed his eyepatch. Revealing his ruined eye. The scar, still looking red and fresh despite the years passed, covered half of his handsome face, the eyelids of his missing eye had been cut open, she noted, and instead of an eyeball, or a dark hole, a glowing sapphire was nestled in his orb.
She would have considered it bald, even beautiful, were it not for the murderous gaze on the remaining eye.
What possessed her to move she didn’t know, Visenya heard Luke stating that <<they came as messengers, not warriors>>, and for as much as she loved her brother, it sounded too like a pathetic and fearful attempt at a quick escape. So maybe she acted because, despite the fact that Luke was trained with the sword and she wasn’t, she felt like he wouldn’t be able to cause harm to anyone. She quickly found herself inches from Aemond’s face. Her dagger pressed on the soft skin of his cheekbone, right under his good eye.
Visenya was sure that, to protect her loved ones, she could turn into a cold killer. She was, after all, Daemon’s daughter.
Visenya willed herself to set her gaze on Aemond’s remaining eye, and banned all fears and all sense of doubts from her mind, <<I may have sworn not to fight>> she whispered, which was a lie. She had sworn to behave, her mother not thinking she could ever pick up a blade and use it. How naive of her. <<But I will defend myself, and my brother>> her tone was cold and angry, and her words were underlined by the added pressure she put on the blade. Aemond didn’t move, his breath appeared calm, and even, yet he didn’t dare move a muscle. Not when she threatened to blind him forever, <<Balerion made no such promises, and if my wellbeing is threatened…>> she had no need to complete the sentence. For how terrifying and huge Vhagar was, the Black Dread was ten fold. And he craved the fight. Everyone knew that.
The words, or her tone, she couldn’t say, awakened her uncle from his trance. Visenya registered the hushed footsteps of Luke, taking the bait and leaving while Aemond was distracted, just like she had told him to.
<<Seems like your strong brother doesn’t share your courage, princess>> Aemond mocked when he noticed his missing nephew. They were so close now that she could feel his breath caressing her skin.
He slowly allowed his hand to fall, and sheathed his dagger with a blatant gesture, to be sure that she could see it.
After a long moment she decided to imitate him, and she didn’t miss the relieved huff that escaped Aemond’s lips. <<It is good to see that you can be made to see reason, uncle>> Visenya said not breaking the stare, and not moving a muscle, <<it would be a great inconvenience for me having to carry you around completely blind, should we truly become husband and wife>> he smiled, that sardonic, infuriating smile that she couldn’t understand the meaning of, he looked both furious and turned on. Visenya couldn’t decide what scared her the most.
<<I am sure>> He said, his voice like velvet, never betraying any emotions, <<your offer comes with terms, niece>> Visenya took a moment to think. She hadn’t thought this through when she spoke the words in front of Borros Baratheon, she hadn’t thought Aemond might actually consider the scenario, and that is why he asked. Or maybe, he liked the idea of himself sitting on the Iron Throne in place of the brother she knew relentlessly bullied him in their youth, alongside her own brothers. Or maybe he understood that he wouldn’t win the Stormlands today, and was merely buying time.
<<Your brother will bend the knee to the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms>> Visenya said in her most stern and cold tone, <<my mother is willing to welcome back her siblings, and Helaena’s children, back into her heart, for she is sure>> she decided to put emphasis into the words that Visenya heard her mother speak to the messenger she had sent to King’s Landing, <<that you have been misguided by the greed of one man. Any lord and knight who will swear fealty to their Queen will be pardoned. Our marriage will seal the deal, and in time, when I will ascend the throne, we shall rule together, like the Old king and his good Queen Alisanne>> She thought her demands would be met with a grin, or laughter. Either way she expected Aemond to dismiss them, just like Otto Hightower had dismissed any of her mother's terms on the bridge of Dragonstone.
Yet Aemond seemed to be considering it, <<I swear that there shall not be any treachery, on my own blood, or on any gods you choose to believe in>> it felt like the right thing to say. She couldn't know whether her uncle was a pious man, but her mother obviously was, considering how she had redecorated the Red Keep, so maybe swearing her intentions to their gods they so much loved might make the offer a little more considerable. Still, Visenya made a mental note that all of those hideous godly decorations would be the first things to disappear once they took back her mother’s throne.
<<I shall bring your terms to the king>> Visenya rolled her eyes, and decided to switch to High Valiryan so that they were the only ones who would understand, was Aemond truly so thick? What game was he playing? <<*I remember the way he treated you, and I’m sure you do as well. Do you really think he would hand you over the throne?*>> Aemond opened and closed his mouth. He didn’t know how to respond, or rather, he did but he didn’t wish to speak the words, no to her of all people. Her uncle’s silence showed that this was a weak spot, and finding that out emboldened her. so Visenya stepped even closer to him, and rested her hand on his muscular bicep, <<*It is us that are offering you absolute power, not your brother, not your grandsire, not you mother. Rhaenyra is, and I. Remember that when your family will refuse the terms we offered and chose war and death rather than seeing the more capable brother on the Iron Throne*>> Visenya knew she had hit a bare nerve when she noticed how strongly he was biting his lower lip. Aemond did want the throne, now she could see it, in the way the light in his eye changed, and in the way he was forcing himself not to speak. He thought himself better than Aegon, probably better than Rhaenyra too. He thought himself Jahaerys born again, probably. <<*That is why it is to you, that I was instructed to offer our terms, and no one else*>> A lie. But she couldn’t help herself from trying, not when Visenya knew he was truly beginning to consider the terms. She couldn’t let the opportunity slip.
Visenya at last removed her hand from his harm and offered it to him, he immediately took it and kissed her knuckles. <<Do not make me wait long for a response. Uncle>> She purred. He nodded, a quick, elegant gesture, and proceeded to leave the round hall of Storm’s End. When Aemond was far away enough, she let out the big breath she had held up until now.
Apparently, they all survived.
The rain outside was pouring so strongly it was hard so anything past one’s nose, and the winds were so strong that on two occasions, on the short trek where her dragon was waiting, she thought it would send her tumbling on the muddy ground.
How people chose to willingly live in such a place, was beyond her comprehension.
When she made it to where Balerion was waiting, a short walk that took twice, if not trice, as much time as it should have, she found the now familiar tall figure of Aemond standing still before him. She was about to shoot a snarky remark at him, when she realized the reason why he stood where he stood.
Balerion was blocking his way to Vhagar.
She was familiar with the old she-dragon: it had been her aunt’s for a long time. She remembered admiring them fly together in the skies above Dragonstone and Driftmark, she remembered standing nose up, somewhere on one of the two islands, and remaining absolutely speechless at how big Vhagar was, how huge, compared to all of the other dragons she had known.
Now, even in her vast, scary form, she looked almost tiny, in comparison to her black monster.
He was doing that on purpose, she could sense it. Balerion was not scared of Vhagar. In truth, he was not scared of anything, and how could he, when he was the largest living creature in the world?
He could kill Aemond right then and there, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Even Vhagar would only be able to stand and watch. From the low rumbling that was coming from the she-dragon it was evident that she understood this as well, and she hated it.
<<Tell you dragon to move, princess>> Said Aemond, when she got close enough for him to sense her presence.
She could let him do it, Visenya realized, she could let Balerion kill Aemond, and nothing would happen. The dragon was known for acting out of his own accord, no one has been able to bend his will ever since the death of the conqueror. That’s why it has been forbidden to try and bond to him ever since the death of his last rider, princess Aerea.
So, no one would blame her if Balerion killed Aemond, who could testify that she gave the order?
<<He rarely does what’s ordered to him>> She responded, still uncertain, <<unless i order him to kill. Then he grows obedient like a hound all of a sudden>> Visenya had never killed someone who had a name. She had been to stepstones recently, with her father and Lord Corlys, to crush the triarchy for the second, and hopefully final, time. She couldn’t avoid it, being the rider of the largest dragon in the world.
Yet the men she had ordered to kill were nothing more than nameless ants, they were not her uncle, whom for good or worse she had known her whole life.
She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Balerion huffed, bored.
Visenya decided to turn once last time towards her uncle, right before starting to climb atop Balerion, <<the next time I see you, uncle, could be on our wedding day. Or on a battlefield. Either way, good luck on what’s to come>>.
Taglist: @hawsx3, @readsalot73 @tempt-ress @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @arignipanja574 @scaraxmouche @softyelfdragon @avidreader73 @whore-of-many-hot-men @heavenly1927
If you wish to be added to the taglist, and notified as soon as I post any update, please comment!
#aemond targaryen fanfiction#aemond targaryen x targaryen!reader#aemond targaryen x velaryon!reader#aemond targaryen x strong!reader#aemond targaryen x visenya targaryen#aemond targaryen x original character#aemond targaryen x female original character#aemond targaryen x fem!oc#aemond targaryen x female reader#aemond targaryen smut#aemond targaryen x y/n#aemond targaryen x you#aemond x y/n#aemond x targaryen! reader#aemond x velaryon!reader#aemond x original character#aemond x original female character#ewan mitchell#ewan mitchell imagine#aemond x strong!reader#aemond smut#aemond x fem!reader#aemond x fem!oc#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen x oc#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen angst#ewan mitchell x reader#aemond fanfiction#aemond one eye
161 notes
·
View notes
Text
Moonless, Dark Night. Pt. 1
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC!Strong (half Targaryen)
Words: 3.2k+
Warnings: Violence and Graphic Descriptions, Emotional Distress, Mature (ish) themes, Mentions of Self-Harm and Su*cide, Adult Language, Incest.
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
NOTE: I have written parts of this story before. However, I faced difficulty with linear storytelling. So, I'm trying something different. It will be shorter than I had originally planned, but better, perhaps. Hope you enjoy this. Let me know of any criticism you may or may not have, and I will surely appreciate knowing if you enjoy it. My Master's degree starts in less than a month, so I'd love to be done with this before that, lmao.
Have fun reading and thanks if you are!!
"Drip, drop, drip, drop.
Sansa listened carefully to ensure that no one had been following her. Her limbs trembled beneath her cape, her fingers frantic in the gloves. She knew well that her hair posed no threat, for it was not the silver of her husband’s. Yet, she had picked up the habit from her cousins, who shielded their silver manes whenever they desired concealment. In her eighteen years, she had never felt more like a Targaryen than she did then.
Drip, drip, drop, drip, drip, drop.
Part of her was relieved that only the droplets of water made the noises. She knew that Aemond kept her under relative scrutiny, especially since she refused him intimacy following the death of Lucerys Velaryon. “If you won’t let me near you, one of my white knights shall be here at all times.” However, he had forgotten her skills with crushed herbs and sedatives. Criston Cole had fallen gently to the ground beneath him. He was curled into a peaceful slumber, his chest heaved against the white that shielded him.
Verasys, her dragon, was kind. He was not impulsive, hot-blooded, or rash. He fed on what was given to him and only blew fire only on command. The beautiful dragon, with scales as violet as Sansa's eyes, breathed heavily in sleep when Sansa found him. Her lip trembled as she took out the keys to his steel chains. When she was done unlocking the beast, quite large for his age of only fifty-nine, she cooed him awake. He put his beak-like mouth under her chin, nuzzling gently.
“Verasys, my dear, you have to leave me behind,” she muttered in High Valyrian, tears making their way down her face like sweat. The dragon roared gently, but she shushed him. “If you stay back, they will make us commit the most heinous of crimes. They will make us kill our kin, our blood.” The dragon breathed out in anger through his nose, turning his face away, refusing to look at her. She walked to the other side, holding his face to hers. “You were born from the same clutch of eggs Syrax had sprouted from. Do you really want to fight your own sister, my dear?”
The dragon groaned in exasperation as Sansa began to weep. She used to rarely weep. “They killed my nephew,” she cried, uttering the word in relation to Lucerys- for what could have been well recognized- for the first time since the boy was born. She and Rhaenyra had made insinuations; her older half-brother, Harwin, would beam in glee whenever she played with Jace, looked after Luke, and tried to lull Joffrey to sleep.
She remembered the one time Jace addressed the abominable rumors of their bastardy to his mother, “I am a Targaryen through and through, like Sansa. Sansa also has black hair; no one calls her a bastard!” Rhaenyra laughed as she realized the concept of illegitimacy was lost on her young sons. She had explained eloquently that the black hair of the brothers was due to their grandmother, Rhaenys, whose mother was a Baratheon. “Sansa,” she gently pulled the girl closer to her, gripping her shoulders, “Has the black hair of the Strongs. She, just like the three of you, did not inherit the silver hair of the Targaryens from her mother.” Sansa’s heart leaped with joy. Many refused to acknowledge her mother’s Targaryen status due to her being a mere accident, something Prince Baelon regretted until his passing. Her grandmother, Viserra Targaryen, had intoxicated the Prince and done her deed when prancing around naked in his bedchamber did not work. Soon enough, she gave birth to their bastard, a pale-haired little girl she affectionately named Visenya as she passed. Visenya grew up in court, her older half-brothers being her only company.
When little Visenya turned seventeen, Widower Lyonel Strong joined the Red Keep with his sons. The man was fifteen years her senior, yet she was besotted by him. On her eighteenth birthday, she threw herself at her brother, the King’s feet, begging him to allow their union. Lord Strong, despite much hesitation, acquiesced, and the two were wed in a homely ceremony. Sansa was born after a stillborn, in 110 AD, a day after the birth of her husband, Aemond. It is said that Lady Strong had held onto her belly with one hand and supported the then Queen with the other as her Grace screamed and cried during her third labor. The moment the little boy’s cries were heard and he was laid onto his mother’s bosom, Lady Strong’s water gave way, and Sansa was born after a long, strenuous labor herself.
Lyonel was overjoyed, to say the least. His dear wife had named the child Sansa, a true name taken from the First Men. The King’s joy, however, was only second to his Hand’s. He held both the children in his arms. “They have the same eyes; it is uncanny,” he mused. “Aemond and Sansa. Must we betroth them, Lyonel?”
“If you insist, your Grace.” If it were some other time, Lyonel would have argued the futility of the said betrothal, how it built no new connections and produced no allies. However, at that moment, he was overcome with joy.
“They will make me kill my dearest Jace and my loveliest Joff, too, if we do not part. One day, perhaps, you will find your way to me again. Only when this has been dealt with. Until then, Verasys, you must be away. Fly, my boy, fly away.”
Verasys was not only her dragon; he also belonged to her mother. Her mother had passed shortly after the burning of Harrenhal, her frail health unable to bear the loss of her stepson, who was a dear friend, and her husband. Verasys was also one of the few belongings of her mother that had found their way to her.
She walked backward from the dragon. “Leave, my boy, fly away. This is your chance. Aegon has lost Riverlands entirely. What will follow next is the dance of the dragons. I want no part in it, and neither do you.”
The dragon looked at Sansa, his eyes glossing over her form. She shushed him again as he walked toward her, his mouth against her cheek. Verasys wiped away her tears, backed away from her, and gently flapped his wings. He was so gentle, so quiet, so sweet. Sansa knew that there would never be a dragon so calm, so very docile. Verasys isn’t one for war anyway, she told herself as she broke the chains with the dragonbone dagger that she received as a present on her wedding day from Aemond, despite knowing that Verasys could be resourceful upon need, could decimate anyone who could pose a threat to him or his Sansa. His protectiveness of even Aemond drew short, fluttered fires from Vhagar. It was Sansa who was not built for war.
-
THE NEXT MORNING was torturous. Aemond’s voice blasted through the entire Red Keep, his anger having scared away even the faultless birds. She stayed rooted in her chair, refusing to respond to his outburst. She refused to dignify his anger, she had done it enough before and had tired of it then.
“WHERE IS VERASYS? WHERE IS MY WIFE’S DRAGON? WHAT KIND OF TREACHERY IS THIS?” He refused to believe that the dragon left on his own accord, convinced that someone wilfully let him escape. “Why ask me? I am heartbroken by Verasys’s absence. How am I to know where he’s gone without me?” She spoke whenever inquired about the dragon’s absence. The Dowager Queen’s eyes shone like steel as she stared Sansa down. “Sansa, my sweet child, you mustn’t do anything that may put us at grave risk.”
“Your Grace, I do not know what you mean. Rather, I believe that what happened was for the best. Verasys wasn’t one for war. He’d have forfeited the moment Syrax would have flown near him. It is for the best, your Grace, that he left on his own accord.”
Aemond waited for his mother to depart before locking the gate of the chamber from the inside. “I do not know where your loyalties lie, my dear.”
“You accuse me of treason, my dear husband. That is unseemly and harsh of you.” Sansa trained her eyes on his, refusing to yield for fear of showing some weakness.
“I shan’t use that word, for what I assume to be treason is what you might consider loyalty.” He said, “I know of your regular consumption, Sansa. Or, I knew, I suppose.”
She knew what he meant, “I have never made a point for it to be discreet, dear husband. I am not giving birth to a child until this war has been dealt with.”
“War,” he spat, “This isn’t war; this is a defense against treason.” He sat down, facing her, knowing that another debate would ensue.
Her lips lifted in what he often called a “bitter smile.” Her anger and her sardonicism reflected in her gaze at once. “What’s defense and what’s treason here varies on perspective.”
“Aegon is the first-born son of my Father, your own uncle; he is the rightful heir.”
“The boy Uncle never once even mentioned as his heir? I won’t argue with you on who the rightful heir is. I just want you to remember that no “faction” is truly in the right here. None.” She hated herself for the partial lie she told, but she had to stay safe. Rhaenyra was her rightful Queen; she will always be. Her nephews, acknowledged by Laenor Velaryon, are her trueborn sons and her rightful successors. Her heart broke at the memory of Lucerys, at the thought of his beautiful face eaten in half.
“Why must you speak like a…” he lowered his voice and leaned closer to her face, “…a traitor?”
“You accuse me of treason again, my husband.”
“I only note the precarious implication of your rebuttals. This is no game, Sansa; this is-”
“Oh, yes, this is war. What do I, a woman, know of war? What an irony, given it is a woman you all are fighting against!”
Aemond sat back, his lips sealed tight. “I never said that dirty thing; you know it was Cole who said so.”
“And you associate yourself so closely with him, disregarding the harmful notions he poses.” She posited, “Being a freethinker, as you claim to be–”
“Oh dear wife, I believe we both can agree that you and I do not see eye to eye on something this grave. Yet, we choose to stay together, love each other. He is only a servant, as his duty is to serve.” His hand on the table had closed in a tight fist, “Let’s not argue the futility of unmatched opinions when you and I have plenty.” He mentioned 'love' in hopes of seeing her eyes soften, in hopes of irking something in her heart that once held his gaze in utmost adoration. The warmth had gone, the love was nowhere. When he looked into her eyes, he only felt cold, so unloved that it scared him.
“We do not.” Sansa was gritting her teeth by then, “You had once told me that were you to become King, you would want your eldest child to inherit the throne, be it a girl or a boy. That is a belief that could threaten Aegon and his lackeys against your support toward the throne, against me. We were never as shortsighted as our family here.”
“Sansa, my dear, do you not realize that Rhaenyra is not one of us?”
“She was never meant to be the enemy,” Sansa spoke quietly, almost under her breath, her hand covering her mouth coyly, “This is pure conspiracy succeeding over conciliation.”
There was a time, Aemond thought, when debates would lead them to bed and they’d make love. Things had changed. Lucerys’s death had left her incapacitated to feel any love toward him, even though he had emphatically repeated– like a prayer– that he never meant to kill him.
Every time he recalled having, tearfully and apologetically, informed her of the accident at the Rook's Nest; his body broke down to his knees.
“It matters little what you intended. What does matter here is what you have caused. Husband, you have waged war against Rhaenyra, against Uncle Daemon. May the Seven protect us all.” She spoke through venomous, angry tears, spitting all over him, “Uncle will never forgive this.” She had shaken her head with untenable vigour, walking away from him in pure dread, “And why should he? Would YOU have forgiven this? We deserve to burn. Poor Luke, oh poor, poor Luke. My dear ne- my Luke!”
When Aemond stepped closer to her, despite her backing away, wringing his hands, “I did not kill any of his children; they’re untouched, unharmed.” Her laughter echoed as a shriek, “You know him so little, it is dangerous to not know the man you have waged war against. You foolish, foolish man.”
He tried to hold her, fall to her feet, cry his apologies if that could calm her. She refused to even touch him, almost throwing herself out the window to evade him. He had a feeling, an instinctual irk, that she would deal with the news worse than anybody at the Red Keep. The Dowager Queen and the Hand chastised him for having murdered kin; Aegon had little to say but how conflicts such as these- almost always and without fail- produced corpses, and Helaena had blamed Aemond for procuring the most ominous out of thin air. Sansa, however, was ardently, hopelessly, fiercely grieving.
She, unlike her husband, remembered their days during childhood as happier times. Joffrey was too little and Helaena was always consumed in her own interests. The five of them used to play, practice sword-fighting, and have lessons together. After Rhaenyra left for Dragonstone, Sansa visited them on dragonback, every once in a while. She attended tourneys and had been beside Rhaenyra in all her birthings, except for the one where she had lost her little girl, her little Visenya. Sansa had grieved the death of a child not even half alive, crying and praying for the wellbeing of the soul in silence. Luke was so real; he was fourteen, a boy with his own likes and dislikes, his own quirks.
Before he knew it, she had begun to yell out the window, “Verasys, Verasys, come to me, Verasys. Take me away from this warmongering, foolish beast!” Aemond could have ripped his heart open, and it would have hurt less.
“Sansa, my love, what are you doing-” he could hear the dragon flapping his wings hard against the air; the dragon had broken the chains off himself to fly to Sansa, to respond to her cries.
“If you step any closer, I will JUMP from here, I will.” The Dowager Queen and the Hand were banging on their gate, pleading Aemond and Sansa to let them in. “I want to see none of you. I want to apologize to Rhaenyra, if my DEATH shall appease her, I will let her have it. Don’t you dare come closer, for I WILL JUMP!” Aemond did not dare stop her when she mounted the dragon and took off, barely secured in her place. The thought of her jumping to her death at his touch made his skin crawl, he found himself within he could hurt himself so bad that she'd love him again.
She returned two days later, having calmed down significantly. She handed them a treaty Rhaenyra had sent with her. They had the following demands:
Aemond the Kinslayer shall be excommunicated to Essos. Whether his wife, Lady Sansa Strong, decides to stay at the Red Keep or leave with him is up to her.
Ser Otto Hightower, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, Prince Aegon, and Princess Helaena, alongside Lord Jaehaerys, Lord Maelor, and Lady Jaehaera, shall depart for Oldtown within a fortnight.
The Red Keep, the Crown of Iron and Rubies of Aegon the Conqueror, and Blackfyre should all be returned to the rightful Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.
Refusing any of these claims, the scroll dictated, would lead to war. Aegon laughed, instructing that the scroll be thrown in the hearth.
The Dowager Queen had turned red upon reading the clauses, the Hand looked betrayed. “Have they reduced you to a raven?” Aegon asked, staring at his sisters-in-law, his cousin, in sheer disbelief.
“I did what I could for a mother who has lost her son. This is the least I could do. I have not agreed to these clauses, I only brought the scroll here.”
“Were you aware of the content of the scroll?” The Hand enquired, his voice and face both frightfully calm and cold.
“No, I was not. I was merely requested to hand this scroll to the Hand of the King.” Her eyes were transfixed straight ahead, staring nowhere, yet focused.
“How did you spend the last two days on Dragonstone?” Aemond was sitting on one of the steps to the Iron Throne, closer to the ground. Aegon now sat on the throne, Sansa grimaced at the thought of it alone. Aemond, on the other hand, had worried himself to death, having been advised against flying to Dragonstone himself, especially after word arrived right away that she was alright and needed time to sort out the demise of Lucerys Velaryon. That his arrival at Dragonstone will be equivalent to his waging direct warfare. Thus, when he finally spoke, his question sounded more like concern than an interrogation, so unlike the rest.
“We grieved, your Grace.” Her lilac eyes stared dead into his, her face contorting, ever so slightly, in disgust. Anyone who doesn’t know her well would not even notice. He was not one of them, unfortunately. He could have wept; he almost did. He felt like he had lost her forever. However much love, respect, and admiration she once had for him was gone.
It had been a week since, and she had somehow regained normalcy. While she was still cold, biting, uninviting; she was calmer, considerate even. She allowed no intimacy– something he hadn’t let his mother and grandsire know– because if it weren’t for the origin of her birth and her status as his wife, she’d have long been beheaded as a traitor. Her dragon having left did little to acquit her to his family. It was odd that she barely attempted to clear herself of any suspicion. It was almost as if she took the special treatment for granted. He’d have to remind himself every time he felt angry at her indifference that she was only half a Strong. Her grandparents were children of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, and she was just as much a Targaryen as he was, if only not for her hair. The futility of such comparison was jarring, for she looked like a Targaryen through and through. She and Rhaenys Targaryen were similar in that sense; both fiery dragonriders with hair as dark as a cloudy, moonless night and eyes startlingly lilac.
He snapped himself out of his derailed trail of thoughts to find his wife by the window, watering the plant that she had brought back with her from Dragonstone. “Will you never admit, out loud, that I accidentally killed your nephew?”
She did not pause, did not look back, “You will not entrap me in your web of deceits, husband.” She could have scratched his other eye out, to avenge her nephew, but she chose not to. Oftentimes, those days, she’d have the urge to tell him that he was a petty, shallow half-man for never having gotten over the loss of an eye. People get through so much worse. But, she stopped herself. Every single time.
#game of thrones#hotd fanfic#house of the dragon fanfic#aemond x fem!reader#aemond targaryen smut#aemond targaryen x oc#aemond targaryen imagines#aemond one eye#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen x cousin!reader#aemond targaryen x strong!reader#aemond x reader
68 notes
·
View notes
Text
Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen Reader
Summary: Daemon finally finds love
Aella Targaryen was nothing like the rest of her family. She couldn't be. Many would often said she was a sweet girl whose only mistake was to have Valyrian blood cursing through her veins. House Targaryen had been on the Iron Throne for over a hundred years, she could remember the throne, it was rather beautiful she would admit. But, House Targaryen was a cursed lineage. Aella thought it was because they were all related. Brothers married sisters, uncles married nieces, cousins married cousins.
When Aella was brought to court she was nothing but a babe. Only one perhaps two moons old. Daughter of Saera Targaryen and her brother Rhaegar Targaryen. Rhaegar and Saera had both been wild and untamable. The two ran away after Saera escaped Old Town and they were never seen again until now. Aella Targaryen was born in the year 105. Rhaegar brought his daughter to court, to present among the realm. Saera had died in her birthing chamber. Viserys, who had lost his wife a nearly two years prior welcomed them both. Aella grew up beside Alicent’s children and Rhaenyra's children.
Aella although growing up with her cousins she preferred to be alone, sitting in the gardens or her room and reading a history book. Her father wondered where she had gotten all of that, she was not like her mother or him. But, there were things he did like singing, poems and song writing much like his daughter. Aella had the basic training, in case she had to protect herself but the young girl no matter the circumstances could never and would never bring herself to hurt anyone. It wasn't in her blood no matter how much her father tried. But Rhaegar would protect his daughter no matter the cost. She rode Meraxes, queen Rhaenys dragon, the princess died that day but her dragon lived.
As the years passed, Aella Targaryen grew into a beautiful maiden. "The Realm's Angel" or "The Realm's Desire" surpassing her cousin Rhaenyra in beauty and everything else. Aella had reached her ten and five name day and was yet to be unmarried. Her father was the reason for that, although he was no king he saw that no one was fit to marry his only child. No one would ever be good enough. Alicent thought it would be a good idea to marry her to Aegon or Aemond if she wished. Rhaenyra thought she would be a great match for Jacaerys or Lucerys. Rhaegar Targaryen refused, once again. But, a few moons later he passed from a swollen belly, leaving his only child at the mercy of her family.
Aella didn't know who to choose as her family had given her the choice to marry who she wanted between the four boys. She was dutiful, whoever her uncle had chosen she would have married but she did not want to disappoint anyone by choosing wrong. The council knew that Aella marrying either of her nephews was a tragedy waiting to happen, so the young girl offered a marriage between another house but Rhaenyra, Alicent and the king denied her. Daemon who had recently lost his wife asked her to marry him, to unite themselves and protect each other. Aella was young, only fifteen summers old what did she know about love. She knew more about duty than love.
So, to stop any family issues or more drama she agreed and secretly married Daemon, consummating their marriage, now it could not be broken. The news reached King's Landing the morning after, creating chaos in the court. The king was fragile in health so he did nothing, besides they were married and they had consummated there was no breaking anything. Rhaenyra stayed in King's Landing, while Daemon, his wife and two daughters remained in Dragonstone. Nearly a year after their wedding Baelon Targaryen and Rhaegar Targaryen were born. Strong boys. On their second named day, their sisters Rhaella and Visenya had been born. When the boys were five, their sisters three Aemma and Viserys were born.
Baela and Rhaena quickly accepted Aella as she had this motherly warmth the girls loved and she had glady taken the role as their mother, not that she would try to replace the girls mother but she did her best to love and care for them as she did for her own children. Aella with Daemon's approval let the girls ride their dragons to Driftmark to visit their grandparents. Rhaenys and Corlys were grateful that the young girl allowed them to visit their mother's family as much and as often as they could. The six children had been kept a secret through out the years. Aella was near her one and twenty name day. As a result, the king had invited her and her family to celebrate as a family.
Her arrival had been expected, Aegon was now married to Helaena and had two children, twins. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Aemond was unmarried but as far as she knew he was bethroted to a Baratheon girl. Jacaerys was to marry soon but his mother and father were looking for a suitable match. When she arrived, Daemon and the girls were waiting as her and the children had sailed there due to the young kids. Rhaenys and Corlys who were there watched their granddaughters run to their new mother. They saw the love the two girls had for her. King Viserys recovered and went back to being the peaceful king he was. He waited with his family as he watched Daemon help his wife.
She had turned into a beautiful woman, everyone could agree. She seemed happy with Daemon. And she was, he treated her good and with respect. "My king, my queen" she greeted with a nod. "Princess Rhaenyra, Laenor" she said with a smile. She greeted everyone. "Now, may we present our children?" she asked and everyone turned to her. They were surprised. The king nodded and Daemon signaled the maids to bring them. "Baelon and Rhaegar, our oldest. Visenya and Rhaella out second oldest. Viserys and Aemma our youngest" Daemon introduced as the four oldest made their bows to the king and queen. The youngest were only one.
"May I?" the king asked as he took Aemma, she had her eyes. Rhaenys took Viserys. "Baelon looks like our father, and Rhaegar looks like Aemon" Rhaenys nodded in agreement. Everyone cooed over the Aella'a children and all she did was smile. During the feast for her nameday, Daemon and his wife could see the tension between Alicent and Rhaenyra. "I would like to propose an alliance between our families" Aella began. She had spoken with Corlys and Rhaenys, and of course her husband. "A bethrotal between Jacaerys and Baela. And Rhaena with prince Lucerys" she said with a smile. Rhaenyra smiled. "I think that is a great idea" Daemon held her hand and nodded. "In addition, if Aegon and Helaena agree Jaehaera could marry Baelon and Vinseya Jaehaerys" the table was quiet but Alicent smiled. "I think that is magnificent idea" the king nodded in agreement. "Our house will be united" she smiled happy with the outcome.
Aella Targaryen was a woman many remembered, she had given her family peace but that peace nearly broke when Otto Hightower deemed her dangerous, sending for someone to kill the princess. The princess perished on top of her dragon as a scorpion hit the beast right in the neck, killing it instantly. She received the same fate as queen Rhaenys. The lady didn't survive the fall. Daemon Targaryen never remarried but once he found out who killed her, the Hightowers, more importantly Otto, he was killed soon after. Alicent was pardoned as she didn't know anything. Rhaenyra was crown queen and the princess match's were honored as Baela married Jacaerys, Rhaena Lucerys, and once older Baelon and Visenya married Aegon's children.
The Sweet Summer Child died but her memory remained throughout the years. Aella Targaryen iii married her brother Rhaegar, giving him the heirs he needed. House Targaryen didn't end with Daenerys Targaryen, it went on. It prospered. From Aella Targaryen the first, came the prince that was promised and the realm lived in peace.
#daemon targaryen x reader#jacaerys velaryon x reader#game of thrones x reader#house of the dragon x reader#rhaenyra targaryen#aemond targaryen x reader#aegon targaryen x reader#house of the dragon#harwin strong x reader#alicent hightower x reader#daemon targaryen#daenerys targaryen#daenerys stormborn#rhaegar targaryen
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
how they hold you x HoTD men
i saw these photosets and could NOT refuse! so here are the HoTD men and how (i imagine) they would hold you
included: aemond, daemon, jacaerys, aegon, criston cole, harwin strong
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
+bonus
#jacaerys x reader#jacaerys velaryon#hotd smut#jacaerys smut#house of the dragon#hotd#hotd x reader#jacaerys targaryen#prince jacaerys#hotd fanfic#game of thrones#game of thrones smut#asoif#asoif/got#fanfic#smut#fluff smut#hotd jacaerys#jacaerys fanfiction#hotd fluff#aegon targaryen x reader#aegon targaryen#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen x reader#daemon targaryen#daemon targeryen x reader#ser harwin x reader#harwin strong#ser criston cole#cregan stark
465 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Blood is Rare
Summary: Aemond has always loathed his niece, and the feeling is very much mutual | Words: 3.3k | Warnings below the cut!
Warnings: a lot of talk of illegitimacy, hatefucking, dubcon, choking, slight knife play, biting, bitta blood, incest (character is described with strong features), p in v sex, baby trapping?
There was no plate at his spot at the table. No knife to tempt him. He would not break bread with those he could not trust.
Like an animal atop high ground, he sits rigid at the head of the table, on the outside unnervingly calm. But he watches with a keen eye the prey that sits at the other end.
She shares many features with her mother. His whore-sister. Her stubbornness, her determined gaze and the nervous twisting of the rings on each of her fingers into the bargain.
Had she not the dark brown, near-black shade of waved hair atop her head and bright, clear blue eyes of the former Commander of the City Watch, his niece and his sister would look nearly identical.
Unfortunately, they both shared his hatred for them as well.
He loathed the idea of them all. The birth of one mere brown-haired bastard was enough, and yet there were three of them, sat together in unification, as if to put up defences against the opposite side of the table, dotted with the moonlight-silver of Alicent Hightower’s children.
He smirked at the thought that she came mere hours after Jace. That she was unplanned. Unwanted. And yet here she existed, sitting with her eyes fixed on a flickering candle, trying to drown out the laughs, smiles and the oddity that was all of them all gathered together, enjoying one another’s company.
He knew as well as she did. It was the only thing they had in common. That they could see through this charade.
Aemond wondered if she had always seen it. Understood it. The strife that would happen between them. Perhaps she was a dreamer and could envisage the future before it had even happened.
She was a melancholic, hateful little thing. Born with fire and fury.
He supposed if anything, she was still the daughter of a Targaryen.
Aemond swore she was a witch of sorts. For she must have felt his gaze on her, and her clear eyes were illuminated by the dancing flame as they met him. Her expression unchanged.
His smirk grew that they felt the same about each other.
He was the cunt son of Alicent Hightower.
And she was the Strong bastard of his whore-sister.
Not breaking eye contact, she raised her chin, looking down at him over her nose, huffing as she turned away to sip from the cup on her small, delicate fingers.
Stuck up cunt.
The atmosphere shifted considerably as Viserys groaned, a frail hand raised to the injured portion of his face, to which Aemond felt a sick sense of delight. The guards swiftly carried him away by each corner of his chair.
And the gap between Rhaenyra and Alicent seemed to push each side away further. Irreparably so.
His niece did not appreciate his tribute to her and her brothers.
Throughout the evening, she had said few words apart from mumbled whispers to Daemon on her right and Luke on her left. But when Aemond stood to speak, he revelled in her undivided attention. In those angry eyes, he saw not only a loathing for him, but a loathing at the truth of what she was.
A loathing that he was right, and she knew it.
She seemed almost as disappointed as her mother when Jace struck him weakly.
And before Daemon could place himself between the warring factions of their family, he watched the Strong Princess march angrily away, her skirts in her hands, flashing a stern glare before she left.
Her eyes were all he could think about, with her face anchored in the firm grip of his fingers.
He thought she was so small and fragile, that he could just squeeze and break her little jaw, her bones clattering between his fingers like pebbles. And yet she still looked at him with such fire, that only one of Targaryen blood would be able to throw.
She looked at him like he was the most loathsome creature she had ever seen.
The passageway Aemond had her cornered into was stifling and suffocating, forcing them to breathe the same humid air in anger. He saw her face redden where he had her in his grasp, her glossy lips slightly parted to breathe.
“I will extend you the courtesy of assuming there is a very good reason why you have your hands on me like this, Uncle.”
He almost wants to laugh right in her face, despite what she said not meaning to be funny. She is so frail, and yet roars so loudly.
“There is.”
Her jaw muscles tighten in frustration, shuffling backwards though there is nowhere to go.
“Then, I dare say your reason will not be good enough.”
Aemond allows his gaze to roam over her face. Up close, she really and truly is the picture of her mother, with her father's unfortunate features to her disadvantage in her colouring.
“I merely wished to see the colour of your eyes, mandianna.”
“To make some cruel jape no less, I am sure.”
He grins at the way she takes a sharp breath when he tugs her face towards him slightly. And he swears he sees the pupils within the clear blue of her eyes widen as he does, and wonders if he is having the same effect swelling at the forbidden place between her thighs.
“You wound me, sweet niece. A man cannot simply appreciate the beauty of a woman? Does there always have to be some cruel intent?”
“With you, there must be.”
He somewhat loosens his grip on her face, fingers trailing down her neck, the glint of her earrings catching his eye. She visibly shivers at his touch there.
The most venomous expression sits on her face, and she does not miss a beat. Too clever and witty for her own good.
“Do not insult my intelligence, Uncle. I know what depraved thoughts bat around inside your head, and they are not original. A family trait perhaps.”
He hums, more amused than curious, but perhaps with a smattering of both, “And what of you?”
Her perfect little lips part to speak before his thumb trails down the column of her throat, long fingers wrapped around her neck to her nape. The threat of what he could do making her go quiet.
“What depraved thoughts bat around in your head, sweet niece?”
Silence wraps around them like a rope, tightening with the fibres cracking against their skin. Hot and suffocating all at once. And all Aemond can hear is the steady rhythm of her breathing, his eye wandering down to the necklace perched on her chest as her lungs erratically suck in air.
“It is treason to question my virtue.”
She swallows as his thumb presses on the centre of her throat, as if testing if she is indeed real.
“It may be treason to question your virtue, but it is not treason to question your honesty,” he replies coolly. Aemond can feel her pulse fluttering beneath her skin, the barely-contained rage on her face hidden only by a blanket of courtesy, “a maiden does not allow herself to be alone like this with another man.”
Aemond found himself, a man who had sparred with Ser Criston Cole for a large portion of his life, a man who as a child had claimed the largest dragon in the world and a man who had dealt with the burning pain of losing his eye, and the shame that he carried alongside it, was shocked into brief silence when his niece’s small, delicate palm echoed off his cheek.
It was not the force of it that stunned him so, but rather the shock that she had chosen to do it, with his hand around her neck and his frame blocking her escape.
The little dragon had felt threatened and given him a warning clip.
Aemond felt the warmth bloom on his cheek and smirked. She had slapped him on his bad side, where she knew it would sting the most. For a split second, white, hot pain nipped at the temples of his head as he turned back to face her, and saw that look on her face.
That she knew she’d made a mistake, but was too angry or proud to admit it.
Or perhaps she was both.
Excitement wriggled and rolled in his stomach at the whimper that escaped her lips, using the force of his grip around her tiny throat to force her back, muscles and bones rolling against the stone walls where she was trapped, and those clear, curious eyes darting back at him with distaste. And he was pleased to see, a sprinkling of horror and panic.
“That was a mistake,” he mused, pressing himself closer to her, his hand firm around her throat despite her own attempting to pry them off him. His other hand reached down, shifting her up the cold wall, and gathered her heavy skirts in his palm, and rucked them frustratingly up towards her hip.
He revelled in the terror that crossed her face, a smirk winding its way to his sharp features.
“How exhilarating,” he pondered, “to take something that you are not willing to give.”
“I will scream”.
“Then scream. I will say it was you who seduced me,” he bit back, watching her face and expressions that crossed them, “And who will they believe? The King’s second son or the bastard daughter of a whore?”
He could feel her breath against his face, soothing the spot where she had struck him not a moment before. Aemond blinked slowly at the woman in his grip, apparently attempting to decide for herself whether it was worth the fight.
Or perhaps something else.
Aemond grinned, “like mother like daughter.”
And he enjoyed the fire it stoked in her eyes.
“You will let me go-”
He shook her neck in his grip, as if to make her be quiet. And it seemed to shock and scare her, for she closed her eyes to steel herself, “And then what will you do? Run? Scream? Or will you do something stupid enough to give me an excuse to make everything you’ve ever said about me, truth?”
Her jaw tightened looking at him, feeling cornered, but a strange ache between her thighs.
“You threaten me, Uncle?”
His dagger sliced the very air between them, pressing the tip to the column of her throat where his thumb had branded her not moments before, tracing the shape of her skin. His niece froze, her breath trembling and her head pressed to the wall, as if to try and pull herself feebly away from threat.
This very dagger was an extension of Aemond himself. As if his hand were still touching her but with a pointed edge. And he wondered if he sliced her skin, even just a little, would she bleed like him?
There was something there in her eyes as he looked between them. Her breath came in shallow gasps. And Aemond was willing to bet that deep down, beneath the demure veil she hides herself behind, peeking through, that she is wet and ready for him between her silky thighs.
“You are clever, dear niece,” he all but whispers, trailing the blade down to the neckline of her dress, the rich fabric yielding to it, “but not as clever as you think you are.”
She swallowed thickly as his blade teased the tied bindings to her dress, playing with the double-tied knots as if they were strings of a lute, and he was playing her easily. He plucked one, and then two, watching her face the entire time.
“You believe yourself a proper little Princess, do you not?” he asks, his voice low, almost feline in nature, his face so close to hers she can make out the stitchings of his eyepatch, “hair decorated with gold. Fingers adorned with rubies. Wrapped in lavish dresses.”
She flinched as he flicked his wrist, severing the second to last tie holding two sides of her gown together.
“But pull one little thread, and you unravel -” his tone deepens, forcing her to listen to every little syllable, his gaze boring into hers, “-and all you are…is a wanton, bastard, whore.”
She attempted to push his body away, but his dagger clattered to the floor, holding her easily by her wrists, near-painfully pressing them to the stone wall behind her. It happened so quickly. Lips, teeth and tongue fought as if in battle, and Aemond held her there for him, pressing his rapidly hardening length against her clothed womanhood, rolling his hips against hers to search for that delicious, forbidden friction.
It did not seem to him that she was fighting him, but rather fighting how he made her feel.
Her lips were velvety, moist and soft as his anchored hers apart to taste her, once having a split second’s worth it was never enough. Every little breath and whimper and he wanted to make them louder, make her submit, a part of him intoxicated by her when her teeth grazed his bottom lip, and bit on him, only for her tongue to soothe the area afterwards.
Aemond thought of what would happen, if he devoured her wholly, pressed so hard against her that it was difficult to fathom where either of them began and ended.
His lips moved along her jaw. She smelled of whatever oils were combed through her hair. Camomile and something sweet perhaps. Quickly his hand left her wrist to ruck her heavy skirts up to her waist, feeling her shiver at the touch he left behind with the brief touch of his fingertips where no man had touched before.
“Fight back,” Aemond dared, a mere whisper against her neck where he left his bruise-like mark.
He met her gaze, looking into her bright eyes and allowed his grip on her to slowly relax, waiting to see if she would push away. Scream and run, as she had previously promised. And while her jaw was still tense and eyes aflame with hostility, he swore he saw her pupils dilate.
“Just get on with it.”
The surging heat in his stomach distracted him briefly from acting cocky, his fingers fumbling to untie his breeches while keeping her elevated. And it felt as if his body was thinking before his mind when he looked between them to see her hefty skirts bunched at her hip, and one smooth leg on display, pulling his achingly hard cock free and tucking himself between the soft haven between her thighs.
She could pretend she desired him not all she liked, but when their gazes met in fire and fury, finding that in all of their fighting and struggling she was soaking wet, Aemond pushed against her entrance until she welcomed him, sliding within her tight, choking walls with a low groan batted against her neck.
She whined at both the intrusion and his tight grip on her thigh, one hand elevating it so that he could begin pushing up brutally into her. Shame rose to her cheeks as she closed her eyes tightly, finding the wet smack of their skin rousing that tightness in her belly.
It was both embarrassing and hateful that she found herself enjoying this, and that she let him first of all.
And all she could see above her when she opened her eyes was him, his lips parted to breath as if he was holding some beastly form of himself back, his hair spilling like rays of moonlight over his shoulders with every thrust into her weeping cunt and the way his lone eye never strayed from her expression, not for a second.
That is until Aemond felt as if not only he wanted to own her shame and her body, but wanted to show it too, and leaned forward to graze his teeth on the skin that was now exposed by the ever loosening shoulders of her dress, and sink his teeth in to mark her.
The sound that came from her was between a grunt and a moan, as his position changed the angle of his hips and the blunt head of his cock sparking pleasure deep inside her.
“Fucking…hate you…” is all she managed, feeling the top of his canine break the skin just slightly. Her voice clung to that flat, stoic hatred, and she hated that it sounded as if she were about to fall apart.
If it were possible, he increased the intensity of his movements, pushing up into her mercilessly and drawing feminine, soft whines from her mouth. Sounds he wasn't even sure before his niece was capable of making.
“I adore your fire, sweet niece,” he muses lowly, tracing her jaw with his lips, “I adore how much you think you hate me.”
She does hate him, she tries to think. But every thought that appears is swiftly batted away by the incessant rhythm of his cock pistoning in and out of her, the depraved sounds betraying how she truly feels. An internal war Aemond can clearly see.
“Do you like this? Do you like how much I hate you? How much I want to hurt you?”
Yes.
A thought rung in her mind that she wanted him to hurt her more, so that she could just feel something from him aside from the way he stretched her walls around him so deliciously.
The soreness of his girth is something she had not expected to be a problem, a lapse of thought that she will no doubt be paying for the next morning.
But this, this was a core lapse of morals, surely. Allowing him to do this to her.
His fingers dug into the flesh of her thigh, as if pulling her to meet his cock halfway, feeling the way his body shuddered at the closeness of completion evident on his face.
Aemond grinned wolfishly, “You like this. We both know it.”
He thrusted into her so forcefully that she had no choice but to hold onto him, clinging to his leather-clad shoulder tightly when he met her fleshy end, her insides involuntarily squeezing around him in both pain and pleasure.
His hand came to her neck, clamping down experimentally on her windpipe, and groaning deeply at the way her cunt sucked him in as he did. Forcing her chin up so those traitorous blue eyes met his, he grinned.
Hateful little cunt.
Her peak crept up her spine first, feeling as if the sensation was melting her muscles where they sat inside her body. And then her lips parted in a soundless scream, pitifully moving her hips towards his to encourage the feeling to crest until it rushed out of her with a feeble whine, “uncle…”
Not only was the feeling of her quivering, velvety walls enough to convince him, but the way she called him that while he was so deep inside her, threatening for relief, was so erotic it did not feel depraved in the slightest.
But nothing was better than that wide-eyed, colourful expression of panic, distaste, hate and anxiety when he deliberately planted his seed inside of her. Aemond was sure there was no better feeling, bad intentions or no, her blood felt good on him, his teeth and cock alike.
All he could imagine was what dynasty could be created from such a house of revulsion. To watch this hateful little creature swell with his child, a true Targaryen. Only to put on the same stoic, flat expression which he knew was untrue when he'd fuck her again, and again, and again.
What flame flickered under that expression of hers, he wondered. What stone was hidden in the centre of her peachy, soft exterior. A heart, perhaps.
She didn't have to like it, this dance between them. But when he put her down and watched his spend trickle down her thighs, he would have her come to love it.
She existed for this. Whatever it was. He was sure of that.
“Well, little dragon,” he whispered, “the bastard daughter of a whore, with another growing within her?”
She swallowed around his hand as he tugged her face closer to his.
“Or burn with me.”
General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch@castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorskyy
#aemond x oc#prince aemond x you#prince aemond x reader#aemond x fem!reader#aemond x niece!reader#aemomd x strong!niece#aemond x niece#aemond smut#aemond stannies#prince aemond targaryen smut#aemond targaryen smut#aemond targaryen angst#prince aemond fic#aemond fanfic#aemond fanfiction#aemond fic#prince aemond targaryen fic#aemond targaryen fic#aemond targaryen fanfiction#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond targaryen x niece#ewan mitchell#ewan mitchell characters#prince aemond targaryen#aemond angst#house of the dragon aemond#prince aemond smut#aemond x y/n#aemond x you#aemond x reader
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
Drawing the Line, Part 2
Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader
Warnings: Yelling, Crying
Word Count: 1.1k
A/N: Well after that last episode I think that we could all use a little romance. Happy reading ❤.
Masterlist / Taglist / Requests: Open
Drawing the Lines 1 / 2 / ?
“Let the princess go this instant.” Alicent commands.
The kingsguard releases your arm and you stumble away from him, holding your wrist.
Alicent grabs Aemond’s face, “You cannot treat the princess however you like. It is one thing to not associate with her because of her mother’s choices, it is another to publicly toy with her feelings.”
Aemond rips away his chin and stares down at his mother. He knows Alicent is right, but he does not know how to explain he was being sincere. It is unlikely that she would believe him anyway.
You do not dare to look the queen in the face afraid of what she will say. A moment of silence passes through the corridor, you grip your hands tight waiting for the queen to say something, but she does not say anything she simply slips your hand in hers. She guides you back to her rooms, your eyes remain glued to the floor.
“Now, tell me the truth of it.” Alicent demands.
“No,” You mumble.
She breathes out sharply, “What did you say?”
“I said no.” You reply with more strength.
That is when it came, a sharp stinging slap across your face. Alicent stares at you, “I will hear the truth of it now.”
Tears well up in your face and drip down your cheeks. There is shouting outside the room, followed by the doors being thrown open.
“Where is she?” Rhaenyra yells.
You look up to her, “Mother, I am sorry this is my fault. I angered the queen.”
“Nonsense,” Rhaenyra protests, wrapping you up in her arms, “You may discipline your children as you see fit, but it you may not raise a hand to mine.”
Rhaenyra takes you out of the room, and down to her apartments. Where you waited for quite some time. You here a soft knock on the door. Aemond’s slight figure slips in to the room.
“Princess Rhaenyra, I have come to make a request.” Aemond says
“You may speak, Aemond.” Rhaenyra replies.
She studies Aemond’s face, his lips are pulled back in to a pursed expression and his eye flits between you and Rhaenyra. He breathes in and then settles his sight on Rhaenyra.
“You had once proposed a marriage pact between your eldest, Jacaerys and my sister Helena. My mother rejected the alliance, but I am here to offer a new one. Marry your daughter to me and we will mend what was broken between our house.” Aemond proposes.
Rhaenyra looks to you, “What do you think?”
You look to the pale man who stands before you. His face is hardened by the rivalry between your families. His face once soft and sad, now gnarled by a scar that your younger brother cut in to him. You don’t what Luke and Joff to have to survive through more of this rivalry. Jace and you had lived your whole life in the shadows of tension, you seek better for your young brother. You know that you can be that peace.
“I will accept your proposal, Aemond.” You say.
That evening there is a great feast held amongst all the lord and ladies of court. Viserys though in a sure haze had blessed the marriage. Both families are arranged around a table at the head of the hall. Conversation buzzes around the other tables.
You watch as Aemond rises to his feet, “I have an announcement to make.”
The room turns to him, Alicent with shock, and his siblings with intrigue.
“I would like to announce the royal engagement of myself and –.” He looks to you and offers you his hand, “The Princess, (Y/N) Velaryon.”
You take his hand and rise. The whole hall erupts in to applause.
Viserys rises, “Now to celebrate this soon to come union.”
Music begins to play and people begin feasting. You look to your seat and the rest of your family.
“I need air, I will back in a moment.” The words spill out of you.
You rush to a door and the side of the hall. You only hope no one has pursued you. The cool night air washes over you as you make your way through the door. You hear a dragon cry in the distance. Tears fall from your eyes, a first it is a few, but the are shortly followed by a cascade of drops. They burn hot on your skin as they make their way down your face. You hear a door creaking behind you. You run along the terrace to a connecting open corridor. A strong cross wind hits you and you lose your balance falling, to the ground. The steps come to a stop.
“I would ask that you stop running, but it seems you already have.” Aemond says.
“Get away from me.” You screech.
Your heart pounds and the wind picks up again. It is strong and whips Aemond’s long hair up in it. He crouches down to your level. Where you sit in a pile of your skirts.
“I will leave you in a moment, but first I have a gift.” He says.
The wind howls around you as he takes your hand. You want to take it away, but you stay yourself. He tucks into your palm something soft and rope like. You open your fingers to see a braided lock of hair. It is your own, but there is something else intermixed with it, white and silvery hair that finishes off the braid. You look to Aemond.
“I got back your lock from my brother, but there wasn’t enough to braid it so I used some off my own to keep it together.” He says.
You can barely hear him over the wind that whips above you. You grab his hand and pull him to a door. You find yourselves inside a small room with a hearth that is battling the cold.
“I wish to ask you something before we marry. I know I have arranged this myself, but” he pauses, “Will you look upon my face and tell me if you could ever love something like me.”
He holds his hand over your eyes and you hear rustling. When he drops the cover from your eyes you look upon Aemond’s face as you have never seen it before, he has removed his eye patch. You are at first struck by the stark contrast of it from the rest of his face, but then intrigued by the way is sparkles.
“I thought it had, been sewn shut, I hadn’t realized you set glass in to it.” You say softly.
You put your hand to his face, in awe.
“It is a sapphire.” He corrects.
“It is stunning.” You breathe out the words as though the are escaping your lips.
Taglist: @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @guijh103 @ephemeralninon @flyingmushroomss @sinlist @isabel2you @cedricsleftelbow @groovyponypatrollamp @ofherscarlettwitchways @aprilsimonsstuff @tnu-ree @pinkydevil16 @guijh103 @severewobblerlightdragon @thegirlnextdoorssister @thanyatargaryen @zgzgzh @fultimefangirl @esposadomd @you-bleed-just-toknowyouarealive @missusnora @eonnyx @winxschester @icarusignite @too-strong-to-lose @sarcasticking9 @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @daisychainsoflove @sidechrisporn @jiinxxxy @stories-im-following
198 notes
·
View notes
Text
Lilagon hen zaldrizoti
Part eight: Fire and Blood
Read on Ao3
Summary: AU where Visenya, Rhaenyra's only daughter lives and is born as her eldest child. To all of Westeros she is seen as the only trueborn child of Ser Leanor and Rhaenyra, but in truth her father happens to be Deamon.
Author's note: I know, two chapters so close together. It's Christmas lol
My plans now that i'm seeing the light of holidays at the end of the dark tunnel of work and chores is to keep writing.
I'm thinking about a dinner scene, a last supper. A little Christmas flashback to cure our heart. We all need it after this chapter i guess.
Warning: violence and death
Prequel |Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11
As the sun drew his arch in the sky and approached its apex the air grew hotter. The opened windows allowed for the sea breeze to come in, but that wasn’t really enough to combat the rising temperatures.
The small council table in front of her was a mess of papers, wooden figurines and scrolls, <<if Lady Tyrell is to declare her support for Aegon, we will find ourselves surrounded, and our forces cut in half>> began Daemon pointing at the kingdoms whose loyalty was surely to the greens. Visenya watched the map in front of her: they had control over the Narrow sea, thanks to her grandfather’s blockade of the Stepstones, but the capitol laid dangerously close to the Stormlands and to the Reach, meaning that the risk of a siege was real. <<Jace told me that Lord Stark has called his banners>> Said the Princess, turning her attention to Winterfell, <<It will take a while for his men to assemble and reach the neck, but if they can do it unseen we’ll have enough numbers to take the Westerlands by surprise>> Daemon hummed, like her he wished to end this nonsense immediately, she could fly to Storm’s End and end this rebellion in hours. Waiting would just worsen their conditions, they were allowing a fire to spread unchecked, to burn everything on their path before they can even reach the fields.
<<Your mother is wise to wait out the storm>> Said her grandmother Rhaenys, upon hearing of her and Daemon’s war council she had rushed to them, fearing how her cousin’s influence could cause more damage than good, <<we must not give the Lords cause of unrest, none in this continent wish for war and they will curse the one who brings it>> Visenya huffed, she understood perfectly why it was important not to take harsh decisions, but waiting for what now looked inevitable would only increase the number of casualties on the field. She bit her tongue and locked her gaze on her father who responded to her with a grin. <<How is your husband, Princess?>> Daemon’s tone was halfway between a serious question and a mock, he knew that every time he spoke to her like this it went straight under her skin, it was irritating. <<Pleased>> She retorted, knowing all too well how her father would react to the suggestion. <<And satisfied with his wife>> She said with a grin, two could play this game. And as predicted he stiffened, turning his head towards the window momentarily, likely to forget that his little girl was a woman grown. A woman married, <<he worries for his mother and sister, and for her children>> she ended the tortures, <<if we ensured their protection he will be persuaded to our cause I am sure>> the idea of granting Alicent Hightower protection enraged Daemon like no other thing. He still believed without the shadow of a doubt that she alone was responsible for his brother’s death, and because of her he had lost his daughter as well. If her father was free to do as he pleased her head would be mounted on a spike already, and Visenya wouldn’t blame him for it. But they had to compromise. <;<I know she doesn’t deserve our mercy, I mourn my sister and grandfather as you do. But it would gain us Vhagar, and Aemond himself is a skilled warrior, you saw it yourself>> A guttural hum was all the response Daemon gave her. He was a man of strong emotions.
<<How can you be sure he won’t turn his back>> This time it was Corlys who spoke, even the shadow to his wife, he had been a silent witness to their endless discussion and plans. <<Aemond believes himself more fit to sit the throne than his brother>> She began, looking at her grandfather in his eyes, <<thanks to our marriage he is now next in line>> Daemon kept huffing, and pacing around the table. He was a changed animal ready to strike. He was not meant to sit and discuss, to hold court and hear complaints. The Rogue Prince was a man of action, he needed to be on the field, commanding an army, or the city watch. He was not meant to rule, she decided. Aemond however was calmer, more calculated, he hardly took a decision without considering what was at stake. He did not always allow his emotions to rule his judgment, something that she was guilty of. <<He is in the way of Aegon’s path to the throne>> She simply explained.
—
For the last few minutes the only sounds around her were her own steps and the noise of Ser Edric’s armor. It was rather peaceful considering that they still were in a large castle where thousands of people lived and worked. As they passed the wooden door that led to the small path towards Balerion’s sandy beach she turned to the knight, with the intention of hearing his opinion on the situation that was about to unfold. The question died in her throat when she spotted the tall figure of Aemond nearing, he moved silently like a wraith, there was no way to know for sure how long he had been stalking her and the Queensguard. <<Husband>> Greeted Visenya, extending her arm for him to take, <;<my love>> replied him in that one sweet tone he used exclusively in public, when he was sure others could see them, <<I was wondering where my beautiful lady wife was escaping to>> he took her hand and kissed her knuckles, lowering his gaze to lock it in hers, <<I merely needed a break from the stress of the court. I wished to go for a walk on the sandy beaches below, your company would be most welcome, my husband>> Aemond hummed and intertwined their arms together in a rather possessive way. If she didn’t know any better she would say that her husband was becoming quite jealous of Ser Edric, she suffocated a laugh at the thought.
<<Ser Edric, you may go. Use this free time as it pleases you. I am safe in the arms of my husband>> The knight bowed and disappeared in the corridors of the keep, leaving a grin on the Prince’s face.
They walked in silence down the many steps that lead to the sandy beaches, above them the walls of the Red Keep stretched so high they seemed to touch the skies above.
This was one of the few truly peaceful places in the whole city, perhaps it was for this sole reason that Balerion claimed it as his nest. He was too large for the dragon pit, and even if he wasn’t, there was no being living on this word that could convince him to lay in chains there again.
Visenya debated on whether it truly was a good idea leading her husband down to meet her grumpy dragon. The bond they shared was deep, like one soul trapped in two different bodies, they felt each other’s emotions and knew the deepest parts of their souls, it was something beyond anyone’s ability to describe. Yet Balerion had his own mind, he was intelligent, he understood the word around him, what everyone said when he could hear the words, and most importantly he had his own character and temper. And she had learned a while back that if he chose to dislike someone, it was hard to convince him otherwise.
And she wasn’t sure he could like Aemond.
Visenya couldn’t know what her husband was thinking, what he was feeling, if the silence was welcomed by him, or if he found it embarrassing. Maybe he felt embarrassed that he couldn’t find any topics to speak with his own wife, or maybe he still disliked her and her family so much that he preferred not ever hearing her voice. Maybe he liked it only when she moaned his name in pleasure.
When the crackling sound of the sand beneath their feet reached their ears they both saw a glimpse of the large dragon curled and, apparently, sleeping. She felt Aemond’s pace growing slower, perhaps he thought that they would just walk by. When she kept walking in the dragon’s direction, and they came close enough to hear his heavy breaths she felt her arm being tugged, for Aemond had stopped. He was standing still, his one eye trained on the monstrous form of Balerion.
<<Do not tell me that you are scared, Aemond>> She felt equally pride and annoyance in that moment where she believed him scared, annoyance for she had found yet another grown man that lacked the courage to stand in front of the black dread, and pride because she was able to make Aemond feel exactly like Luke did. that night in Storm’s End when her now husband called for her brother’s eye.
Vixenya looked at her husband with a raised eyebrow, their arms still intertwined. Aemond moved a step, growling. He looked annoyed, offended even at the suggestion of his cowardice, in that moment she thought he looked less imposing.
Balerion moved, he uncoiled his neck and opened his bright, red eyes to look down at his rider and her husband. From his scarred scaly snout came a low growl the moment Aemond moved closer to Visenya, it intensified when the couple were once again inches apart. She saw Aemond swallow down, regaining his composure and keep walking towards Balerion. He stopped a few feet away from him, raising his head to better look at the monster in front of him.
Visenya grinned and followed the trail of her husband when she sensed Balerion curiosity towards him, <<the last time someone other than me had been this close to him>> she whispered into Aemond’s ear as her dragon’s head startet lowering at their level, <<was the day we came back to King’s Landing for the hearing on Driftmarks’ succession>> Visenya recalled that day as if it was yesterday. She remember the sheer feeling of hatred that came from her mount as they neared the dragon pit, <<one of the dragon keepers swung his staff in his face and tried to force him inside the pit>> Aemond turned his head slightly in her direction, so that he could see her with the corner of his good eye. Balerion huff came as strong as a gust of wind, the mention of the pit had annoyed him so that a low growl came from the bottom of his throat, <<the fool couldn’t finish his sentence for Balerion squished him under his paw like a bug. I had to pretend it was an accident>> Visenya had to stand on her tiptoes to be able to rest her chin on her husbands’ shoulder. She locked her eyes in her dragon’s, silently pleading him to stand still, not to act for once. She was relieved when she saw him relax, just quietly inspecting the new person she had brought in front of him. Of course she wouldn’t tell Aemond that Balerion had accepted the presence of Ser Edric, looked at him and allowed him to live next to her that night on Dragonstone. She found a sense of dark pleasure in making others feel helpless and weak, just as she had been made to feel in her youth.
<<Vhagar is a willful creature as well, quick to act at times>> He said after a long silence, Visenya extended her arm and touched Balerion’s scaly snout, it was warm, and huge, and covered in scars. She supposed they might be from the time when Maegor the cruel bid him kill his nephew’s dragons, or from the time he had disappeared for one entire year, only to reappear wounded and carrying an almost dead Aerea from gods know where.
<<He longs for battle>> She quietly said, she never had someone that truly understood, yes her father rode Caraxes, and her grandmother Maelys, both dragons older than their riders, but none had Balerion’s temperament. None were bred for war like he and Vhagar, and Meraxes once, had been. Grupy and easy to ire as they were, her family’s mounts could compare. <<He senses the unrest. He knows my mother’s peace won’t last, he wishes for war and I fear the day when it will finally comes>> Aemond understood her sentiment, she felt it in the way his body stiffened in front of her, in the way he once again turned to look at her with the corner of his one eye, never truly turning his attention away from the monster in front of him. <<I am not scared of battle>> She retorted sensing the question her husband was about to voice, <<I was at the Stepstones, I did order him to kill the triarchy’s soldiers>> Visenya remembered the gut wrenching smell of burning flesh in the air, the almost suffocating smell of smoke that filled her lungs every time they dived too close to the ground, the sound of Balerion and Caraxes’s throats when they breath their fires upon their victims, the feeling of power everytime she shouted the command, <<I felt nothing hearing their screams when he bathed them in flames, yes, the smell is foul, but other then that, nothing. But it was a game for him, hunting down the soldiers and killing them. A child’s play, and when it was over he grew annoyed and bored>> She had not talked about this with her father then, nor with Corlys before he was wounded, even when both men spent the night making sure she was not disturbed or scarred from the battles. She had only ever sat in front of her dragon asking him why, and he had always just huffed in response. How she wished he could talk.
<<I fear that if I lose myself to anger there will be nothing left to stop him when he chooses to kill and destroy>> Balerion had been born in Old Valyria, he was bred for war and destruction, it was the only thing he knew. It was a tragedy, after all, such an intelligent and marvelous creature, used and bred for war. In a way Vhagar had been too, she was a veteran of hundreds of battles, that is why she had brought Aemond down there, he understood what she was confessing to him better than anyone. Visenya knew he too felt it, his dragon’s urge for battle, her hunger for blood every time he allowed himself to be consumed by the flames of his rage, and how difficult it was at times to contain their fury.
She wanted Aemond to understand that if war came, they would not be asked to unleash their monsters on soldiers or armies, but on their family’s dragons.
Visenya focused on her husband’s steady breaths, on how his body inflated and deflated rhythmically, on how warm and firm his back felt. She slid her free hand on his other shoulder, <<help me avoid that>> she whispered in his ear. She felt Aemond’s shoulder muscles flex as he stretched his arm and placed his big calloused hand on Balerion’s snout.
—
When they reached the yard they were welcomed by a large crowd of people buzzing. She was used to the masses of spectators when the princes were sparring amongst themselves, all eager to get a glimpse of the royals, or merely to get an idea of the state of the family. If they truly despise one another as was whispered.
This time though it was different, every person present kept their voice low. She could hear the muffled sound of sparring, of blades meeting one another, but all of the presents were in religious silence. It felt like they had walked inside the great sept on Visenya’s hill rather than the courtyard of the Red Keep.
Visenya turned momentarily to look at Aemond’s face, he too looked confused. She saw him turn his head more rapidly than she thought anyone could when Daeron, his younger brother, came sprinting in their direction calling for his brother. <<It’s Aegon>> Aemond didn’t allow his brother to finish his sentence, he started dragging her towards the mass of people, pushing and making his way towards the center. Visenya felt his breath becoming more and more labored, he heard him curse his elder brother under his breaths, and the more they proceeded the more her stomach began to close. She briefly turned her sight back, to see Daeron following them closely as possible, a picture of worry and terror painted on his face.
The closer they got to the center of the crowd, the harder Aemond gripped her hand, and more anxious she became, for now she could clearly hear Aegon’s maniacal laugh. Her blood froze in realization. She took control of the situation then, freeing herself from Aemond’s grip and pushing everyone that stood between her and the two contestants with such force that more than one person fell to the ground.
When they passed the final row of people her body stilled, Aegon was charging at Luke again, but this time her little brother had only a half broken shield in hand while her uncle swung a morningstar at him, chipping away the useless piece of wood that stood between them.
<<Enough, Aegon>> Shouted the strong voice of her husband, his brother only laughed. Visenya looked around to the Queensguard making their way in the crowd, and with the corner of her eye she spotted Aemond picking up a training sword from the ground and striding towards his brother with the intention of stopping this madness.
He didn’t make it in time.
Visenya watched in horror as Luke lost his footing and hit the ground, shield falling from his hand. For a moment she thought Aegon would stop, that he only wished to scare Luke into submission, and maybe that was truly his intention, because when he realized that there wasn’t a shield to protect the younger boy, his face contorted in horror. Horror because it was too late to stop the swing, and this time Luke was just not fast enough to avoid the fatal blow that hit him.
The world stopped, everyone fell silent. She saw Aemond’s sword falling limp by his side, heard Daeron as he emptied the content of his stomach on the ground at his feet.
Visenya’s feet started to walk unconsciously, it felt like a lifetime, the time it took her to reach her brother.
With the corner of her eye she saw Aemond ripping the bloodied morningstar from Aegon’s hand, the man still standing in shock and horror, quite not grasping what he had just done. She heard her husband cursing, it was as if she had her head underwater, she knew it was his voice, she knew it was Aemond that grabbed his brother by the collar and cursed him and his depravity. She remembers feeling shocked at the idea of Aemond angered at the death of the boy who took his eye and scarred him for life.
Visenya kneeled and grabbed Luke’s body, she held close to her the still warm body of her little brother, the body she had rocked to sleep many times over. The boy that took his first flight on Arrax with her, and joked with when they realized that his tiny gray dragon could comfortably fit in Balerion’s maws.
She didn’t not know if she screamed, if she cried or sobbed, she only knew that she was holding her little brother as close as possible, she knew how disgusting it felt, the feel of his blood soaking her clothes. She remembered seeing her father’s face, shocked, out of breath making his way through the crowd, Darksister in hand, the Queensguard circling Aegon, Aemond standing at her right, still, silent, shocked. And then she remembered how the crowd parted, and the horrible scream of her mother, when she saw.
That awful sound brought Visenya back from her trance. She saw Rhaenyra collapsing at her side. Her hands shaking and outstretched towards her son, still lifeless in his sister’s arms. She saw Alicent Hightower, pale like a ghost, grabbing Aegon, who now had a red, puffy eye where someone had punched him, Aemond maybe?
And then she, and everyone in the yard, felt the very foundation of the castle shaking, when Balerion landed perched on the wall right behind her. She felt the growing flames of her anger growing and threatening to engulf her, and she felt him, feeding them.
Balerion placed one of his thumbs on her side, and leaned over. As he did so everyone retreated in horror, yet he simply sniffed and huffed, trying to understand what was causing his rider such pain.
She had always known that dragons were intelligent creatures, smart, and she wasn’t surprised when it took Balerion one glimpse at the discarded morningstar to understand who had caused that tiny boy’s death.
Visenya rolled her eyes to stare at Aegon through her eyebrows, she felt, more than saw, Balerion’s huge head move, he looked again at the lifeless body in her arms, then slowly at the bloody weapon at her uncle’s feet, and then slowly, scarily, raised his head to look straight at Aegon. He bared his teeth at him, each fang now longer than her father’s sword, the growl that escaped his throat sounded so terrifying that everyone started to run and scream. Turning the yard into a madhouse. She saw Aegon petrified in fear, the Queensguard retreating and circling her and her mother, as if the huge, furious dragon wasn’t enough protection.
Balerion moved again, with one sinuous movement of his neck he placed his head right above Aegon’s still frozen figure. Aemond must have sensed what was about to happen, because he fell to his knees and placed both hands on her shoulders, <<Visenya>> he said, his voice tainted with fear, <;<’Senya, stop him>> he kept trying to bring her to reason, yet Balerion opened his maws revealing the orange glimmer of flames forming down the pit of his throat. She felt like him, with the flames of her fury burning all the way up from her stomach. She felt as if she opened her mouth she could breathe fire too. Then she looked around at the people staring in horror at the scene, she felt her mother’s body grow rigid as she tried to stand up but failed, still too weak from the shock. She saw Aemond, helping her to his feet, in what was probably the first time the half sibling had been this close to one another. She saw her father, shaking his head, and then she decided that Aegon would meet his end another day, another time when she could make him feel just as broken as she was now.
<<Daor>> She said to Balerion, who reluctantly allowed for his fire to die in his throat. That didn’t stop him though from snapping his head down and forward and letting out the loudest, most terrible, roar she had ever heard. She saw a glimpse of Aegon falling to the ground and crawling back on his ass, as everyone in the yard started to scream and flee.
She closed her eyes praying that this was just a nightmare, that when she opened her eyes she would be in bed, Aemond sleeping next to her. But that wasn’t to be.
When Visenya opened her eyes the yard was empty save for the royal family, the Queensguard, and Balerion, still perched on the wall. <<Come with me>> Said the velvety voice of Aemond while trying to rise to her feet. She resisted for a moment, until she realized that the weight of her brother’s body was gone. She looked up to see that it was held by Daemon, who began to carry him inside, to the silent sisters she knew. Visenya allowed her husband to help her to her feet, she leaned over him, not trusting her own body to carry its weight. She turned for a second towards Balerion, who sniffed her, huffed and flew away, to calm his nerves, she knew.
<<Your mother needs you>> Said Aemond, his voice deprived of all emotions, <<but not in this state>> she looked down at herself. Her dress was covered in blood. Luke’s blood. It stank terrybly, and it was beginning to dry on the fabric and turning it hard and stiff.
Visenya allowed her husband to lead her inside, up the stairs and down the corridors towards the apartments they now shared. Ser Edric opened the doors for them, he remained in the room while Aemond took off her dress. The knight turned around to avoid seeing anything inappropriate, but he never left, he called for hot water when Aemond ordered him to do so, and stayed there when her husband helped her inside the bath, and when he silently and diligently scrubbed every inch of her skin from Luke’s blood.
Neither men said anything, all too aware of the situation. Visenya just layed there in the bath, being washed like a child, deprived of all strength and emotion as the knowledge of what happened set in.
Taglist: @hawsx3, @readsalot73 @tempt-ress @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @arignipanja574 @scaraxmouche @softyelfdragon @whore-of-many-hot-men
If you wish to be added to the taglist, and notified as soon as I post any update, please comment!
#aemond targaryen fanfiction#aemond targaryen x targaryen!reader#aemond targaryen x velaryon!reader#aemond targaryen x strong!reader#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond targaryen smut#aemond vs lucerys#aemond x y/n#aemond targaryen x fem!oc#aemond targaryen x oc#aemond x fem!reader#aemond x visenya#aemond fanfiction#aemond one eye#ewan mitchell x reader#ewan mitchell#aemond targaryen one shot#aemond targaryen angst#aemond targaryen x you#aemond targaryen x helaena targaryen#aemond targaryen x ofc#aemond targaryen support squad#aemond targaryen scenarios#aemond targaryen#prince aemond#aemond#house of the dragon aemond#aemond x oc#aemond x alys#aemond x helaena
190 notes
·
View notes
Text
Moonless, Dark Night. Pt. 5
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC!Strong (half Targaryen)
Words: 4.4k+
Warnings: Violence and Graphic Descriptions, Emotional Distress, Mature (ish) themes, Mentions of Self-Harm and Su*cide, Adult Language, Incest.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 6
Part 7
Sansa had been prepared for bed by her handmaids, her tight plaits now let free, combed through even the slightest tanglement. Her face had been washed thoroughly, her eyes widening at the invisible dirt melting off her face like a thick layer of it engendered another. She was slipped into a flowy, modest slip to sleep into, the Queen having made additions and deductions from her wardrobe as per her own desire right before Sansa's sixteenth nameday. “You’re a woman grown, your wardrobe must reflect that.”
The Queen had come into her bedchamber right after supper that evening, “My cousin has taken a keen liking to you, sweet one.” She held Sansa’s hands in hers, beaming at her, “It is such an honour to think that you will be related to me so intimately.”
“Your Grace, it makes me the most happy, as well.” She wanted to be gentle in her qualms. “I admire Lord Hightower, so very much.” She chose to resort to reservation rather surreptitiously.
“That is incredible. I am sure he shall make a proposition before he leaves. This week went by so very fast.” The Queen seemed in positive spirits, her smile unconstrained, her words rolling off her tongue in quick successions. When the Queen retired and her ladies took off for their own slumber, Sansa waited. By the time it was the hour of the eel, everyone would be in their bedchambers for good. Sansa decided that it would be wise to wait until then.
Despite lethargy, she wore a cloak and secured the tie underneath her chin before taking off. She walked in bare feet, so as not to produce unsolicited noise. She was passing through Aegon’s bedchamber, expecting to hear the cries or moans of a woman or of Aegon himself along the way. Instead, she heard the voices of two men, cajoling among themselves drunkenly. It hit her then that Aemond was with his brother that night.
She considered the odds of alerting Aemond of his mother’s tactics. There was truth to the fact that it was Aegon who was more critical of the Queen than Aemond was, thus, perhaps it would be best to reveal the findings before Aegon, who can provide his support in the matter.
She rapped gently on the door, the boys growing significantly quiet. Aegon’s voice spoke from the other side, struggling to sound uninebriated. “Who is this? Mother?”
Sansa rolled her eyes, these boys were more scared of their mother than anyone she’d ever known. “It’s me, Aegon, Sansa.” She could hear their huffs of relief before Aegon opened the door, very slightly, pulling her inside. “Ah, Lady Paramount Sansa Hightower is here. Rejoice!” Aemond chided, a bottle of ale in his hand that spilled as he raised both his arms, before chugging down a mouthful of it.
“Hello Aemond,” she began, ensuring that her annoyance did not reflect in her speech, “We must speak-”
“Why Sansa? Please, say ‘Hello’ to me as well. Hello Sansa!” Aegon drunkenly put his arm around her neck, his breath stinking terribly.
“Hello Aegon.” She muttered hurriedly, “Aemond, we must speak.”
“Must we, Lady Hightower?” Aemond got up from his place in the bed, carefully walking up to her.
“Can you stop with your jests for just one moment?” Sansa had begun to lose her patience, “Please, be serious, we have been taken for fools.”
“Alright, alright,” Aemond set the bottle down, “Tell.”
“When did the Queen tell you of my betrothal to Lord Ormund?” Sansa looked into his wandering, wavering eye.
“How would I know? One morning, she excused me from training and told me that you had given up on marrying me for the Lord of Oldtown and that I should seek matrimony elsewhere.”
“Is that the day you met me in Goodswood, when I congratulated you for yours?” She held onto his elbow, shaking him gently, as if she could shake out the answers from him.
“Yes, she had told me of yours, then told you of mine so quick, I was so surprised!” his words stumbled upon each other, but he seemed to be becoming more alert.
“Save for the fact that she had told me of your betrothal a week earlier that day, two fortnights before the joust.” Sansa couldn’t help but smile a little, she had figured out what the Queen had done. It was so simple, yet so clever.
“What do you mean?”
“I am yet to be betrothed to Lord Ormund. We are merely courting, yet somehow you were under the impression that I was sworn to him.”
“Because, Mother told me so. You never objected–” By then, Aemond had sobered up almost entirely, his form straightened and in attention.
“I thought you were being childish about the idea I could consider being wed to somebody else despite your own betrothal elsewhere-”
“So, you think I am shallow and inconsiderate?”
“How would I know when we haven’t had a proper conversation in years?” Aemond grew quiet for a moment, before responding that he had been busy.
“Aemond needs to let go. Taking your Princely responsibilities so ardently and abiding by them is so boring!” Aegon whined, unhappy with his bottle being empty.
“Your peevish nature sometimes makes me forget that it is not I, but you, that the crown belongs to.”
“The crown belongs to Rhaenyra.” Sansa and Aegon spoke in unison, taken aback at the supposed drunken error, “Brother, you’ve had too much to drink, a bit too much!” Aegon slurred.
Aemond shook his head before speaking next, “Did you give Mother an impression that you desire to be wed to him?”
“When she came to my bedchamber to speak of it after supper tonight, I did not say anything that could indicate my reluctance. However, I do not think she can claim, with any veracity, that I have ever agreed upon the betrothal.”
Aemond walked away from Sansa, engulfed in thoughts, “Why would they lie to me?” Aemond muttered, “Grandfather is keen on you, I always thought that our getting wed when of age was given. Which is why I was so taken aback when she told me that you had expressed a special interest regarding Ormund upon finding out of his lady wife’s passing.”
Sansa’s jaw fell in half-surprise, half-disgust, “I have never, for once, mentioned any sentiment of the sort.”
“Mother can be a bit of a liar at times, in all honesty. It’s fine, though, because she means well.” Aegon spoke up again, rolling around in bed.
Aemond whipped his head back toward Sansa, “Are you sure? Why would she lie so blatantly?”
“Aemond, your mother did not want us to be wed, that is precisely why. How can you be so dense…” Sansa strolled all over the place, “Let me think now.”
Aemond watched her pace back and forth, her brows furrowed in concentration. Aegon had drunk up whatever booze was remaining, dozing off into slumber.
“Do you think you can convince Ormund that Cassandra is a better candidate for the Lady Paramount of Hightower than I am?”
“I barely speak to him, he thinks and talks like a medieval man. So shortsighted.” Aemond spat.
“This is serious, Aemond-”
“I am serious, Sansa.” Aemond says solemnly, “I’ve always thought that you and I were to be wed, no matter what. I want this.”
“Do you want me, or are you just accustomed to the idea of me?” Sansa stood before him, looking him in the eyes.
Aemond laughed, “I have already said yes to the betrothal, and I am ready to retrieve my consent upon the knowledge that you haven’t agreed to your betrothal. You have not renewed your vow or desire to be wed to me, but I want to be free of any liabilities just so that I have the privilege to be considered by you." He took a step toward her, closer, she could touch him, she thinks. "How else do I prove to you that I want you, above all certainties and comforts? If anything, I should be asking you if you truly want me.”
Sansa’s eyes soften, her lips curling into a small smile, “When have I not?” She finally touched his face with her fingers, gently such as not to stir anything in him, before retracting her hand and walking away from him, staring out the large window, “I could try to convince Cassandra that being wed to the Lord of Oldtown is more advantageous than being wed to a second son, even if he's a Prince. She is probably under the assumption that she will be regarded as a Princess, I could clear that misconception.” She spoke more to herself than Aemond, deducing ways that could make Cassandra reconsider.
“... I could tell Ormund that you’re not the kind to sit back and watch him run things however he desires? That you desire to make inputs in subjects not exclusively homely? I could not imagine you being stuck with tending to children and the household only.”
“Neither could I…” Sansa whispered, “I think we can go down this path. And, in all honesty, Cassandra would shine in Oldtown as Lady Hightower.”
“You like her very much, I see.” Aemond mused, and Sansa agreed. She had indeed taken a liking to Cassandra.
—
Sansa greeted Cassandra a very good morning during breakfast, sitting beside her as she prepared for her meal. “May we go for a walk after this?” Cassandra nodded, seeming pleased with the positive attention.
Afterward, the ladies walked hand in hand through the Godswood. “I enjoyed our chat so much yesterday, I had to steal you before the Queen came down upon you!” Sansa joked, smiling at Cassandra warmly.
“I am glad, I have always wanted your accompaniment, but I was so scared that you’d take advantage of my supposed naivety and steal the Prince under my nose!”
Sansa laughed, “I bored of the Prince before you even arrived, truth be told, Lady Cass. He may be the Prince, but it’s rather pointless!”
“Pointless? How come?” Cassandra tugged onto Sansa’s sleeve, “My father told me to never return to Storm’s End unless I secure this betrothal!”
“I understand where your father comes from. Although, my father and my brother have always been of different opinions.” Sansa waited for Cassandra to pay special attention to that remark before continuing, “They told me to abandon the idea of marrying a mere Prince, saying it leaves little to gain. He stands to inherit nothing, you see. If I marry a mere Targaryen Prince like him, his children will not be allowed, or encouraged, to claim dragons. They will be groomed to be married to High Lords and Ladies to further strengthen political alliances. Their marriages will lead them beyond the Red Keep, their royal status only perfunctory. Look at Prince Daemon, he was wed to Rhea Royce against his will. Surely, he now is married to the heir of the throne, the woman he truly loved, but he had to kill his first lady wife to get there.” Sansa’s voice dipped down octaves as he spoke of Daemon’s rumour with caution, Cassandra’s eyebrows went through the roof.
“Is there truth to it, Lady Sansa?” Cassandra quietly whispered in her ear, “I always thought it was a crass rumour.”
“Well, my mother was the bastard of Prince Baelon of Dragonstone and Princess Viserra, Targaryen still, of course. Prince Daemon was my mother’s half brother and cousin, and she did not completely disbelieve the possibility.” Sansa drew out a large sigh from the pit of her stomach, “You see, we are Valyrians by blood. We’re very tenacious and ambitious, brutal when the need arises. The second sons in our bloodline tend to feel rather thwarted and channel their frustrations for not being allowed the opportunity to prove their worth the way their older counterparts are.”
“Prince Aemond is in love with you, is he not?” Cassandra asked, “And now, he’s being made to marry me…”
“Oh Lady Cass,” Sansa turned to the girl and gently held her arms. “You fear needlessly, I am sure the One-Eyed Prince will warm up to you. He must. You’re lovely, vibrant, and so very striking!” She put a hand on the woman’s waist gently, “Had I a waist like yours, I’d never bat an eye at the Prince.”
“You jest too much, Lady Strong!” The girl laughed in embarrassment. Sansa turned forward, resuming their stroll. She could tell that Cassandra was staring at Sansa, trying to ascertain whether it was safe to speak to the woman.
“What a lovely weather we are having–”
“So, was it your brother’s insistence that you marry Lord Hightower?” Sansa cheered internally; she had struck the chord.
“Well, my father wanted me to marry into the House Hightower, but he could not propose a betrothal as I was much younger. That wouldn’t have been an issue, either, if the King was not SO insistent about my being wed to Aemond. The King is sickly now and the Queen is also looking toward creating more alliances, where you and Aemond come into the picture, of course. So, my brother took up the opportunity and secured my betrothal to Lord Hightower. Not only will I be Lady Hightower, I will also be wed to one of the wealthiest men in all of Westeros. Oldtown has such a rich culture, brother thinks I am well educated enough for it.”
“That sounds lovely. I am happy for you, Lady Sansa.” Cassandra smiled at Sansa warmly.
“However, there is one thing I am fearful of.”
“What’s that?” She knew she had Cassandra’s attention.
“He is, apparently, easily seduced…” Sansa had thrown the arrow in total darkness, “It would vex me to know he’s bedding other women. They say he is incredibly skilled in the arts of lovemaking, more so than the one-eyed Prince,” At that, she raised her eyebrows at Cassandra, with a churlish grin, “So, women flock to him. And he appeases them well.”
Cassandra seemed intrigued, “I find it acceptable. I don’t think we can ever be in peace without having the autonomy to fuck whomever we desire!” She looked at Sansa, “Please, excuse my crassness!”
“Oh no, I welcome it!” Sansa smiled to herself, “I honestly wish I was more like you, a free-thinker in so many ways. Then, perhaps, I’d be more suited to Lord Hightower. But again, what is marriage but duty?”
Cassandra spoke no more of the matter with Sansa, and Sansa hoped arduously that she had done what she intended upon.
–
Later that evening, right before supper, Sansa and Aemond met up in Helaena’s bedchamber. They’d assemble there often and trivial conversations would fill up the room as they kept the children company. That particular evening, the conversation was riveting and lively. So much so that Aegon had excused himself from tavern-visits and giddily taken part in the arrangement.
“So, what have you two menaces cooked up, might I ask?”
Aemond cast his brother a callous look, “We have done our parts, I’ve spoken to Ormund and she to Lady Cass.”
“Oh, Lady Cass, she is to you! How interesting, after all, her being your betrothed is evident.”
“Must you?”
“Must I what, say yes to the first betrothal proposed to me? For you certainly did!” Sansa could not help but laugh at the effect her ceaseless jests had on the Prince. She missed this connection with him.
“Ah, you tease so well, Sansa. Aemond’s surely lucky!” Aegon’s eyes trailed Sansa’s back before flicking off to Aemond. Aemond glared at his brother.
“Squabbling like children is so pointless. Sansa, you mustn’t say yes to anybody but Aemond. I want you to always be my sister.” Helaena smiled gently. Maelor was on her lap, while Jaehaerys and Jaehaera played among themselves on the other side of the bed. It was a peaceful, lovely evening, the air was cool and soothing upon the skin.
“Is there anything else that we can do?” Aemond folded his arms, leaning backward.
“We could start by writing three separate notes, but it’d have to be shrewdly done.” Sansa suggested, her eyes fleeting to Aegon, hoping that his natural inclination toward mischief might help him get a grip on what she purported. Aegon smiled back at her.
“What? What do you mean?” Aemond looked hapless, changing looks with Helaena, who frowned confusedly.
Sansa walked up to the desk by the window, where Helaena’s parchments and quills rested. Aegon joined her and they spoke among themselves, sniggering as they composed three distinct notes. Sansa wrote one, Aegon wrote the other. The third one, they got Helaena to write for them.
Aemond now walked up to the desk themselves after settling the kids in the middle of the bed, little Maelor in his arms. “You might as well include me in this conspiracy now.”
“Brother feels left out.”
“Shut up, Aegon.”
After the ink on the scraps of papers had dried, Sansa handed them to Aemond. Aemond’s jaw fell at the content, he looked at Sansa and Aegon the way the Queen would look at them when they were much younger, causing mischief.
“They say you’re superior in bed. Might I want to know?
You know where I lay, might you want to grow?
I shall wait in hopes to see your face,
We shan’t speak of it, get drunk in embrace.”
“Your neck as long as the swan’s
That I admired in the dark.
As a boy still tending to his needs,
I want your quiet mouth, by the little river, to take my seeds.”
“Dearest Queen, you might want to pay Lady Baratheon a visit at the hour of the eel. The woman who is to bear your son's heirs may pass bastardly seeds as his.”
“Are you suggesting that we send these to-”
“Lord Ormund, Lady Cass, and the Queen herself, respectively.” Sansa clarified.
“Quite the work of genius, aren’t these?” Aegon chirped in. Helaena nodded delightfully, Aegon swooned and hugged his wife's side, burying his face in the crook of her neck. She giggled.
Aemond stared at the notes for a whole five minutes, wordlessly reading through the words. “So, what do you think?” Sansa asked him, growing impatient.
“First, tell me,” He began, “What RIVER?”
“Don’t you know? Lady Cass has a basin full of water in her balcony, accommodating small fish in it. She calls the basin her little river.” Sansa stared at him incredulously before continuing, “You see, in the first note, Lady Cass expresses her desire to lay with him, suggests waiting for him so that he takes the cue and arrives. In the second note, Lord Ormund expresses his desire to meet her by “her river”. And in the third, some person loyal to the House Targaryen has decided to let the Queen know of the ongoing affair.”
Aemond stared at her agape, her smile too sanguine for his taste. When he looked toward his siblings, his skin crawled at the realisation that they both mirrored Sansa. “This is too fanciful. I don’t think they’d buy this. Also, how about your handwriting?”
“First of all, I wrote differently than I usually would, it’s my late Mother’s handwriting. Aegon’s is made up as well and he swears by the fact that no one shall ever know. And, no one will ever suspect our purest, dearest Helaena.” Sansa reassures, “Listen Aemond, you and I have planted the necessary seeds in the hearts of those two. Have you not told Lord Ormund that Lady Cass is rather amenable and the kind to never object to his will? Whereas I am the complete opposite, the kind one might even dub as ‘nuisance’?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Did you tell him that Lady Cass is… skilled?”
“He could not bring himself to,” Aegon interjected, “So, I said that she is bendy.” Helaena gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “She seems like it!”
Aemond sighed heavily, “And how about Mother?”
“She might want to shrug it off, but we all know, she won’t.” Sansa spoke with such fervour and elation that Aemond did not have the heart to resist.
“This seems very silly, but if the three of you think it could work, I’m surely outnumbered.” He forfeited faster than he ever had.
“This is the least we can do, brother.” Aegon shrugged, “I am willing to risk more to keep Sansa with us. It’d surely be awful without her here.”
Sansa smiled at Aegon, “We must do this more often.”
“I have spare gold dragons we can use to bribe the maids here. They shan’t speak a word of what has truly transpired, as long as it’s us doing it.” Helaena assured with a huge grin on her face. The rest of them marvelled at Helaena’s rarely seen fiendish nature and broke into jubilant laughter.
–
The next morning, Sansa was awoken early by her handmaids. “The Queen wants to see you, Lady Strong, your brother is also present.” Sansa’s heart beat wildly against her chest as she got dressed in a beautiful blue cloak. Her hair was slightly brushed through, her ladies rushing to get her to the council room, so as not to enrage the Queen any further. Lydia, the only maid of Sansa who knew of whatever had transpired the night before, had gone pale in the face. Sansa put a reassuring hand on her shoulder before they raced their way to the council chamber.
When she arrived, she found Aemond and Aegon present as well. They were standing before the Queen, the Hand, and Larys Strong, their backs straight and hands folded in servitude.
“A very happy morn to you, lady Strong. Come, join your cousins.” The Hand spoke, motioning Sansa to assume position. She followed suit, not sparing Aemond or Aegon a glance. The Queen was standing at the head of the large table, the Hand strolled back and forth behind her. The Master of Whisperers sat on one of the chairs, his chin rested upon his hands, in support of his cane.
The Queen looked at Lord Strong, who reciprocated her solemnity. She then looked at the Hand behind her, meeting his eyes. He conveyed nothing in his face, which was scarier than if he were outright angry. Lord Strong stared at the three, as if studying them. “Three pairs of startling violet eyes.” He began, “Do we even know how to tend to wild dragons, your Grace?” His eyes turned to the Queen.
The Queen audibly sighed. The Hand remained awfully quiet. He walked for so long, back and forth and back and forth, that Sansa felt dizzy. After quite a while, perhaps when Aegon’s stomach made a guttural voice due to hunger, the Hand cleared his throat and stood beside his daughter.
The Queen looked at both the men on her both sides, who quietly gave her their consent. She closed her eyes, sighing deeply again, before starting, “We know what you’ve done.” The three of them stood quietly, not daring to utter a single word. “Did you really think that we would fall for such artifice?”
The three of them remained so quiet that they could hear a feather drop. “Your Queen demands an answer.” The Hand spoke.
“Mother,” Aegon began, “We were not sure what else to do.”
“Why not seek counsel with your own mother instead of contriving such a grave farce?” The Queen spoke exasperatedly.
“Because, Mother, we felt like we were being made to agree to betrothals under notions that were not entirely true.” Aemond finally spoke, his voice stern, “You told me Sansa had agreed to a betrothal with Ormund despite her never having verbally provided her consent. You told Sansa that mine was also confirmed, two fortnights before our grand joust, when you hadn’t even brought it up with me.”
The Queen swallowed hard, the Hand having averted his eyes away from the three of them. Lord Strong sat in his place, seemingly unaffected by the discourse. “We thought it’d be wise for both of you to consider other options.” The Hand spoke, “We were under the impression that you’d come to us directly to express your desire to only be wed to each other if your prospective betrothals did not look up for you.”
“That might apply for Sansa. However, Lady Baratheon has been here for half a year and I have not expressed any intention of being wed to her, not for once. I cannot fathom why you’d take up the trouble to contort facts.”
The Queen could not meet her son in the eyes, hesitating to speak any further at all. “I am glad, at least, that you could contrive a legitimate evidence to support your conspiracy. They were found in such dire state together, there was no way we could proceed as we had planned earlier. The betrothals are off. We have sent a raven to the Baratheons and asked them to host Lord Hightower, to see if they can come to amenable arrangements. Both of them seemed happy with the conclusion we drew, as long as they’re not being outed for their lewd actions to other noble houses and the Septon.”
“I have sent a small gift to the Baratheons, so we shall be alright on that matter. They shall surely be appeased.” Lord Strong reassured the children.
“Marrying a Lord mayn’t equate to marrying a Prince. Lord Baratheon will feel thwarted, of course. But, we have proposed an engagement between Daeron and one of his other daughters,” The Hand looked at the Queen and Lord Strong with a smile, “He’s produced plenty of them. I believe we’ve laid our terms well. His elder daughter, Lady Hightower. His younger daughter, Lady Princess. And, our small gift.”
“Thank you, Grandfather.” Aemond cocked his head toward the Hand in respect.
“I apologise for the part I played in this. I just, I don’t want to leave. I’ve never wanted to leave here.” She took a step forward, “And I truly respect and admire Aemond.” She continued, fearing her words would come across as too shallow, “I haven’t known a man so unyielding and dedicated. I would not know what to do without him.” She looked down to the ground, abashedly and inwardly kicking herself.
“I feel the same way about Sansa, Mother, most ardently.” Aemond spoke from behind her, and she could feel all of them looking at her, save Aemond, who looked his mother in the eyes.
The Queen sighed, taking both of Sansa’s hands, “I see no fault in the matter then. We must start with the arrangements right away.”
#game of thrones#hotd fanfic#house of the dragon fanfic#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen imagines#aemond targaryen x oc#aemond targaryen smut#aemond targaryen x strong!reader#aemond targaryen x cousin!reader#aemond one eye#aemond the kinslayer#hotd imagine#aemond fanfiction#hotd aemond#aemond x reader
43 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Good Queen
(Gif not mine)
Fandom: House of the Dragon
Pairing(s): Viserys Targaryen x Fem!Reader, Alicent Hightower x Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen, Harwin Strong x Alicent Hightower, Harwin Strong x Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen x Alicent Hightower, Daemon Targaryen x Harwin Strong (I won’t apologize for everyone being gay for each other)
Tag: hotd the good queen
Warning: Fluff. Happy ending. No one dies (except Aemma, sorry love) and everyone lives. Age gaps. No feud. No greens or blacks. Slight gore.
Word Count: 3,901
Summary: The King must choose a new wife, and Alicent’s older sister, Y/n Hightower, is a suitable choice and a perfect match. For once, Viserys makes a decision that benefits everyone and upsets little few. The Seven Kingdoms are better for it.
Author’s Note: Not a request. Oddly enough, plenty request Otto imagines but never King Viserys. I thought I'd give it a try since I had an idea. But to be honest, Viserys x Reader are sort of background pairing/onlookers of this.
(I do not consent my works to be reposted/copied)
It was the most logical choice to pick the eldest daughter of Otto Hightower. It was also all part of Lady Y/n’s plan. After the death of her mother, she had become the guardian figure her younger sister, Alicent, truly needed in her time of grief and loneliness. Older and far more mature in beauty and wisdom, The Lady Y/n Hightower was determined to still give Alicent whatever was left of her childhood and did everything in her power to make her little sister feel loved and accepted. So if there were whispers regarding Alicent, Y/n likely knew about it. One night, her handmaid came into her room and warned her of whispers involving her little sister and the King. The maid spoke of Lord Otto placing Alicent where Viserys could see her after the death of the late Queen Aemma, and Y/n was beyond disgusted and furious.
However, instead of confronting her father, Y/n went behind his back and also placed herself where Viserys could see her. While she couldn’t stop Alicent from seeing the King at night without raising suspicion, she did, however, visited the King between meals and even ask Princess Rhaenyra if she could attend the Small Council meetings to act as another cupbearer. Rhaenyra, excited with the prospect of another woman being a part of the meetings, accepted the proposal. Y/n made sure to fill Viserys’ cup modestly and had even accompanied him in the royal gardens a time or two after that. It didn’t take much effort before he announced to his small council his engagement to her. Rhaenyra, sad but relieved her father found another wife, gladly welcomed Y/n into the family with open arms and was even more excited at the idea of Alicent being ever closer to being a part of her family.
The Hand of the King, however, was less than happy and voiced how displeased he was of her when finding time alone with his eldest daughter, “What have you done?”
“Done?” Y/n questioned from her vanity mirror, removing her earrings after a long day of the people of the court congratulating her.
“He was supposed to marry your sister.”
“Why would he want Alicent, Father?” Y/n tilted her head innocently at the reflection of Otto standing at a distance behind her, “She’s but a child.”
“In the gods' eyes, she is a woman grown.”
“So am I. I am the eldest, so why must she be married off first?”
“She’s the most comely lady in court.”
“If you think me ugly, Father,” she snarled, finally standing up and turning to face her father head-on, “Just say it and be done with it.”
“I had wished to marry you off to your cousin.”
“Ormund is Heir to Oldtown. Surely my uncle would want a better match for him to ally another large house to ours instead of within our own family. You’re a political man. Try to be smarter than the second son desperate for power.”
The insult strained their relationship if it hadn’t been strained already. Lord Otto barely spoke to his eldest daughter after that unless common courtesy compels him to do so, like complimenting her wedding dress before he gave her away to Viserys. Y/n may not have felt love when the King kissed her with the promise of affection and commitment, but she felt relief. Upon watching the way Alicent danced and laughed during the feast that night, entirely unaware and still innocent of childhood, Y/n knew she made the right decision.
It wasn’t long before Y/n was pregnant then the world as she knew it imploded with excitement. The maesters, after tending to all of the former Queen Aemma’s sickly pregnancies, were astonished to see Y/n flourish in quite the opposite direction. In a strange way, she was excited to be a mother, and practically raising Rhaenyra and Alicent helped with that dream.
At first hesitant, the princess grew to love Y/n as her stepmother, especially since the new Queen was her best friend’s sister. Even though Y/n was rumored to be carrying a son inside of her, Rhaenyra tried not to openly worry for her sake. She may be Viserys’ shiny new heir, but the idea of Queen Y/n having a son bothered Rhaenyra, even though Y/n tried easing her worries with the promise of always openly advocating for the princess’ right to the throne. This aggravated Lord Otto for obvious reasons. After Aegon was born, the Hand tried reaffirming his position over his daughter in order to persuade her into raising Aegon as the future king. In return, he got a stone wall, unmoveable even in the strongest of storms.
“You may be the Hand of the King,” Y/n had sneered at her father one night in the safety of her chambers, “But I am the wife to the King. I am the Queen.”
And with his daughter as Queen, Lord Otto found himself in lesser power than when she was just a lady of the court. With her baby boy on her hip, Queen Y/n attended many Small Council meetings, shameless at the stares of men around her when she took her seat next to Viserys, stealing the spot away from his Hand. Over some time, Y/n became to lean towards Rhaenyra when the princess poured her wine and offered small treats to her little half-brother. With the proper influence, Y/n had also convinced Viserys to grant his daughter a seat at the table, no longer a cupbearer. Y/n then happily stepped aside and let Rhaenyra sit next to her father while the Queen sat next to her own. By then, Lord Otto never felt further away from the King, physically and cognitively.
Even less so when his younger daughter was married off under his own nose. Like a carpet pulled underneath him, Lord Otto was forced to walk Alicent down the aisle and be handed off to her new husband, Harwin “Breakbones” Strong. Some wonder who could have ever picked out such a perfect match, while others looked no further than the Queen herself. With her father’s pawns now swiftly taken from him, Lord Otto begrudgingly asked King Viserys for his blessing to resign. Although shocked, Viserys only had to look to his wife before granting his Hand a dismissal.
Tail between his legs, Otto Hightower left for Oldtown, never to return to King’s Landing, even when his daughters produced him grandchildren. In his place, Lord Lyonel Strong was named Hand of the King and he was a better-suited friend to the throne, and most importantly, an ally to his Queen.
Queen Y/n was a busy woman, even while pregnant. Especially while pregnant. She couldn’t afford anyone trying to take away her power and influence when she was knocked down and so she was constantly on the move, no matter how round she got. Her daughter, Helaena, came quicker than Aegon, and so the Red Keep was filled with delight at the announcement of a new princess soon to roam the halls. Rhaenyra was delighted. She was spotted trying to teach the baby girl how to walk, letting her little sister hang onto her hands and trot over her own feet. Alicent was already a proud aunt, but she doted on Helaena much like Y/n used to dote on her own younger sister. It seems as though the Queen had been quite the influence between Rhaenyra and Alicent, both now fully grown, beautiful and proud.
If Alicent was missing her father, she never showed it. Instead, she spent her time excited when she learned she would soon be a mother herself. Watching Y/n raise her children, Alicent had grown to wish to be just like her sister one day. Harwin was kind to his young wife and understood his place in her heart must be shared with the people around her. He knew Alicent loved her sister, the Queen. He knew she loved her niece, Helaena, and nephew, Aegon, and above all, he knew she loved the Princess Rhaenyra. Harwin couldn’t blame Alicent. Harwin had grown to love her, too.
Y/n and Alicent were soon pregnant together, and it felt as though the Seven Kingdoms could not have had a more beautiful, plentiful summer that year. Everyone was happy, whether of the royal family growing or from the prospect of the harvest. Most of King’s Landing was always celebrating and most stomachs were full and warm. With the Queen and her sister expecting, the castle was alive with happiness and love.
However, Y/n knew there was one individual who was internally unhappy. She was no fool. The Queen saw the way Rhaenyra looked at Alicent and the way Alicent looked at Rhaenyra. Surely, Alicent’s unborn child sparked a deep-dwelling of sadness within Rhaenyra, longing still evident in her eyes. Eventually, Y/n saw the way Ser Harwin stared after the princess as well and knew that something had to be done. She wouldn’t dare dream of separating the three, but she knew that Rhaenyra had to marry soon or who knows what sort of rumors might blossom should someone else notice the tension between the princess, Alicent, and Harwin. Rhaenyra needed a husband, despite the princess making it difficult to find a suitor. Y/n knew where to look, but unlike the other times, it would take a lot more effort to convince the King of this match.
“No,” Viserys smiled, despite the clouds looming overhead, “Absolutely not. Daemon is not worthy of my daughter.”
“If you could have your way, no one would be worthy of her,” Y/n sighed, briefly smiling at her husband while rounding the Small Council’s table towards him, her hand brushing over the surface. They were alone at the moment, waiting for the other members to join them, “But she is your heir, and she’s no longer a child. She is unwed, and last I heard, Daemon had recently lost his wife, Lady Royce. As I understand it, their marriage was left unconsummated.”
“Others will look to him to be King, instead of Rhaenyra their Queen,” Viserys retorted.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Not everyone will be happy, no matter what decision you make, Your Grace.”
She reaches the King, her hands finding purchase on his shoulders as she crossed to stand behind him, rubbing his aging shoulders and physically feeling his body slowly uncoil and relax. Viserys sighs, long and exhausted, his fingers rising to rub his eyes, but instead reach further back and clasp Y/n’s hand instead. She squeezes his hand encouragingly, while Viserys still looked hesitant and forlorn, “He’s not worthy of her...”
“No,” Y/n leans down and kissed the top of his head, “But he does love her. And I think she loves him, too. They are dragons, Viserys, and your kin. Your house sigil requires three dragon heads. If Rhaenyra is to be Queen someday, then she will need heirs of her own. She’ll need dragons. This marriage proposal is not an unheard-of custom, especially for a Targaryen. This alliance will keep your legacy strong long after you and I are gone, and your reign over Westeros will remain peaceful long after Rhaenyra has passed on.”
The Small Council meets that evening, and Viserys announces Daemon and Rhaenyra’s engagement. For supper, that night, King Viserys and Queen Y/n sit beside Rhaenyra and invite the children and Harwin and Alicent along for the celebration as well. Rhaenyra’s eyes sparkled again for the first time in a while, and if Y/n noticed the tight grip her stepdaughter had on her hand, she didn’t comment.
Thankfully, Daemon was on board with this proposal and made no fuss when he was summoned to King’s Landing. Both he and Rhaenyra were married by the end of seven, long days of festivities. The newlyweds decided to temporarily part for Dragonstone, but both rushed back on their dragons when they received word of Queen Y/n and Lady Alicent both going into labor.
Aemond was a difficult delivery, but Y/n was, as always, overjoyed to have the infant brought into her arms. Down the hall, not long after Aemond was born, the Queen could hear a different cry coming out of her sister’s room.
Alicent birthed a son, Jacerys Strong. The whole kingdom rejoiced over their new prince and little lord. Many spoke about the bond the two would share growing up and strengthening the alliance between House Targaryen and House Strong. Lifelong friends were born that day, and Y/n could not wait to raise her children alongside her sisters'.
Rhaenyra quickly became pregnant as well, and by this time, Y/n had noticed the way Rhaenyra and Alicent hold onto each other as they roam the gardens, both of their husbands following them in tow. The Queen doesn’t miss the way the four often spend most of their time together, day and night. Sometimes, Y/n feels as though she’s intruding when watching them all interact. Rhaenyra and Alicent are usually glued to each other’s side, but if not, sometimes Y/n noticed Daemon accompanying Alicent and Harwin attending to Rhaenyra. There are times when even all three are attending to the princess as her stomach slowly grows. Now that she noticed this, Queen Y/n noticed other things as well, like how intense those training sessions between Daemon and Harwin can be.
For the most part, Y/n turns a blind eye and makes no complaint. She doesn’t say a word to Viserys, but she’s seen the way the King watches his daughter with her... group of confidants, and part of Y/n wonders if her husband sees it, too. Perhaps she is not the only one turning a blind eye in order to see Rhaenyra happy with the family her father always wanted her contented with.
Daemon and Rhaenyra’s firstborn is also named Aegon, nicknamed the Younger. Aegon the Elder was delighted when Rhaenyra confessed she named her child after her brother more so than the Conqueror. Viserys was a proud grandfather/uncle, holding the babe in his arms as he sat upon the Iron Throne to announce Aegon’s birth to the court. During the festivities, Viserys even made a lighthearted joke about how his darling wife was so young and it was nearly impossible to believe that she was now a grandmother.
More children came after that, though Daeron would be Y/n’s last after she broke out in fevers once she birthed him. She survived, but after that, both she and Viserys agreed that Daeron would be their last one. Alicent and Harwin bore two more sons, Lucerys and Joffrey, while Daemon and Rhaenyra had another son and a daughter, Viserys II, and Visenya. Despite a few age differences in between, all the children were raised together within the Red Keep and grew up nearly forgetting that they were, in fact, not all direct siblings. They were taught together. They trained together, sewed together, and fought together.
Ten years passed and they were the best years of King Viserys’ life, or so people claim. Even as his health declined, he made no room for sorrow, only joy when his children and grandchildren were involved. One of his favorite pastimes was overlooking the courtyard and watching as his children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews all played together. All of the Targaryen children’s dragons, still small with age, curiously watched them play as well, acting more like large dogs than fiery beasts.
As they got older, some of the boys got rougher. As siblings-who-are-not-really-siblings do, they all occasionally fight or they take their anger out in training. One unfortunate incident was between Aemond and Lucerys. Whilst training, it was clear that the cousins were angry at each other over something minuscule and so they tried to vent using the swing of their swords. Unfortunately, Luke swung hard and Aemond didn’t sidestep in time to avoid it. The very tip of the Strong boy’s sword slashed across Aemond’s eye, leaving behind an unspeakable scene full of blood and screams.
The Queen was summoned right away, directed to Aemond’s chambers where her son was already abed with the Grand Maester tending to him. It was a gruesome scene, even with the wound already cleaned. Aemond’s eye was swollen and angry, a long, ugly cut running through it, trailing down his cheek and over his eyebrow.
The maester moves away from the bed and allows the Queen to take his place by her son’s side as he explained, “I have given as much Milk of the Poppy as I could, Your Grace, but for a child of his size, it would be too dangerous to give him the proper doses he would normally need to relax. The pain has dulled, but it will linger.”
The Queen sits on the edge of Aemond’s bed, “It will heal, will it not?”
“The flesh will heal into a scar... but the eye is lost, Your Grace.”
Y/n’s face crumbles in distress, taking Aemond’s hand in hers while brushing some of his silver hair from his young face, “What happened?”
“An accident in the training yard, Your Grace, as I understand it.”
“Luke cut me!” Aemond cried in anger, “He cut me and I should have left my mark in return! I had my chance and I couldn’t take it! I wish I had!”
"Aemond," his mother warns, eyeing him with a look that only a mother could threaten with her child, “You don’t mean that. I understand your anger and your grief, but at the end of the day, what happened was an accident. Tragic, yes, but an accident. Luke is your cousin. He is a part of your family and he loves you. He would have never intentionally harmed you and you know it.”
She leans forward then and kisses his forehead, just above the top of the cut, "We can get you something to cover it up. Or, once it fully heals, we can replace it with a false eye. A diamond, perhaps? Ruby?"
Her lightheartedness softens Aemond’s anger, slightly, as he relents to his mother’s touch, leaning into her embrace as he entertains her idea, "Sapphire."
She leans back so he could see her smile of approval, "A fine choice, my love.”
The Queen stands up, taking her time to help Aemond lie down and get properly tucked into his covers. She lovingly pets his hair down as she turns to the maester beside her, “Grand Maester. Have some essence of Nightshade brought up to my son’s chambers. He needs time to rest and heal.”
“At once, Your Grace,” the maester bows then exits the room.
Y/n leans back down to her son one last time, bringing his hand up to her face to kiss his fingers, “Be hopeful, son. Women like men with scars."
She leaves the room and makes her long trek to the kitchens. Rounding a corner, she comes across her sister. Alicent was distraught and full of guilt, grasping the Queen's hands in hers as she cries, "I'm so sorry... Harwin and I will punish Luke accordingly."
"There's no need," Y/n is quick to reassure Alicent, her sisterly instincts kicking back in. The instinct never truly went away. It was dormant, but Y/n will always protect her sister, no matter how old she gets, "It was an accident, Ali. Aemond will not resent your son for it. I can imagine Luke is very distraught about what happened. You must attend to him. Reassure him that he was not at fault and I would never hold this over my nephew."
After she sent Alicent back to her family, Y/n returns to her original task and heads to the kitchens. She returns to Aemond's chambers a little while later, carrying a tray of food and drink for her son, ignoring the servants when they offered to carry it for her. Behind her, Aegon, Helaena, and Daeron are hovering in the doorway, poking their heads into the room and trying to get a good look at their brother abed. The Queen sets the tray down and turns back to the doorway with a knowing glance, “Come along. Dine with your brother but then leave him to rest.”
A picnic was made in Aemond’s bed, his mother and siblings surrounding him as they nibbled on bread and cheese. They talked about other things to distract the injured prince, telling stories about their day or laughing at a joke Aegon said. Viserys, in search of his family, limped into the room with his cane not long after, smiling softly at the scene before him.
After sending her other children away to let Aemond sleep, Y/n takes her husband's arm and carefully walks with him to her own chambers. His hair had begun to thin out and a hunch in his back drove him to lean forward or off to the side as he walked crookedly. He was no longer the peaceful, handsome king Y/n had married, and a small ache in her heart hammered every time she looked into his eyes, age spots and wrinkles beginning to form on his pale skin. Despite his troubles with his health, he still never looked happier.
"You are a wonderful woman, Y/n," Viserys held her arm in a firm grip, his kind smile pulling those wrinkles further up his face. His eyes dazzled warmly, happily, without a sign of a lie, "You're a good mother, a good queen, but most importantly you're a good wife. Had I not married you... I am not sure I would be surrounded by the most loving family and ruling such a prosperous kingdom. What would I do without you?"
Y/n smiled back, patting his arm affectionately as they make it down the long hallway of their home, "Best not to dwell on such a question, my love. The Seven Kingdoms are better off without knowing."
~~~
Viserys dies in his sleep a few years later. His health had gotten worse and the only thing he allowed the maester to administrate was the Milk of the Poppy to dull the pain. Otherwise, he didn't ask for a cure, nor did he try to even fight his illness. Many often wondered if, in the end, he was waiting to die. Others thought that guilt was a deadly illness and whatever secret the King had, died with him. After being given a window to mourn, the now Queen Regent, Y/n Hightower, crowned Viserys' rightful heir herself.
Queen Rhaenyra's coronation was grand, as what Viserys would've wanted for his beloved daughter. Daemon, his brother, proudly took the name, King Consort, while Rhaenyra named her firstborn son, Prince Aegon the Younger, her rightful heir. Lyonel Strong remained the Hand of the Queen, but his son, Harwin, was named Commander of the City Watch and was given a place at the Small Council's table. His children with Alicent were given titles to many lands, their oldest son heir to Harrenhal. Aegon the Elder was permitted the claim to Dragonstone, while Rhaenyra's other half-siblings were appointed as squires and cupbearers to her court, some were even betrothed to the Strong children.
Y/n, however, remained in King's Landing, despite being granted permission to go back to her family's home, Oldtown. With Rhaenyra's permission, she remained in the Red Keep where she had made a home among her children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. Y/n Hightower -once called the Good Queen- died in her bed many years later, after briefly meeting her first great-grandchild to her son, Aegon, and his wife and niece, Visenya.
There were no Blacks. There were no Greens. A hundred years will pass and everyone will know the story of how one woman stopped the Dance of Dragons from ever happening. Or better yet, no one will have ever even heard of it.
~~~
A/N: I know, I switched everything up and made everyone confused. This was a form of therapy for me after I wished that everyone in the show would just get along.
Part Two
#viserys targaryen#king viserys targaryen#viserys targaryen imagine#king viserys targaryen imagine#viserys targaryen x reader#king viserys targaryen x reader#hotd imagine#house of the dragon imagine#hotd#house of the dragon#paddy considine#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#rhaenyra targaryen#alicent hightower#harwin strong#daemon targaryen#otto hightower#aegon ii targaryen#aegon targaryen#helaena targaryen#daeron targaryen#rhaenyra x harwin#daemon x rhaenyra#rhaenicent#rhaenyra x alicent#princess rhaenyra#daemyra#hotd the good queen
3K notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
linppa
peeeep ㄟ( ･ ө ･ )ㄏ ✧
shegoesbyjoy
a smile only you can see
linppa
peeeep ㄟ( ･ ө ･ )ㄏ ✧
pearrosite
Pearrosite